Heart and Sole, Chapter 25
The journey to Marmoreal should have taken longer, Hamish decides. He’s startled by this thought, but he can’t deny that he agrees with it wholeheartedly. Although he’d spent the entirety of the trip wishing the donkey pulling the cart would put a bit of spring in her step, and although he’d had to stop himself from fidgeting nervously, and although he’d constantly had to remind himself that Hightopp means well with his idle, nonsensical chatter, now that Hamish is staring at the pearlescent gates of the palace, he finds, to his consternation, that he is not at all prepared to face Mirana.
In that moment, he’d happily hand over his favorite walking stick in exchange for being back in the cart, entertaining Hightopp’s mad notions regarding the emotional states of the local flora and fungi-
“The toadstools are standing tall. Yes, I think you’re expected in Marmoreal!” Tarrant Hightopp had announced quite suddenly once they’d entered the forested path.
“Toadstools,” Hamish had huffed. “I should think that the mushrooms would know better!”
“Only if her Majesty were indoors.” He’d peered at a cluster of poisonously pink fungi. “All the rooms appear to be unoccupied, however. They’re all connected, you know.”
No, he hadn’t. “Next you’ll be telling me that the willows are actually weeping.”
“Well… they are. I didn’t want to say,” Hightopp replied in a subdued tone. “It’s quite rude to draw attention to a monarch’s tears, you know.”
A monarch’s tears. Hamish supposes he should brace himself for that. Additionally, he is sure that a good deal of begging will be involved and that it will be a decidedly uncomfortable experience. He will have no pride left in the end, and she might still refuse him.
But, if that happens, he doubts he’ll care about his lack of self-respect.
As the donkey clatters to a sighing stop beside a stable boy, Hightopp thanks her profusely. The creature merely passes wind in acknowledgement of the praise. Hamish removes himself from the cart before a stray breeze can push the stench in his direction.
The Hatter removes three hatboxes from the back of the cart and then the donkey practically pushes the stable boy in the direction of the water trough.
Hamish marvels at the creature’s temperament which seems to be uncannily similar to his mother’s disposition. “Do you suppose all females are like that?” he hears himself ask.
Hightopp cackles. “Of course they are! Why, if they didn’t show us how much we appreciate them, we’d never notice.”
A bubble of humor bursts forth from Hamish’s chest, explodes through his throat, and rings out as a bark of laughter. Surprisingly, much of his building anxiety is dispersed with it. Hightopp claps him once upon the shoulder and then, hefting the awkwardly-sized hat boxes, makes for the castle.
For a moment, Hamish stands upon the castle drive alone. He feels disconcerted and anxious, but he is not fearful any longer. Mirana would not have come Above and enticed him to follow her Below simply to mete out punishment.
Locating a soldier dressed oddly - like a knight upon a chessboard - Hamish inquires solicitously, “Would you happen to know where I might be received by her majesty, the White Queen?”
The guard points in silence down a garden trail and, although the direction surprises Hamish - could Hightopp’s theory about the mushrooms and toadstools be correct? - he does not question it.
“Thank you,” he says and steps onto the stone path. As he follows the winding trail, the bread and cheese and fruit that he and Hightopp had eaten on the way to Marmoreal churn in his belly. His stomach, always oversensitive, responds to his mood with predictable disquiet. Just when he is beginning to fear that the path is in fact leading him away from Marmoreal and back to Alice and the Hatter’s home, he comes around a bend and-
There she is.
He skids to a halt, marveling at the vision before him. Mirana perches on a swing suspended beneath the boughs of a massive, blossoming willow tree. The breeze stirs the draping limbs and pale flower petals shimmer as they tumble through the air. The White Queen sits in the midst of the delicate shower, speaking softly to no one. Although, oddly enough, Hamish suddenly finds himself imagining that the tree itself is talking back.
Impossible!
Or… is it?
It is, to be honest, a question for another time. This is the moment he has been waiting for and now he must take it.
The breeze settles and the tree limbs subside when Hamish takes a step closer. The world seems to hold its breath as he approaches with equal measures of contrition and reverence. He does not want his first words to be an apology, but he feels compelled to offer that very gesture to this remarkable woman who has been beyond patient with him.
And then inspiration strikes. Mindful of the jittery quality of twitterpation, Hamish carefully removes the glass slipper from his coat pocket and, clearing his throat, he says not an apology, but a proposal instead: “I believe it is my destiny to share my life with the woman whose foot fits this slipper.”
The White Queen turns toward him. Her expression is as open as ever, but she clutches the mossy ropes of the swing very tightly in her hands. Perhaps she is as nervous as he? Dare he hope for the same reasons?
“If you would permit me…?” he continues, indicating the slipper in his hands.
Wordlessly, the White Queen extends a pale, bare foot in his direction. Throat suddenly tight, he bridges the distance between them and reaches out to steady her heel with the palm of one hand. He does not crassly glance beneath her skirts to see if he can glimpse the glass slipper’s mate upon her other foot. He somehow knows it is still there.
Hamish hesitates as he lifts the lost article to slide it into place and, looking up, meets her gaze. “I have missed you terribly, and I have only myself to blame.”
“Hush,” she answers, one hand sliding from the rope and gently cupping his chin. “You are here now.”
Yes, he is. He concurs with a relieved smile.
“To stay?” she presses in a voice that would make a whisper seem like a shout.
“On my honor,” Hamish vows, “I will never leave you willingly if you can forgive my rash actions and cowardice.”
She smiles and his heart pounds in response to the glow of hope he sees in her fathomless eyes. “There is nothing to forgive, my precious one.”
And then, smiling, Hamish places the slipper gently upon her foot. Of course it fits. He glances down and smiles at the sight of the glass shoe upon her foot in the late afternoon sunlight.
Relief and hope make him giddy and he speaks the first thought which pops into his head.
“I believe this is much like a story I heard as a child,” Hamish volunteers, still cradling the White Queen’s be-slippered foot. “Once the shoe was placed upon her foot, the man and woman could not be separated again.”
“And the shoe?” Mirana asks softly and with great interest. “What was its fate?”
Truthfully, Hamish has never given it a second thought, but now, as he considers it, it seems only right to say- “I imagine its path took both it and its mate to many interesting places, on many grand adventures.”
Mirana holds out her pale hand and inquires, “And what of you, my dear Sir Hamish? What adventures do you seek?”
“None that I cannot partake in without you, you Majesty.”
“Mirana,” she corrects gently.
“My love,” Hamish argues back. And when he leans forward and pressed his lips to hers, she does not deny him. She is warm and wondrous and welcoming. Hamish is home.
*~*~*~*
In all the years they have been wed, Tarrant has never spent a night away from Alice. Tonight is no exception.
He arrives late, long after Diana and Edan have been put to bed, and Alice waits in the kitchen - soaking her aching feet in a basin of warm water which Tarrant had insisted upon fetching from the bath house for her - as he looks in on his daughter and son.
“Only pleasant dreams?” she asks him when he returns and sinks down beside her on the cushioned bench. He wraps a dusty-smelling arm around her shoulders and tucks her against his body.
“Oh, yes,” he lisps softly. “Spun sugar and sprinklings of cinnamon.”
Alice smiles. Despite her exhaustion - and looking after two rambunctious children for the majority of the day, and with a third occasionally kicking and shifting in her belly, is exhausting and she’s very glad Tarrant rarely makes the trip to Marmoreal anymore - she feels utterly content.
“And how was your day?”
“Full of deliverance,” he replies with humor.
“Of the hat kind?” she presses.
Tarrant leans his head against hers and elaborates, “And of the homecoming kind.”
“Hamish was well-received?”
Tarrant hums softly. “Oh, yes. So well-received that he may never be released again.”
Alice takes a breath, intending to press for details, but pauses when Tarrant reaches for his satchel and removes a wrapped parcel from it. He places it upon the kitchen table for Alice to open, which she does with periodic, questioning glances sent his way. Only Tarrant’s sparkling, green eyes hint that there is something pleasing to be found within, so she removes the paper covering it and finds herself staring at-
“Oh, no,” she breathes out in an odd mix of anticipation and horror.
“I’m afraid so, my Alice.”
Alice sets the framed photograph down upon the tabletop and turns away from the image of the three people therein. While it is wonderful to have their wedding photo back again, Alice knows it could only mean one thing.
“She will marry him.”
“It’s rather a foregone conclusion.”
Alice sighs, feeling put-upon, but also happy about it. “I’ll have to call him ‘your Majesty’, won’t I?”
“I think, for you, he would make an exception,” Tarrant consoles her, grinning so widely she rather thinks he’d be able to speak with his ears.
“It’s too bad about the rest of it,” Alice muses, playfully baiting her husband.
“Hm? What’s that?”
“You’d best be on the lookout for when Hamish realizes it really has been only five years and a bit since we last saw him.”
Tarrant has the audacity to grin. “An’ when tha’ time comes, I’ll b’ ver’ pleased teh let him see how ver’ much I luv mae wife.” And when Tarrant places his hand upon her belly and whispers hotly in her ear, Alice can’t bring herself to mind. Her husband is charming and gentle and caring and kind - he is also mad and audacious and stubborn and incorrigible - and she would not have him any other way.
A year later, the White Queen and her consort, Sir Hamish, wed. The ceremony is elaborate and breathtaking. Alice stands beside Tarrant as they listen to the exchange of vows. Diana, holding onto Alice’s hand, twirls a bit back and forth and back and forth, playing with the ribbons on her sun hat. Edan clings to his papa’s knees, giggling to himself at all the strange people in their midst. Amelia - exhausted from all the hullabaloo - dozes in her father’s arms. It is a beautiful moment, a perfect moment, and Alice marvels that she is sharing it with her husband and their children.
She huffs out a sigh in mock irritation. Blast it all. Not only is she going to have to call Hamish “your Majesty” but she’s going to have to thank him as well, because - without his friendship - none of this would have been possible.
Oddly enough, when she mentions this to the White King after congratulating him on his marriage, he chuckles warmly and replies, “I could say the same, Cousin Alice.”
She smiles back and retorts, “Then why don’t you, Cousin Hamish?”
Once again, that haughty look is back as he banters, “I believe I just did.”
Alice isn’t sure how many of his subjects would dare to roll their eyes at him, but she’s sure it’s a select few.
She documents the day in a series of sketches which take her weeks to complete in between bedtimes and baths and the learning of letters and maths, but when they are done, they are sent off to their new homes. One illustration finds itself atop the mantle beside Alice and Tarrant’s wedding photograph in Iplam. Another is framed and hung in a place of reverence in Marmoreal Palace. And a third, with a little help from a smiling tabby cat, makes its way to London where it is regarded with perplexity - but only briefly! - before Lady Ascot proudly announces her new connection to royalty.
There are many more sketches which are delivered over the years, for there is no end to the joy to be found in a wonderful, impossible place called Underland.
*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*