Author's Note: Slower than dirt, as usual, but we are getting so close to the end, I can feel it! Nine more "chapters" to go, peeps! Thanks for sticking with me (I know I'm terrible).

She stands like a blood stain amidst fresh fallen snow, almost painful in two very different, strangely opposite ways; for she is a reprieve from the blinding whiteness that strains his eyes, but she is also a blot in the purity, too vibrant, too crimson, all red. Thankfully, she is also very short and doesn't take up much space (except for her head, which is oh so very large, and Lowell is rather repulsed by it, queen or not, and he sighs, knowing that, once again, he's being horrible and he's rather tired of being that, hadn't he grown up at all?).

She stares at them all, beady eyed and lips pursed, a fan folded in her hand and skirts poofing out almost as much as her hair. "You are The Alice's family?"

"Are there other Alices that you have to specify we are related to a specific one?" And is she really so important, Lowell wonders, that she is addressed as THE Alice?

The woman eyes him coldly. "There have been many Alices, and many not-Alices, but only one Alice that has been The Alice. And, I suppose, there is a sort of resemblance."

At this, she waves her fan lazily between Helen and Margaret.

"I am her mother," Helen states simply.

"And I, her sister." Margaret continues. "And this is my husband. Someone from your world attacked him, so the Cheshire Cat brought us here to keep us safe, he said. Are . . . are you the Red Queen?"

Helen and Lowell both look to Margaret, who seems a bit confused, and the woman by the throne turns visibly red in the face. It is amazing to watch, actually (her entire head begins to vibrate almost, the color rising like steam across the white paint). The rabbit actually hops in place, lets out a fearful squeak, and then falls over in a dead feint.

The woman closes her eyes, bites her lip, and takes several long, deep breathes. The color fades away again, slowly, as her tiny fists clamp too tightly around her fan, snapping it in two. When she finally looks at them again, it is with reigned in contempt, but contempt none the less.

"Not. Any. More." He spits each word, and then shouts, "HARP!"

Immediately, two large, white pawns march in, carrying a harp between them. One sits by the wall and begins to play a high, soothing melody, to which the woman lets her eyes flutter shut and sighs.

She seems much more controlled when she next says, "I am Iracebeth, sister to the White Queen. I'm afraid she is indisposed at the moment, so I am taking her audiences. Now, what can I help you with? You say someone from Underland has made attempts on your man's life?"

Lowell has never before been referred to as though he were Margaret's property, and he bristles, but then he thinks of all the times he's referred to Margaret as his, and keeps his mouth shut, as this Iracebeth woman isn't even looking at him to answer, and Margaret herself looks rather confused at being the one addressed.

"Oh, well, um, yes—"

"Speak up, girl. I've dealt with enough mice today, I don't need anyone else speaking as quietly as one."

The annoyance is back, and it's simmering into anger (how dare this woman talk to his Margaret in such a hurtful way? Sister to a queen or not!), but a sharp glance from Helen stays him (oh, how he does sometimes miss the days when that look would have done nothing to stop him, but now—oh, but now!).

"We need help." Margaret finally cries out. "Protection, information—anything you are willing to provide. Something—someone—in your world tried to take my husband's life, and maybe my sister's! What or who was it? And why? How do we fight it? Please, I need to be prepared. I can't let anything happen to him! I can't!"

The red woman is watching Margaret with narrowed eyes, but the look on her face is not unsympathetic.

Margaret pushes again. "Surely you can understand the need to protect those you love—to protect your baby sister."

It's quiet for a moment. The rabbit stirs, but doesn't wake. "I didn't understand such things once. Now . . . what did it or they look like, this attacker of yours?"

She has finally acknowledged Lowell (though, by the look of her face, it is only begrudgingly). And if Lowell had given either his wife or his mother-in-law a consulting look, he would have known to be polite, be evasive, be cautious with how he proceeded; however, Lowell does not look to them, and he is none of those things (as he is rather aggravated at being ignored, overwhelmed at the grandeur around him, baffled and still reeling at the discovery of this magical world and these talking plants and animals, and his neck feels like it's burning beneath his scarf so he is no mood whatsoever to be considerate of anyone but himself as his opens his big mouth, which has, of course, already been known to cause him trouble and he really ought to have learned better by now).

"Well, a man named Stayne seemed to think she looked just like your Queen."

The pink tinge starts at the base of her neck, and rises slowly, again, like the bubbling of hot water boiling over, until her face is as red as her hair—as roses, as blood—and she is absolutely shaking, whole body, with rage.

"OUT! OUT, ALL OF YOU! GET OUT OF THIS CASTLE AT ONCE! YOU ARE FORBIDDEN, I SAY! FORBIDDEN! YOU WILL GET NO HELP FROM MARMOREAL, YOU WILL GET NO HELP IN UNDERLAND, AND YOU WILL NEVER, EVER SEE MY SISTER! BEGONE! GUARDS! GUARDSSSSSSSSS!"

Iracebeth's echoing screech rings out, wailing, through the halls, and an assembly of red playing cards and black and white chess pieces come scrambling in, grabbing Lowell, Margaret, and Helen roughly, and drag them from the room—nee, the castle, and toss them out into the gardens.

Margaret and Helen are both glaring at him. He shrinks under their gazes.

His wife sighs and turns to her mother. "Now what?"

Oh no. She's angry with him. He's really done it, now.

"Margaret, I—"

"Should we try to sneak in?" Margaret interrupts him. She's never interrupted him before. Oh oh ohhhhhh no.

"Do we have any other choice?" Helen asks. "Do you know how to get us home?"

Margaret shakes her head. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Then we try our best to get back in without getting caught while we await that flighty pussy to return to us and offer alternatives."

They nod to each other, then help one another stand.

Helen stares down her nose at Lowell. "Well, come on then. Get up."

He doesn't want to. He just wants to sit there and pout. Margaret isn't even looking at him.

"How could I have known she'd throw us out?" He whines.

Margaret scoffs. "She's her sister. Of course she'd be angry if you accused her of attacking you! You'd think, by now, you'd know how sisters are."

Thinking more of Alice and her blackmail schemes rather than Margaret's own doting (as Margaret probably is expecting him to think on), he admits rather grudgingly that she has a point, and sluggishly pulls himself up off the ground. With a pursed lip, Margaret begins dusting him off.

Relief washes through him. She'll forgive him soon enough; maybe already has. She's just a bit miffed. Everything's fine.

The door they'd just been tossed out of squeaks open, and the white rabbit (finally having regained consciousness, apparently) pokes his head through. "Um, I'm terribly sorry about Lady Iracebeth. As she said, the Queen . . . the Queen is not well. It's best not to speak of her. At all. But maybe . . . maybe if you could speak with the Queen? Maybe thought would . . . maybe it would help. She needs help so desperately . . . "

He trails off, sighing, ears drooping and feet twitching nervously.

"C-come on back in. And be quiet about it. I've got some of the servants' clothes that might fit you all. This way."

There's a giant, growling fluff-ball of a monster staring Stayne down, and Hamish finds sudden terror overtaking him—but his first instinct (the one he remembers later and is baffled and impressed at) is not to run (well, at least, not run away), but find something to throw (from a safe distance, of course). Rocks, he needs to find rocks—

But (for as long as Hamish has known Alice, he should have known this was going to happen) Alice dashes forward, down the steps, Hatter left behind, and Hamish is throwing himself after her, ready to scream at her not to try and attack the thing alone, when she rams right into the thing's side and buries herself in its fur in a big (but nowhere near full, as she's just too small) hug.

And Hamish just lets himself slow to a stop and sighs (because of course the giant monster is another friend of Alice's, of course, why not? Fantastic). Behind him, the Hatter claps merrily, giggling.

Stayne, at least, has the sense to look put off by the beast (which is now nuzzling Alice but periodically turning back to growl at the man) and takes several steps away from it.

"Another friend of yours, Alice?" Hamish finally brings himself to ask (because no one else is being any help, of course; they never are).

"It's the Bandersnatch!" Alice laughs, as though that word means anything to him.

"Bandasnats, right."

"Bandersnatch," Alice reiterates, finally stepping back from the creature and it's slobbering kisses. "Can we have a ride to Marmoreal?"

The thing glances around, like it knows Alice's 'we' entails all three of these men, and it is not happy about this at all. But it bows it's head and closes it's eyes contentedly when Alice hugs it and whispers "Thank you" before climbing on to it's back (how she manages that, Hamish isn't sure; it's not like the thing has a saddle and—oh no, he's going to have to climb up there, too, isn't he? Mercy).

Hatta takes fistfuls of hair and makes his way up next, right behind Alice, at which both Hamish and Stayne bristle. Stayne shimmies up next, ignoring the menacing growls of the Bandersnatch as he goes. Hamish has a much harder time of this, and falls more than once before Stayne gets annoyed with him and pulls him up by the scruff of his shirt.

And then, holding onto each other and long, bristly fur, the Bandersnatch bounds off (and Hamish squeals rather badly and clings to Stayne's back for his life, to which the tall man elbows him repeatedly but eventually gives in and lets him hold on, as he is having grab Tarrant's shoulders himself to stay seated. Of course, Tarrant has got his arms wrapped tight around Alice, who is leaned forward with the curve of her stead's back like a pro, and Hamish knows Stayne probably hates the man just as much as he does at that moment, rooting for him or not).

There really wasn't any need for them to dress up in disguises. No one meets them in the halls as the rabbit leads them through the castle. And soon enough they find themselves in a rather extravagant room over down in lace and soft pillows and cushions, with two glass doors thrown open wide to a balcony covered in potted plants the same ghostly white as the rest of the castle. Among the flowers stands the White Queen herself, drawn in the face and massive skirts failing to hide a skeletal frame. But she is smiling softly over her flowers, dainty hands raised and soft humming in the air.

She pivots on her toes, turning back to the room, and spots them. Her surprise melts into a sweet smile.

"McTwisp! And you've brought me some guests! How lovely!"

But Lowell can barely breathe, barely think—his brain seems to be stuttering to a halt, trailing and failing, to reconcile what he knows and what he sees, because this woman is definitely, most certainly, the woman he saw in the mirror—one and the same who tried to strangle him!—but at the same time there's no possible way she could be, because he's looking right at her, can see her, see how ill she is, how sweet with a smile so like his Margaret's it's uncanny and probably not possessing the strength let alone disposition to strangle anyone without snapping herself and every bone in her body in two!

The queen picks up her skirts with two proper fingers and bustles over to them, full of excitement. "Is this a royal matter? Is there something I can help you with? Oh, it's been so long since I've helped someone!"

She vibrates with glee at the prospect, and Lowell knows he's openly gaping at her.

Margaret tugs on his shirtsleeve and he finally pulls his gaze away to look down at her, snapping his mouth shut. She looks worried.

"Is this her, Lowell?"

Lowell looks up at the woman again, who smiles curiously at them both, and nods slowly. "It certainly looks like her. At least in the face. But this woman obviously couldn't hurt a fly, let alone strangle a grown man."

"Strangle?" Looking positively alarmed, the woman puts a hand over her heart and shakes her head. "Oh dear, I could never. I've taken a vow of pacifism—I wouldn't hurt anyone!"

"Do you have a twin?" Lowell deadpans, not expecting an affirmative.

"I'm afraid I don't. What's this all about?"

Sighing, Lowell removes the scarf from around his neck, revealing the deep purple bruises in the perfect impression of hands that wrap around his throat. The woman's eyes go wide, and she stares at the marks. Slowly, she steps forward, circling around Lowell, and then reaches out with shaky hands (she looks so frightened, so fragile, that no one even thinks to feel threatened by her or her actions) and places them exactly on top of the bruises, covering them perfectly, matching them with her fingers.

Her face twists with confusion, uncomprehending, staring at the marks, staring at her fingers, smiling that heartbreakingly innocent smile, shaking her head back and forth, back and forth. "No, this—this isn't me. I didn't do this. I didn't."

She backs up quickly, pulling her hands away, still shaking her head and smiling that smile that is so fake it's painful, her eyes big and bright and watering with panic.

"I-I didn't. D-didn't. Wasn't m-me. W-wasn't. Wasn't me."

Mirana backs right up into the wall, startling herself, and bites her lip as a quick sob escapes and the first tear rolls down; it's dingy and grey and leaves a marring streak down her face.

Outside, the sound of thunder rumbles, causing them all to jump. Clouds are rolling in fast, despite what had been a clear day, and soon enough the whole room is shrouded in darkness. The White Queen continues to mumble, and her pale face goes dim, shadows making her cheeks look sunken where they had once been rosey, and her eyes baggy when before they had been bright. Her once beautiful dress appears to have lost some of its volume, the edges being frayed and dirty. Even her platinum hair falls lank around her face.

They door to the room comes crashing open, and the Red Queen charges in, her face as white as the room had once been.

"Mirana!" She shouts, darting across the floor towards her trembling sister.

"Racie . . . " She sobs, falling into the much smaller woman's arms, who wraps herself around the almost decaying Queen protectively.

"There, there, Mirana, everything's fine, I've got you, everything's fine," she coos, before turning her suddenly furious face on Lowell and Margaret and Helen. "What. Did. You. Do. To. My Sister!?"

"N-nothing." Margaret tries to explain. "We didn't—"

"I told you you couldn't see her. I told you she wasn't well." Iracebeth's face is almost as red as her hair, her words clipped with rage she only manages to reign in for a few moments before— "GET OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!"

"I—but we can help—"

Margaret tries again, and flinches back Iracebeth shouts, "GUARDS! GUARDS! INTRUDERS!"

Footsteps respond immediately, coming from the open door, and Lowell grabs his wife's hand and grabs his mother-in-law's hand and drags them both from the room, sees the combination of red playing cards and chess pieces racing towards them, and darts the other way, running as fast as he can with his two precious ladies in tow.

They round a corner and are met with more guards and they stumble to a halt before the charging figures. Helen, not waiting to catch the breathes her heaving chest suggests she obviously needs, grabs the nearest piece of furniture and hurls it in the way before twisting back around and for a few moments it is she tugging Lowell who tugs Margaret before he's back in front again.

"This way!" Margaret jerks them down another hall, apparently recognizing it, and she directs them the rest of the way out of the castle.

The front hall seems abandoned when they come sliding into it, but they can still here the jangle and crash of guards on their heels, so they keep running right up to the giant front doors and throw them open to race down the steps—only to collide with a small group coming up said steps, and all of them tumbling down in a tangle of limbs down the hard, sharp marble corners and onto the bricked walkway.

There's a lot of loud aching and moaning, but it's Margaret's voice that sounds through Lowell disorientation: "Mother! Oh goodness, are you alright? Mother!"

"Mother!"

Lowell's head jerks up—and collides with something sharp and hard, and he cringes back. Readjusting, he rises slower and finds the thing he'd smacked his head against was Stayne's chin (and the man does not look one bit happy about it). But when both of those female voices cry for their mother again, neither remembers the incident and both turn their heads to see Margaret and Alice holding Helen, who is grimacing in pain.