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When Alice left him behind, she left him alone. He still had Mally and Thackery, but it wasn't the same. Mally didn't have any of the gentleness to her that Alice had. She was fierce and quick to anger. And it got old having to duck Thackery's flying teacups.
Tarrant would often wander the hallways of Mirana's castle at night, finding himself at Alice's door. But Alice wasn't behind it. Propriety often stilled his hand from turning the doorknob, but every so often he felt the need to go in and see what of hers had been left. The last time he had found one of her dresses. Picking it up, he ran the fabric between his fingers, imagining it draped over her pale form. He could feel the madness slipping in at that moment, all it would take to push him over the edge was to bring the fabric closer, to breathe in her scent. But he couldn't; he wouldn't. If he lost himself now, he may never see Alice again. She would be back, and he wouldn't be here.
Tarrant dropped the dress back on the chair. He wouldn't lose himself to his madness. He would be waiting.