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"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat,
how I wonder what you're at!
Up above the world so high,
like a tea tray in the -"
"Uncail!" Cried the wee thing, her curious eyes squinting furiously at the trees in front of her. Tarrant blinked as his song was cut short. His niece, with her curly flop of auburn hair and meaty little legs, ran straight through the triangle of his legs and into the unknown behind him. He could hear her babyish squeals as she spanned the field at a rather rapid pace. Too rapid, for a girl of only two years. "Wha' da?! Uncail!"
"Pimby!" Underland's Mad Hatter stood straight from his previous position, swiveling his head to catch her romping through the tall grass. His sister, Poomally, would throw a tiff if her imp of a daughter became lost to the trees again. "Wee lass! D'nnae run! Pimby!"
The tiny imp only laughed and squealed some more, tottering over stray logs and trampling unsuspecting buttercups as fast as her legs could take her. The buttercups screamed dramatically, shielding their petals with their willowy leaves. The Hatter held onto his hat as he galloped behind her, tracking his focus on the back of her tiny head. She was very quickly descending into the woods. He trained his ears to hear above his own thrumming heartbeat to listen for what captured her attention to avidly. His only reward for such a task was an unintelligent stream of baby babble. His eyes widened as they were nearing the tree line. The back of Pimby's little frock grew closer and closer. He could very nearly reach out and grab it! Tarrant stretched his arm forward to feel the woolen threads of the frock's collar graze his fingertips before, as if by magic, she disappeared into the underbrush.
Tarrant did not fancy the taste of branches. He sputtered as he picked the bush stems out of his mouth and hair. That wee bugger! She'd run off again! Grumbling, he glanced around him to see if his sister - the imp's mother - or any other members of his family had seen Pimby's flight into the woods. The field behind him was empty. It appears the job was left to him to retrieve her.
Parting a way through the dense thicket, the Hatter kicked his way through low-hanging shrubbery and squishy logs. He scanned the woodlands with a keen eye before shouting: "Pimby!"
High-pitched giggles echoed off of the trees. Tarrant glanced up at one and tugged on its branches before asking if it had seen which way his niece had gone. The tree, offended by this, ripped its branch away from his fingers and remained silent. The Hatter frowned but trudged forward. Trees were such sensitive things. They enjoyed his niece's company perhaps too much - most times to the point of severe distraction - which often caused her caregivers a great deal of trouble.
"What's a milliner doing out in these parts?" Came a voice above him. Tarrant peered upwards and was met with the toothy grin of a squirrel. "You'll loosen the threads of your tweeds in the bush."
"I'm looking for a tiny girl." Hatter reached into his pocket and pulled out the saved half of a crumpet. He handed it to the squirrel, who took it greedily. "Have you seen a little red-haired child? Devilish? Impossibly tricky and incredibly high-pitched?"
"No," Ascertained the squirrel, "but I've encountered a blonde woman. She said she was looking for a party of sorts."
The Hatter's world went still. No! It couldn't be. A blonde woman- it was not possible!-
A familiar, happy laugh pierced the atmosphere so loudly it could have shattered the very air. The squirrel nearly dropped his share of crumpet as he cupped his paws over his ears. "Oh! What is that racket?!"
Hatter, having calmed his hopes and the tremble in his hands, refocused his efforts on finding the little Pimby. After all, Underland was surely home to many blonde women in search for parties. Who didn't like a party? Oh, but Alice always enjoyed parties, especially their tea parties. It had been just over a fortnight since he'd last gazed upon her countenance through the looking glass. Their occasional visits lifted his spirits like none other. He was so lost without her, so lost-
The bairn. Yes, the bairn!
“Pimby!” Hatter called again. “Reveal yerself, ghel! Else yer maither’ll hev’tah deal with ye!”
Silence.
He sighed, if only to feign annoyance which was hurriedly transforming into an anxious worry. The child had a knack for getting herself into Trouble. It reminded him of someone else he’d known as a girl. Someone Who Must Not Be Thought Of, as Thoughts of that Someone often wrenched his heart is a multitude of ways far too distracting to aid in the current search for his niece. Poomally will be rightly furious if he were to return with no Pimby. He supposed that if he were a faither, with his own wee ones to fuss over, then he’d be much the same.
Would his children bear his hair? Perhaps his eyes! Or per chance: brown eyes. Her eyes, with her nose. Such pretty daughters they’d make -
Tarrant waved away his thoughts of family and Her. Dangerous thoughts, those.
Soft gurgles pealed gently through the thinning trees ahead of him. His focus renewed as the sound tickled his ears. Quickening his pace, the Mad Hatter trudged towards what seemed to be a clearing. The sunlight sparkled amongst the wild grasses. Whispering began to erupt around him. He strained his ears to pick up on what was being said. In the wind, the flowers gossiped (what nosy creatures!):
“It’s her! I cannot believe my petals!”
”What’s taken her so long to return? Someone notify the queen!”
“No! Summon that lunatic hatter at once!”
”The Champion!”
”It’s Alice! The Alice!”
“Alice!”
Alice..
The Mad Hatter held his breath. Through the waning twigs and shrubbery, he first caught sight of the brilliantly copper curls of his young niece. His Heart ceased its erratic thumping. Thankfully, his sister would not have his hide that day. But his Heart, which had finally gotten its chance to rest, jumped to its feet and began to pace once again once he saw who knelt beside young Pimby. Blonde curls, glimmering in the sunlight as if the stars had come out early, cascaded over the shoulder of a woman who sat at Pimby’s front. Elegant, thin fingers soothingly caressed his little niece’s arms as the two of them engaged in hushed conversation.
Oh, if only he could see her face! He would recognize those gold ringlets, those hands anywhere! It’s her! It’s the Someone Who Must Not Be Thought Of! It’s -
Tarrant’s voice, which felt as light and frail as the Stillness surrounding him, escaped his lips weakly: “Alice?”