Hamish stands, in stunned silence, searching desperately through Alice's face for something-anything-to make him think that he has just (once again) misunderstood this young woman. But instead he only finds the most honest of sincerity.
And a touch of fear.
"You... what?"
"I don't know who he is, Hamish." Alice repeats, glancing at the door as though worried someone might be there, listening to her terrible confession. "And it's not just him-it's Stayne, too. I know I know them, Hamish, I know I do! I can remember them both, just a bit, short memories, bits and pieces of information. But... I don't know, Hamish, it just..."
She sighs, taking a seat unceremoniously on the butcher's table (how... oh, Hamish is too mixed up at this point, he can't even voice his indignation that Alice would place her dress, let alone her posterior, on a table where animals are slaughtered, raw meat cut, and blood poured... just, ew...) and linking her fingers together on her lap. "They are Ilosovic Stayne and Tarrant Hightopp. The former Knave of Hearts and the Milliner to the White Queen of Marmoreal. I remember... a trial. I testified on behalf of Stayne. ...I also remember a... tea party, with the Hatter. And his fit didn't bother me. I didn't feel scared or worried or anything like that. It was like... I'd done it before, and everything was okay.
"But Hamish, I realized it when Stayne rescued me. He spoke as if he knew me so well, and he felt so familiar! The Hatter, it's the same with him. Now I'm getting worried. Who are these people? How do I know them? Why can't I remember them completely? There's so much more, I know it! But I can't... Stayne spoke of me spurning his advances, of me opposing his queen... I don't remember that. I don't remember any of it."
Alice smashes her eyes shut, her face twisting as though she is inwardly pleading with herself. And Hamish doesn't know what to say. What can he say? He doesn't know anything about amnesia or memory loss or whatever this is, and he wasn't there, he can't fill in any of poor Alice's re-collective holes. What does she expect?
"But I know them, Hamish." Her words are barely above a whisper, and she looks up at him, eyes clear and powerful with assurance. "I know them, like I know the sky is blue and the grass is green and that cats can talk and-"
Hamish interrupts reflexively, his habits of pomposity more in control than his preoccupied mind. But his words ring false even to his own ears as he says them. "Cats can't talk."
Alice smirks at him ruefully. "Don't be stupid, Hamish."
He wants to argue with that somehow, but can't. And then he realizes what exactly they are talking about. "Wait, you've seen the talking cat, too?"
"I... no... but, I know-oh, this is getting ridiculous! His name is Chess! He's the Cheshire Cat! He's..."
Gritting his teeth, Hamish fills Alice's pained silence (and it is only a silence so filled with Alice's pain that would ever have gotten him to speak of such preposterous things). "A rather... wisp-ish grey thing with, ah, brightly colored stripes and a toothy grin?"
Now Alice is staring at him, and Hamish is forced not to laugh awkwardly and claim the whole thing as a joke, for he is certain he's given Alice that same look many a time and it is probably justice being served that she should be looking at him this way now.
He expects her to think him crazy. She could have called him crazy for thinking she'd think him such.
"You've seen Chess, Hamish? Here in London?"
"Here in the house, actually, not seconds before you arrived. Talking with a, um, little white mouse in a pink dress."
Hamish laughs, and, hearing a bit of hysteria, clamps his mouth shut again.
"Mallymkun!" Alice stands up, looking much more herself than she had when they'd entered the kitchen. But the joy on her face begins to fade after a moment. "There it is again. The knowledge of who they are, the certainty that I know them, that I care about them, but... nothing else. Mally brandishing a tiny sword, Chess curled up on a tree branch... and then nothing. And I don't know what to do about it. Should I ask them?"
"No!" It is out without a thought to propriety or tone or any of the things that should have been guiding Hamish in all his proper lordliness. There is only the flash in his mind, of that sad, sad man standing, destitute, in the middle of his destroyed living room. It would break him, that is all Hamish can think. Alice, having forgotten the Hatter (again, his memories supply-Mr. Hightopp had mentioned she'd forgotten him before. Wait, so this is not a new thing! Thus, if she's dealt with it before, she must be able to deal with it again. But she cannot ask the Hatter (or Stayne, for that matter, he'd take this information and run with it just to cause trouble), so she'll need to ask someone else she knows who'd been through this with her. There, that's a start!) ...wait, what was he saying? Oh, it doesn't matter anymore, he has a plan.
He smiles, then realizes Alice is staring at him. Right, he'd just... kind of yelled at her. Time to remedy that lapse in sanity. "No, no. No. Not either of those two, at least. Now this Chess, and Mally, was it? We should find and ask them!"
"But where do we look?"
A hitch in the plan. "They were here earlier, so they should still be in the house, yes? We'll just search the place."
"I'll search. Mother has gone to call you, Tarrant, and Stayne a hansom. You have to be going."
Hamish huffs, knowing she is right. "I'll try talking to these men tonight then, shall I?"
"Thank you, Hamish. This means a lot to me."
"Of course, Alice." She is Alice, after all, and he is Hamish; it is a given.
The carriage ride back to the Manchester estate is a rather cheerful one, filled with continuous tales and appraisals, joyous laughter and scheming inferences. Margaret is ecstatic, bubbling over with joy about her sister and the adventures of the night. Lowell barely has to say a word; mostly, he just keeps his arm wrapped around his wife, watching her rapturous face with a peace in his heart that he rarely feels except in her presence. All the torturous excitement of the past few hours is almost worth it for how much Margaret is stimulated by it.
Upon reaching the house, however, his darling wife seems to have tuckered herself out, and Lowell leads her upon his arm to their room where he leaves her to prepare for bed... and other activities. After all, he deserves a reward after all the psychotics he's had to put up with today, no one could deny that.
But his wife needs time to pamper herself before retiring, so he occupies himself otherwise with deciding what weapon he should be keeping on his person from now on. After all, when keeping such company and having such a sweet, beautiful, kind, naive wife, he needs to pack protection of some kind, before they are jumped, or worse. If today was any indication, Alice companions should have been locked away, not greeted with the enthusiasm the family is showering them with. Even Hamish! Well, the poor sod never could stand against Alice, so he supposed it is to be expected.
Sighing, Lowell decides a knife is better than a pistol for this situation and readies it to be tucked into his boot in the morning before making his way back to the bedroom. In the hall, he passes a looking-glass.
He does a double-take, stopping to stare at it, suddenly afraid for no reason he can identify. There is nothing strange about the glass, no ghostly face or watery surface. Had he only imagined such an image earlier? He is not used to imagining much of anything, the idea disturbs him almost as much as if he had actually seen something. But it was nothing; of course it was, it must have been.
Trying to put such fanciful thoughts aside, Lowell leaves the looking-glass to hang as it always does and enters his bedroom, some of the few imaginings he allows himself-those of his loving wife awaiting him-taking over his mind.
And there she is, his precious Margaret-already tucked in and asleep.
Lowell bites back a groan. So much for his reward.
Sighing, Lowell begins to tug his clothes off, venting his frustration as silently as he can. He tosses his ascot onto Margaret's vanity. The wooden structure is rather large and pale, not matching the rest of the furniture in the room. It had been Helen's, a gift to her daughter upon their marriage, and Lowell had been loath to let her keep it, but those doe eyes had won out in the end. The looking-glass perched upon the top is large and dirty, the surface uneven and uncleanable, colored with age. It is an unwelcome sight after the disconcertion he is feeling towards such things that reflect what isn't there to be reflected.
And this one is doing just that.
The face is there again, just behind a shimmering mist. Pale as a ghost, eyes shining bright. Eyes oh so very much seeped in kindness, like his Margaret's. Is he seeing an image of his wife as an old maid? No, this is not Margaret's face, despite the eyes, and there is no sign of age upon the smooth porcelain skin. Is it a ghost, then? Some apparition meant to drive mad?
The dark lips, striking so much against the paleness, moves. Lowell hears no sounds, but the calm serenity that he had seen there earlier has disappeared. Instead, the woman seems overcome with emotion, desperation alight in her features. He steps closer, wondering if there is anything to hear...
Darkness sweeps over the sheet of glass. It clears, an empty mirror once more, only the room around, and Lowell himself, reflected upon it.
The ride through London and to the Ascot's estate is a rather boring one, and Stayne finds that the bumbling ginger that seemingly serves Alice is becoming steadily better at rerouting his insults into regular conversation the longer the journey goes on, making things doubly boring. He can't throw a scathing comment Tarrant's way without the annoying twit somehow managing to twist his words into something abhorrently normal. All his venom is lost in translation upon the dear haberdasher, and eventually Stayne gives up and begins sulking broodingly in the corner of the carriage, face in his hand and good eye glaring out at the passing scenery (which is proving to be just as boring as the carriage itself. He has yet to see an insulting flower, a rockinghorsefly, or any other such commonality as Underland holds. What could Alice possibly see in such a dreary and plain place? Maybe it's that she likes being the only interesting thing in existence, as it seems she is here. That must be it. And she thinks him arrogant!).
Tarrant laughs, high-pitched and clipped, and the sound is grating on Stayne's last nerve. He can tell that this Hamish-thing, too, is annoyed, as it is obvious to anyone with a thought in their heads, which the Hatter has none of, and just goes on prattling nonsensically. Stayne rolls his eyes, wishing he could hurl. He puts forth all the effort to travel to this Overland and find Alice, only to discover her drowning and rush to save her (despite his better judgment. He is still angry with himself for this, and chastises himself that it had all better work out to his advantage or he is in great danger of becoming soft, which is unforgivable-and dangerous), and what is all this? This idiotic Milliner, already cozy in Alice's life in London, and little place for him and his plans.
His plans. The things he has to do, the things that needed to be done...
Oh, Stayne is willing to admit his discomfort. If he is afraid of anything, he might have been willing to admit he is even a bit scared. Of this. Of what is happening, what has to happen.
He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly and sitting up a bit straighter. There is no one to defy here, though, no one to look intimidating or impressive for, no one he can prove himself against. Stayne knows well he is what Alice had termed once as a 'bully', but he is a bully being bullied, with no one to bully to make himself feel better. That has always been the way with him, with his life, and he is quite tired of it. He is free of the Red Queen, but has he merely exchanged one pathetic tyrant for another? Will this be forever what he is reduced to, some sniveling servant, when he knows-he knows-he is so much more than that, can be more than that!
His charms have kept him alive for this long, a wicked tongue and a sharp sword, but will they be enough to save him now? Save him from this wretched existence he is so tired of? Or will salvation-freedom-only be found in death?
The hansom jolts, and Stayne's head smacks into the carriage wall. He growls loudly, cursing his luck, and shoots angry glares at the small space's other occupants, who are staring at him looking startled. He turns his gaze back out the window, grumbling, and waits impatiently for Tarrant's ramblings to resume. They don't. Forced to hear silence ring in his aching head, Stayne tries to turn his mind to happier thoughts; pretty Alice (though so very small again), her fire, her future. Torturing a madman, driving the Mad Hatter madder than ever. Finding new victims, new ways of making his name feared, revered!
Until the time comes. No! Even after! He will live through this, he swears he will!
Stayne is many things, many many many. He is a bully, yes, angry, mean, cruel, sadistic, narcissistic, a kiss-up, coward, determined, persevering, opportunistic, ambitious, eloquent, short-tempered, violent, cunning, a liar, a cheat, womanizing, insatiable, arrogant, submissive, pathetic, persistent, manipulative, sly and scheming, treacherous, backstabbing, afraid afraid afraid afraid afraid afraid-
Scared. Stayne is so scared.
Anger flares inside him, lit by the fear, driven by it. He will not lay down and take his fate, he will fight. He will plan, scheme, manipulate, kiss up to, cheat- whatever he has to do, whatever he has to do. Ilosovic Stayne WILL live through this.
Because he is so, so terribly afraid to die.