Continuing Tales

One Promise Kept: Book 2

A Alice in Wonderland Story
by Manniness

Part 6 of 17

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The instructions on the card Mirana discovers in the bodice of her dress the next morning following her bath is both welcome and puzzling. She burns it in the hearth when the maids leave her to wait for Prince Jaspien to escort her to breakfast. As the flames devour the scrap of parchment, Mirana considers the message, the handwriting, the mysterious method of delivery.

It’s nearly time...!

Which is very good news indeed as Prince Jaspien had given her quite the significant look the night before at the conclusion of dinner. No doubt he’s expecting her answer imminently.

Mirana once again considers the first line of the message and sighs in relief. At least now she’ll have something to offer the man, something to distract him with for just a little longer!

Arrange yourself to be at the prince’s side during the battle.

Yes, Mirana thinks she can manage that. Pausing at the room’s lovingly detailed vanity, Mirana regards her reflection, practices her dreamy smiles and adorably befuddled expressions. When the knock on the door comes, she’s ready.

Rather than call out for him to enter – as she usually does – Mirana floats to the door but, as she nears it, the sound of voices on the other side startle her:

“... is resting, as you requested,” Oshtyer says.

“Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me...?”

“Actually, I’d like to reiterate my request to have a bit of... private time with our lovely Champion. Surely you can spare her for an afternoon. I promise not to... damage her on the eve of battle.”

“My answer has not changed since the last time you asked. Need I remind you that it is not only your hopes that rest in that woman’s hands? Valereth has insisted she be rested and ready for battle and I, myself, concur. I’ll not risk failure now. Find yourself another distraction,” Jaspien orders with finality.

“But should she come to me...?”

“Tomorrow we face Shuchland! This is not the time for such trivialities!”

“I see. Only you are allowed your fine distractions?”

There’s a moment of silence and then Oshyter mumbles, “That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

“As you should. This is my castle. My keep. Don’t forget it.”

Shivering, Mirana steps away from the door as quietly as possible and manages to make it all the way to the window when the knock comes again. Grasping the curtain and feigning a daydream, the queen sighs, “Come in!”

“Good morning, Mirana.”

“Jaspien, dear!” Oh, for how much longer is she going to have to play the silly, vacuously-minded twit?! “How are you this beautiful morning?”

He holds out his arm for her as she crosses the room. “I am well. Yourself? Did that unsuitable distraction with blood sports finally leave you be?”

Not particularly, Mirana thinks and imagines delivering Oshtyer to Tarrant and informing him of the man’s repulsive leanings toward their Alice. Bemusedly, she wonders how much might be left of the foul creature once Tarrant has finished with him.

However, she says, “Oh! Well, yes, I do believe I’m cured.” She places her other hand on his arm as he leads her down the empty corridor. “You were very understanding about that horrible business yesterday,” she simpers.

Jaspien gives her a vague smile. “It was my pleasure, Mirana. Do not hesitate to bring any issue concerning your wellbeing to my attention. I cannot provide adequate protection if I am unaware of your needs.”

Mirana smiles brilliantly as she takes her seat and allows Jaspien to push her chair in. Their breakfast is delivered and the servants depart. Once the prince has slurped half of his porridge, consumed one cup of black tea, and has proceeded to collecting his egg spoon – once again contemplating the boiled egg that was been provided for him – Mirana clears her throat delicately.

“I... well, I do have one other concern...”


Mirana twists her napkin in her hands. “Well, the Challenges will be coming soon, will they not? And you will be going to the battlefield with your Champion...”

Jaspien sets aside his spoon and gives her his undivided attention. “Shuchland has already answered. The time has been set for brillig tomorrow.”

Mirana dares to hope she will have to endure only one more day of this farce. “Well, I was wondering what would become of me.”

The prince smiles warmly and reaches out to still her hands. “You will be safe, Mirana. I’ll not allow any harm to come to you while you’re under my protection.”

“That is a great relief, sir...”

“Yet it does not settle your nerves?”

Mirana shakes her head and summons up a tear. “I... well, it’s just... anything could happen while you’re away and I’d be here and if... what if... Well, I’ve heard enough war stories from Alice! Armies being outflanked... secret attacks on the absent lord’s keep... I... I fear for my safety, Jaspien,” she admits brokenly.

The prince’s fingers tighten around hers. “Tell me what will set your mind at ease, Mirana.”

“I... that is, could I stand with you? At the battle? I know it’s dangerous, but please, Jaspien! You don’t know what it will mean to me to have my protector beside me, to stand with you across the field from our...” Mirana deliberately lets her voice trail off, wary of turning her ploy into a promise she won’t be able to keep.

She expects an argument – one stronger than that which she’d received the day before when she’d suggested watching Alice’s morning training.

Jaspien smiles, “I would not have you anywhere else but by my side, Mirana.”

And, looking upon his pleased expression, Mirana almost feels a tiny helping of Guilt. Almost. The sense of Victory drowns it quite nicely, however.

Mirana focuses on glowing with relief. Jaspien is – as ever – completely fooled by her deception and returns to his boiled egg.

Breakfast ends and the rest of the day stretches out before her as vast as the oceans of Upland Alice had described to her over one of their companionable teatimes. Oh, how she misses those!

Soon, soon! Alice and I will be home, safe, and this bad dream will be all over and done with.

Mirana fiddles with the pianoforte in the parlor for a bit, making noise to keep the maids from poking their heads in to check on her. The time alone gives her the chance to consider the second instruction on the parchment:

Expect a visit from a cat this evening.

The queen admits to being a bit puzzled over this. Why would Chessur be visiting her on the eve of the battle against Shuchland if not to rescue her? But he must not be, for what would be the purpose of the first line of the message if Mirana is to be freed before dawn?

She turns her attention to painting and then embroidery. The maids occasionally stop by with tea and sweets. Mirana endures their overbearing presence and considers mutilating another classically composed piece with the pianoforte just to drive them away, but she paces instead; she shows them that she’s worried about the coming battle.

“Do you think the Shuchlanders would... well, would they harm Prince Jaspien during the Champions’ Duel? They... wouldn’t cheat, would they?” Mirana asks one of her visitors at one point.

The maid smiles. “I’m sure he will b’ well-protected. D’nae le’ it worry ye, Yer Majesty.”

“I shall do my best not to!” she replies gamely.

But the worst moments of the day occur during the eternally long dinner Mirana must endure. In recognition of the coming fight, she dines with Jaspien, of course, as well as his two associates and Alice.

Alice sits beside Mirana but nothing of importance can be said in the presence of their captors.

“Prince Jaspien tells me your skills have improved immensely, Alice. Congratulations!” Mirana comments breathlessly as the men argue over Hornsaver’s reaction to their anticipated victory on the morrow.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It has been a very beneficial experience.”

Mirana suppresses a wince at her friend’s tone. It’s appreciative, yes, but beneath that... dull, wooden, lifeless.

“You’re not eating, Alice. You’re not experiencing any anxiety over the battle tomorrow, are you?” Oshtyer interjects, his dark eyes gleaming with a very unsettling twinkle.

Alice’s smile is quite... feral. “I fight better when I’m... hungry.”

It takes all of her strength to keep from flinching away from the... beast Alice becomes so easily around these men, and Oshtyer in particular.

He laughs and signals for the waiter to fill their flute glasses. Mirana waits until the Wassailin has been poured before reaching for her glass. Oshtyer stands.

“A toast,” he announces to all, “to victory... in all its marvelous forms.” His dark eyes flicker in Alice’s direction and the glass she holds aloft. “To our dear prince’s Champion. To Alice Lassling.”

“To Alice!” Jaspien and Valereth agree. Mirana manages to move her lips in concert, but no sound emerges.

They drink, and as is the custom of Underland toasts, they finish every drop before setting down their glasses. Mirana notices Alice’s wince and feels a twinge of sympathy: Wassailin is not an easy thing to digest on an empty stomach.

“Perhaps we could have the chef prepare something light for you, Alice?” Mirana offers quietly. “To settle your stomach.”

With a shake of her head, Alice reaches for her crystal water glass. “Mint should suffice,” she replies, taking a sip before setting it back down on the table with an uncharacteristically loud thump! “Mint,” she repeats decisively.

Mirana struggles to keep the horror out of her expression. Dear Fates! Is Alice telling her that she’d just consumed a dose of that horrid Hafflaffen they’d tried to drug both of them with upon their arrival! Of all the foolish, utterly stupid things! Why, there’s no telling how Alice – an Uplander! – will react to such a powerful substance!

But there’s nothing Mirana can do about it, not without giving away her knowledge of their captors’ first, failed attempt at poisoning them, not without incurring doubt in Jaspien regarding her cooperation.


“I’ll stop by the kitchens for some before bed,” Alice comments, indifferently.

“Yes, I do hope you’ll get plenty of rest tonight, Alice. You’ve an exciting day tomorrow!”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Alice replies. Mirana watches for the symptoms that come with Hafflaffen poisoning – a waxy complexion, clammy skin, unfocused and dilated eyes. But, of course, if Alice had just consumed it, it will take some time to take effect...

“No one will disturb your rest tonight, Alice,” Jaspien promises, slicing his steak into precisely measured pieces. “I shall make sure of it.”

Mirana notices Oshtyer’s sudden grimace of disappointment. Valereth, seated next to him, and Jaspien, focused on the flesh of some poor, dead animal on his plate, do not notice the slip.

Beneath the table, Mirana dares to stretch her foot out and taps her boot against her friend’s shoe. Alice taps back.

Mirana wishes the gesture were reassuring. She wishes she could encourage Alice to eat something, but dares not suggest it aloud. Alice has never fasted so long before a fight and Mirana is sure there must be a reason for her doing so now. The queen decides to investigate.

She picks up her fork and, with a delicate twirl, flips it over the back of her hand and to the floor. Acting startled, she reaches after it and the motion brings her nose much closer to Alice’s untouched plate of sautéed mushrooms and beans.

She very carefully inhales and tightens her lips against the reflexive gag.


Mirana actually feels dizzy at the potency of it! Retrieving her fork and then – sheepishly – relinquishing it to the servant who had scrambled forward to take it, she accepts a clean replacement even as she wonders if that monster of a man had ordered every single dish of Alice’s dinner to be doused with the stuff!

She glances across the table as she lifts her new fork. Oshtyer is watching Alice not eating. He looks rather irritated. Mirana can’t decide if it’s because she refuses to fall into his trap or if she had ingested the substance but Oshtyer won’t be able to take advantage of her now that Jaspien has promised her an undisturbed night’s rest.

If the latter is the case, Mirana thinks she could almost kiss the prince for that lucky happenstance! Almost.

When dinner finishes and Jaspien asks Valereth to escort Alice to her rooms and station a guard outside in the hall, Mirana can’t help feeling a bit relieved. Not only for those precautions but for the fact that Alice’s skin is still creamy in color, despite the aged bruises, and her eyes are clear if a bit tired-looking.

Perhaps... perhaps Alice hadn’t consumed any Hafflaffen after all... Perhaps she’d merely been explaining her rationale for skipping dinner.

Mirana allows her maids to dress her for bed and tuck her in. She’s so overwhelmed with worry and doubt and fear and rage – that rotten, selfish, disgusting Oshtyer! – that when a drawling voice whispers in her ear, she nearly cries out!

“I trust you’re expecting me, Your Majesty?”

Mirana flinches, regards Chessur’s apologetic grin, and says, “Yes. I’m sorry, I was just...”

“Don’t worry about Alice, Your Majesty. I’ve already followed Oshtyer to his room where he’s currently indulging in a liquor-aided temper tantrum. And Alice is safe in her room where I intend to look in on her as often as I can.”

Mirana closes her eyes and releases a breath. “Thank you.”

Chessur acknowledges the appreciation with a flick of his tail. “And now, I’m afraid it falls to me to inform you of tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Yes, please!” Mirana whispers, eager for some good news.

“Early tomorrow morning, Japsien’s forces will move out in order to reach the battlefield by brillig. After they depart, you will follow Mallymkun out of the castle where Alfred and Fenruffle and two dozen of your guard will be waiting to escort you back to Mamoreal. You’ll ride hard and should arrive at the castle by nightfall.”

Mirana frowns. “But I’m to stand beside Jaspien at the battle on the morrow, how...?” The queen stops. Her eyes widen and she stares at Chessur, speechless.

The cat shrugs and gives her an apologetic grin. “Yes, I’m afraid so, Your Majesty. The only comfort I can give you is that this was not my idea.”

“But it is the best one,” Mirana has to allow, considering the advantages and opportunities it will afford.

“So it would appear, despite my objections.”

Mirana closes her eyes and sighs. “Very well.” Taking her time opening them, the queen suggests in a steely tone: “Perhaps you’d be so good as to explain exactly how you learn someone’s shape?”

“Ah, yes, of course, Your Majesty...”

It’s the longest night of Mirana’s life. And certainly not the most comfortable. But three things are certain during the entirety of it: Mirana is no longer alone, Alice remains undisturbed in her room, and – in less than a day – this nightmare will finally be over.

The queen draws strength from that knowledge and does what must be done.

And if her face happens to be flaming with mortification the entire time, well, it’s a small price to pay. For freedom, that is.


Mirana hears the knock on the door hopefully for the very last time! Dawn has just begun its entrance over the horizon and all is ready. She presses herself against the wall behind the door and watches as the other White Queen yawns and swings it open with a sleepy smile.

“My dear Jaspien!” Mirana hears her doppelganger sigh.

“Good morning, Mirana. How did you sleep? You look exhausted.” The man actually sounds concerned for her. Mirana once again receives a visit from Guilt.

How can you feel sorry for the man who’s been holding you prisoner?

But he’d also protected her from Valereth’s ambition and Alice from Oshtyer’s aggression...

How can you defend the man who has turned your Alice into a weapon?!

Ah... of course. There is no excuse for that. The guilt evaporates as quickly as it had arrived.

“I’m fine, fine! I was just so worried about today... Did you sleep well, sir?”

“I enjoyed the rest of the soon-to-be-victorious,” he replies with happy confidence. Mirana imagines his face must be the most animated it has ever been and almost misses seeing that, but she stays pressed against the wall, hidden by the open door.

“Yes, victory...” the queen breathes. “And we’ll be together to see it?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Then let us be off! I’d like to wish Alice all my best before we depart!”

And then the door closes behind them.

Mirana relaxes against the wall and marvels that the lock hadn’t been turned automatically, as it always had been before! But then, there’s no reason for anyone to think Mirana is not gliding toward the courtyard on the prince’s arm...

If there had been a clock in the room, Mirana would have listened to it, counted the ticks and compared the tocks. But as there is none, the queen counts at whatever pace she likes, pausing to contemplate the drapes – which she’ll never have to pretend interest in again! – and consider the pillow which has seen the last of her tears!

And then – finally! – Mirana hears the scratching of a hatpin against the door. She opens it and Mallymkun saunters in. “Well, good morning, Your Majesty!”

Mirana chuckles. “It is a very good morning,” she agrees.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you down to Alfred now that the yard is clear and you’ll be back at Mamoreal in no time at all!”

“Lead the way, Mally!”

They encounter no one as they exit the castle. Even the maids appear to be enjoying the morning off gossiping in the kitchens (if the echoes of laughter in the first floor halls are to be believed).

“... an’ then Lassling says, ‘G’on an’touch me ye filthy slithin’ scut-grobbin’, tove egg-suckin’ scrum, but I won’be givin’ tha’hand back teh ye!’”


“She di’nae!”

“Aye, she did! Heard it me-self!”

Mally pauses beside the castle door and they share a look. “Alice was a different Alice here, wasn’t she?” the dormouse whispers. “Chessur said so.”

The queen only nods.

“Well, at least she finally learned how to swear!”

And then – when more peals of laughter erupt from the kitchens at the back of the fortress – Mirana pulls open the door and steps outside. They hurry, keeping their backs to the walls and their eyes on the battlements, but the few guards up top are deeply engrossed in what appears to be a card game. There’s a determined nod from Mally and then, in a moment of heart-racing daring, they’ve raced across through the main gates, over the drawbridge, and into the murky swamp where Mirana is suddenly being nuzzled by her very good companion, Alfred d’Mimserlet.

“I missed you terribly, Your Majesty,” the horse wickers. “Had a stomach ailment the entire time!”

“Oh, dear... How is your tummy now, Alfie?” she croons, marveling at how easy her escape had been, in the end.

“Right as rain, Your Majesty,” he insists, gently bussing her cheek.

“Well, well, all right! Let’s not dawdle! And you, Dormouse, have got things to be doing!” Fenruffle reminds them all.

“Aye, aye, sir!” Mally salutes and then scrambles aboard Bayard and grabs his collar. “To battle, hounds of war!” she cries, swishing her sword.

The blood hound rolls his eyes. “There’s only the one of me, Mally.”

“Well, yes, I had noticed that! Figure of speech.”

“And put that thing away before it ends up through my ear.”

“Oh... right. Sorry.” Mally tucks away her hatpin, wraps her arms around the ring in the dog’s collar. “Fairfarren, Your Majesty!”

And with that, they’re off. Mirana watches Bayard dash down the road and disappear around the bend before enjoying a contented sigh.

Turning, Mirana smiles at Fenruffle. He clears his throat and jangles Alfred’s reins meaningfully. She mounts her steed. “Thank you, my friend, for arranging all of this.”

“Me? I’m only following orders,” the gryphon replies stiffly, signaling the guard to move out.


“Yes, he might be the maddest son of a Witzend woolgatherer, but that Hatter knows a thing or two after all...”

Mirana’s happiness and relief and pride cannot be contained in a mere smile. “Yes,” she agrees. “He certainly does!”

And with a gentle nudge to her steed, they begin the journey home.


The battlefield stretches out before him just on the other side of the line of trees and brambles. The sky is overcast and seems to hang so low that it tempts the scraggly weeds into reaching for it from between the ill-fitting and crumbling cracks of the stone squares. Tarrant fights back his memories of this place – too many to deal with all at once! – and turns toward the young blood hound galumphing out of the depths of the forest.

“How close?” he asks Bayne.

“Another... hour,” he manages before slumping off in search of a water bowl.

Tarrant scans the southern edge of the field where King Aven’s forces have already gathered.

“I still think we should go introduce ourselves,” Nivens asserts.

Tarrant shakes his head. “Nae, ‘tis a proud people, there. Th’willnae accept help from us.”

The rabbit glowers and crosses his arms over his vest. “We ought to tell them the plan. They may be willing to assist us.” Grumbling, Nivens adds, “Fate knows we could use a bit.”

“An’jus’who woul’ye suggest we ask, hm?”

Contemplating his feet, Thackery belches something that sounds suspiciously like “Champion!”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tarrant politely inquires.

“Avendale’s Champion!” Thackery manages, staring at his feet. “... toes!

“Oh, yes! Excellent suggestion, Thackery!” Nivens praises. “Why, that fellow had looked rather friendly in the sketch Alice sent. I’m sure he’ll hear us out.”

Tarrant opens his mouth to object but hears himself say only, “I d’nae know what he looks like.”

Nivens gapes. “You never bothered to take note of his face?”

Tarrant clears his throat and calms himself. “Well, actually, you see...”

Too friendly!” Thackery explains.

“Ah, yes, I wasn’t exactly... encouraged to pay much attention to his image, as, well, the others felt he was a bit...”

“Standing too close to our Alice! Booly-geber!”

Tarrant startles and turns on the hare. “I beg your pardon!

Thackery twitches guiltily.

“Booly-geber?!” Tarrant parrots. “Ye di’nae tell me th’fellow’as behavin’ inappropr’tly with mae WIFE!

Thackery twitches once more, blinks, and inquires, “Feet?”

“Now, now, calm down, Hatter! I’m sure it was just... artistic license or some such arbitrariness and... Wait! Where do you think you’re going?

Tarrant pushes aside a tangle of branches and strides toward the army already camped on the edge of the battlefield. “I’m goin’teh hav’a few words wi’th’lion who’ad his paws on MAE ALICE!

“Oh, thwimble fumpt!” Nivens swears. “Come along, Earwicket. This was your idea!”

“String?” the hare confirms.





No!” Nivens growls, “For the love of all Underland, Earwicket, can’t you remember your own suggestions?”

We’re all late f’r TEA!

Tarrant can hear the rabbit and the hare struggling through the dense brush of wood after him. But he doesn’t slow down as he charges toward the lines of armed soldiers in the Shuchland livery.

“Hatter! You don’t even know what the beast looks like!

“I’ll ask f’r directions,” he snarls.

“Madness, madness! All around us!” Thackery insists.

Nivens bounces ahead and manages to block Tarrant’s path. “Don’t you dare walk over me, Hatter! Now, as Thackery has had the best look at the sketch, he and I will go and locate this fellow and have a few words with him. You will stay here and stay out of it!” With a decisive nod which is no doubt meant to signal the end of the issue, Nivens hooks his paw under Thackery’s quivering elbow and hops away.

For a moment, Tarrant just stands there on the overgrown path, with the fluttering purple banners of the Shuchish Army just barely visible through the brush and branches.

Are you actually going to listen to that twitchy twit, lad?

What? Oh, well... when it’s put that way...

Setting his jaw, Tarrant resumes his mission: find Avendale’s Champion, meet him, and then make him regret ever meeting Alice. Yes, a very nice, clear, non-arbitrary set of objectives. His mind has no trouble whatsoever staying focused on his task.

Tarrant pushes through the brush, heedless of the way the thorns and branches try to grab onto his jacket and pull him back. He doesn’t have to go far before he hears Niven’s squeaky voice and Thackery’s abrupt mumbles.

Not bothering to draw his sword (he’ll only recall putting it on after the fact, actually, much to his regret) Tarrant crashes through the last Thrambleberry bush – not in season, he muses sadly – and then he finally has that despicable booly-geber in his sights.

“... and so, if you could please not kill our Alice for a bit, well, no, that is, we’d rather you didn’t at all! You see, we have –”

“Toes on strings!” Thackery interrupts.

“I... excuse me?” Avendale’s Champion rumbles.

“Be quiet, Earwicket! You did the finding, now I’ll do the explaining so allow me to finish before Tarrant gets tired of waiting and –”

“Follows you maybe?” he can’t resist interjecting.

Nevins squeaks and folds in on himself, ears drooping down his back. Thackery spasms and falls to the ground behind the White Rabbit in a classic duck-and-cover maneuver. Tarrant doesn’t care. He has his eyes – a rather arresting shade of orange, if he’d had to guess – on the warrior in front of him.

Despite the Shuchish armor (which makes him looks quite impressive, indeed), Tarrant doesn’t even consider not giving this creature every ounce of hostility he has in his stores. (And he’s been storing up, too!) Looking the lion down and then back up, noting the powerful build and considerable height, the thick mane and golden eyes, Tarrant realizes that he’s never loathed anyone or anything quite this bitterly before. Oh, he’d hated the Bloody Big Head. He’d despised Ilosovich Stayne. But when he’d thought of those two, Tarrant had tasted acidic ash on his tongue, not this bitter, sour, fiery... thing.

“And just who are you?” the Champion demands, his great, furry paw on his scimitar.

Tarrant smiles. “I’m the man in charge of returning Alice to her rightful place in Mamoreal –” And away from you! “– so I’d suggest you hear us out because if you come between us and Alice we will hunt you down and REMOVE YOUR SCARLESS PELT ONE—!”


With a great effort, Tarrant bites back the storm of threats. “I’m fine,” he manages with a brief glare at the White Rabbit.

“Relax,” the Champion tells him shortly. “It’s all under control. No one will harm Alice. I’ll take care of her.”

Oh... RAGE!

Why, hello! Tarrant thinks in the instant that precedes the wave of burning fury that scorches through him.

There’s a sudden motion, a collision, an abrupt and inexplicable numbness in his hand, the sound of a scuffle, and a muffled exclamation.

When Tarrant blinks next, he sees Avendale’s Champion leaning against a tree, massaging his nose, and glaring at Tarrant. Belatedly, the inexplicable numbness in his right hand becomes explained when an attempt at uncurling his fist heralds a stomach-rolling bout of nauseating pain.

Broken, then, he muses then dismisses the fact as irrelevant.

“Just who do you think you are, you mad bastard?” the Champion growls, straightening and once more gripping the pommel of his Shuchish sword.

Eyes narrowed, Tarrant tears the glove from his left hand with his teeth and mutely presents the back of it to the he-lion.

Those golden eyes focus on the dark red heart line, then flicker to Tarrant’s still-burning gaze, and finally back to the heart line again.

“I don’t believe this...” he mumbles.

Tarrant removes the glove from between his teeth and clenches his fist so tight around it he feels his entire arm ache. “Believe it’r no’ye’ll nae ge’in th’way o’our bringin’ Alice home.” And while Tarrant has the beast’s undivided attention, he tells him the plan, resists the urge to spit in his mane, and then turns around to head back to the Queen’s Army, waiting silently in the woods.

One Promise Kept: Book 2

A Alice in Wonderland Story
by Manniness

Part 6 of 17

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