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Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

A Random House Group Company

Copyright €> James Goss 2011

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accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.

Executive producers: Steven Moffat Piers Wenger and Beth Willis

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To my beloved Perdita

Nothing can replace you

— Johann

What Amy Forgot

The TARDIS was crashing. The big clue was that the floor

lurched at a sixty-degree angle. I knew this because the

Doctor pointed it out.

'Sixty degrees!' he called, like he was greeting an old

friend. 'Amy, this is serious.'

I grinned, and then saw the expression on my

husband's face. Rory was clinging to a chair, and making

a noise. Making an 'oh my god, you didn't say this was a

seafood restaurant' noise. My husband has one of those

faces that looks best when it is worried. Since we've been

travelling in the TARDIS he's looked worried a lot.

'Relax!' I cried. 'We've done sixty degrees before,

haven't we, Doctor?'

'Oh yeah, heaps,' agreed the Doctor as the TARDIS's

time engines made a noise like a crashing steam train.

'Well, perhaps not sixty degrees. Not for a while.' A small

fire started on the control console. 'Hum,' he sighed sadly.

'The temporal couplings are burning out. Still, what else

can you expect? Sixty degrees is serious stuff.'

'Right,' muttered Rory just loudly enough to carry

over the sound of an exploding time machine.

The Doctor wrapped his arm desperately around the

giant crystal pillar at the heart of the TARDIS. It was

glowing an unhealthy colour. If it was a girl on a hen-do,

I'd say the TARDIS was about thirty seconds away from

crying, 'Hold me hair, Sharon.' Steam was rising around

the Doctor's hands. 'Grab on to something!' he yelled.

Rory was about to say, 'But I am grabbing on—' when

the entire inside of the TARDIS performed an advanced

roller-coaster move. The room spun like a washing

machine, in a tumble of brass, books and alien machinery,

and then stopped. Wrongly.

'Gorgeous!' breathed the Doctor. 'That is one beautiful

ceiling. Funny how you don't appreciate how lovely a

ceiling really is until you're dangling twenty feet above

it.'

I was holding on for dear life to a piece of TARDIS

control thingy. It was seemingly made out of an old banjo.

I hoped it wasn't something important. I could already

feel it snapping under my weight.

'Why is this happening?' I shouted.

'Yeah!' said Rory. I was suddenly aware how far away

from me he was, wedged into the staircase.

The Doctor looked at us both seriously. 'Can't really

tell, not at the moment.' He was still upside down like

a tweedy praying mantis, clinging to the crystal pillar,

which was now rather the wrong shade of red. 'What I

can tell you is that we are definitely still crashing, and

that the time rotor is getting quite hot.' He looked at me.

'Sorry. I don't suppose you can reach the warp transfer

coil, can you, Pond?' He paused and repeated, louder:

'The Warp Transfer Coil.'

'Shout as loud as you like.' I glared at him. 'Still not a

clue what you're talking about.'

'Hey-ho,' said the Doctor, somehow managing to

shrug.

Something else exploded, and the ship lurched again.

You know that terrible feeling on an airplane when you

hit turbulence and suddenly remember that you're in a

thin metal tube that really has very little business being

miles off the ground? That! I could just see across to a

large screen which showed us tumbling through the Time

Vortex like ball bearings down a drain.

'Something pretty bad's happening nearby in the

space-time continuum,' the Doctor shouted over the

noise. 'The TARDIS is a terrible rubbernecker - like a little

old lady, she can't resist slowing down for a gawp at a car

crash in the next lane. Bless.'

"This is not slowing down,' bellowed Rory.

'Good point,' agreed the Doctor, looping a leg around

a stray cable. 'Still, on the bright side it explains why

whenever we land—'

'We end up in trouble!' I laughed.

Despite everything I was having fun. The thing about

the Doctor is that you keep on forgetting there is no safety

net. Just one look at him, at the excitement in his eyes,

the smile on his face, at the slightly hopeless way he was

trying to shin up a melting crystal and I somehow stopped

worrying. Oh Doctor, I thought, I'll never forget you. This

turned out to be a bit ironic.

An old-fashioned alarm clock started ringing on the

console, a little brass hammer striking a tiny bell over and

over.

'What's that?' yelled Rory.

'Proximity sensor!' whooped the Doctor, finally losing

his grip on the pillar. 'Which means—'

We crashed.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

4th December 1783

Dear Mother,

Oh! I am so bored and so cold. Now the summer

season is over, there's no one here to play with any more.

I am feeling much better now, thank you very much, so

please, when will you send for me? I do so long to be back

in Paris. I miss Papa, I miss the puppies (this week I think

they should be called Antony and Cleopatra - won't that

be fun?), and, of course, I miss you the MOST.

It seems ever so long since I last saw you. I bet you

must have several wonderful new dresses by now. I fear

mine are starting to look awful drab - the laundry here is

worse than even Eloise in one of her baddest moods. So

please tell me what your new dresses are like, and if we

have any new horses, perhaps?

Dr Bloom's establishment is much as it was in summer

only darker and much colder. You would not like it now.

You would miss the sun and it is always raining. There

are draughts in every room and the fires smoke so much

they make the patients cough dreadfully.

You would find the people here most dreary and

lacking in conversation. The only new arrival is a fat

old Englishman who swears loudly at Dr Bloom and

complains about EVERYTHING. Dear Prince Boris has

taken to his rooms. And the others are all so quiet. I don't

want to talk to them much.

What I meant to say, dear Mother, is that I don't LIKE

to talk to them. Of course, they are all very ill and should

not be disturbed unless they ask to be, I know that, but...

they are different now.

If you have a moment I shall tell you how. But if I do,

then I should like you to be brave for me. You might find

what I say frightening, but I don't wish you to.

Dr Bloom continues with his Fresh Sea Air Cure for the

worst patients - you remember how it was in summer?

The parade of nurses wheeling everyone down to the

beach and leaving them? Well, it's still the same, even

in winter. Madame Bloom says that the chill freezes the

bad out of the lungs, but it can't be good, surely, to leave

them sat there from dawn till dusk, can it? The light is so

meagre and the fog is so thick. They look like the Dead.

I can't help it - I know you told me not to call them that.

The Dead sitting waiting on the beach.

But that is not the frightening thing, Mother. Sometimes

I go down to them, to keep them company. But the Dead

are not alone. For there is something in the mist and it

talks to them.

There! I've said it.

Oh Mother, it scares me dreadfully. Please let me come

home. Write soon with news.

Your ever loving

Maria

What Amy Remembered

I woke up. I immediately wished I hadn't. My head spun

and it took a while before I could see where I was. It was a

very white room, and there was a little girl sat on my bed.

She was dressed like she was in Cranford, only without

the bonnet.

'Ah!' she exclaimed, clapping delightedly. Houston,

we have a clapper. Could be exhausting. 'You're awake!

I'm so pleased, Mademoiselle.' She sounded French.

Interesting.

'Yes,' I croaked. My throat was dry.

She passed me a glass of water.

'Who are you?' she asked, her eyes as wide as curious

spoons.

That floored me for a second. I was not entirely sure. I

could remember... hmm. Not much, actually. Oh dear.

'I'm Maria,' announced the girl importantly, chewing

at her hair, which was really, really long and golden. Like

she did adverts. She stared at me. 'I am 11,' She waited for

me to say something.

'Right.' I sipped the water and played for time. I was

feeling a rising panic. What was my name?

'You can't remember, can you?' Maria smiled slyly.

'They said you might not.' She giggled like it was funny.

'Who said I might not remember?'

'People,' she shrugged. 'I heard people talking in the

corridor. You're new here. We don't have many new

visitors. So there is bound to be talk. But I'm ever so

pleased you're here. I do hope you'll be fun. Do you like

to play games?'

I was a bit fazed by that. Frankly, the sense of rising

panic wasn't really helping. I tried smiling at her, but it

all went a bit wonky.

'Yeah,' I said eventually. 'I do like games. Did they say

what happened to me?'

Maria tilted her head to one side. 'Your carriage

crashed, apparently. They brought you in this morning.'

That made sense. Kind of. I could remember something

vaguely about that - about the world turning over and

a big thump but... that wasn't everything. There was

something else. Wet sand.

I craned to look out of the window. I could only see

grey sky and a few twiggy trees blown about in the wind.

But I could hear...

'Are we near the sea?'

Maria nodded, solemnly. 'Oh yes. St Christophe is a

resort. It is very fashionable and most expensive. People

come here from all over France and Italy.'

I struggled up in bed. 'So this is a hotel?'

Maria giggled, her hand clasped over her mouth, 'Of

sorts, yes. A hotel for the dead.'

Well, that floored me. It did not sound good.

'What do you mean?' I narrowed my eyes until it hurt

my head, so I stopped.

"The dying come here.' She pulled a face. 'I mean,

they hope to get better. But they're dead, really. Some

do go home, they're the lucky ones. Mother did. She's

back in Paris. Did I tell you we live in a lovely house with

ponies?'

Ponies? I shook my head and tried to keep focused.

My head was pounding, and I didn't even know my own

name and so much enthusiasm and... I was on my own

and...

'What year is this?' I asked her. As I said it, I realised

it was an odd question, but one I was used to asking. Was

this a problem I often had? A memory tugged at my head.

A memory of something blue, lying on its side in the sand.

Cold water, blue light... wet sand.

'1783.' Maria nodded, clearly proud.

'Oh, very good, Maria, that's absolutely right,' I said,

moving with difficulty. I tugged at the quilt, realising

for the first time that I was wearing a really rather lovely

old lace nightie. I swung my legs onto the floor, realising

that the room was very cold. I looked at her. 'Now then,

Maria,' I said seriously. 'I am going to try walking. Then I

am going to find out where I am.'

'And then will we play a game?' Maria was all

excited.

'Quite possibly "Catch me if you can",' I vowed. 'Ill

go first.'

I took a step, the world spun and the floor collapsed

under me.

At which point, the door burst open and two men

piled in.

Someone said, 'Hey! Steady on!'

Someone else cried, "There she goes!'

Two sets of arms grabbed me and I found myself back

on the bed with the ceiling dancing around and around.

All that was missing were some dancing stars and the

sound of a bird tweeting.

When things settled down a bit I looked at the two

men. It was like fireworks went off in my head. One was

wearing a suit badly, the other a worried expression and a

frock coat. He was holding my hand, checking my pulse.

'Maria!' I shouted, suddenly very pleased with myself

and the world in general. 'My name is Amy Pond, and

these are my boys!'

Dr Bloom's Journal

5th December 1783

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!

Kosov found the three strangers lying on the beach

this morning, just as the sun was rising. Kosov likes to

go for walks. I tell him, I tell him so many times not to

leave Prince Boris unattended, but it is like Kosov has a

mind of his own. He does so love to go down to the beach,

probably to talk to... well, you know what I mean.

According to Kosov, he found the three of them

huddled together on the sand, soaked to the skin. I wonder

that they did not perish in the night - it would have been

a blessing for all of us if they had, no doubt. The girl was

quite unconscious, but the two men were just starting to

sit up, rubbing their heads and groaning. It was the sheer

amount of complaining they were doing that first made

Kosov suspect they were English - Ha ha! Dear Kosov is

no fool. Lord knows, we've all had to listen to the endless

cries and lamentations of that London brute Nevil. It's as

if Mr Nevil doesn't realise that he's here for his health not

a holiday. The stupid man does not trust me at all.

'Let me cure you, sir,' I begged him when he arrived.

'God will cure me,' he belched, then started

complaining about the food.

The stupid man does not understand that there is a

reason why the rooms are so well ventilated, why the

meals are so simple, and why there is an absolute ban on

guests drinking beer, wine, or porter. Honestly, the man

is a disgrace, but that's beside the point. Oh, he infuriates

me - but I shall cure him. I shall cure everyone! Yes, I shall

even cure Mr Nevil.

Where was I? Ah yes, as ever, The Sea...

Kosov could see the morning mist gathering heavy

around them and acted quickly before it could settle on

them - the men could just about support each other, and

he carried the girl all the way back here himself. Imagine

it - that lumbering giant lugging her in like a bundle of

firewood! I'd barely started my breakfast when he came in

with her, those two gibbering fools staggering in behind

him.

'What is the meaning of this, Kosov?' I heard myself

demand (oh dear, oh dear, when did I get so pompous?),

already leaping up and helping him settle the girl down

on a couch. I could see that she was breathing, that

everything was fine, and that the two men were very

concerned about her.

I straightened up, patted down my waistcoat and

smiled at them reassuringly. 'Do not concern yourselves

unduly, gentlemen,' I began. 'There is no grave cause for

worry. Your friend is in little more than a heavy sleep -

probably the result of a mild concussion. Have you had

an accident? You are fortunate to find yourself in excellent

hands. I will happily place her temporarily under my care

at this institute.'

'Institute?' One of the men blinked. 'Is this a hospital

or a hotel?'

'A little of both.' I laughed. 'My name is Dr Bloom.'

The man shook my hand wildly. 'And I am Doctor...'

He paused, and his face creased. 'Oh dear,' he sighed.

'Well, perhaps just "Doctor" for the moment. I'm sure the

rest will come back to me.'

I arched an eyebrow. 'You are also a medical man?'

He nodded. 'Well, I think so... It's all a little hazy...'

I clapped him on the shoulder. 'You've spent a difficult

night on the beach. The weather is inclement for it. The

icy fingers of winter grip even the Cote d'Azure.'

'Ah,' said this Doctor, and for a moment he looked

as though he had no idea where he was. He muttered

something to himself. It sounded like 'Warp transfer coil.'

These Ros-Bifs!

His colleague - about the same height but with more

authority - stepped forward. 'Along the shores of France

and Italy. Lovely spot,' he pronounced. The English do

so pronounce! 'I'm Mr Pond. Well, at least I think I am.'

He smiled bashfully. 'Yes. I rather think we've had a bit

of an accident with our transport. Quite an accident.' He

paused, repeating the last word a couple of times, trying

it out for size and then throwing it away as though it

didn't quite fit. He shrugged. 'Anyway, we're here, you're

Dr Bloom and I'm sure dear Amy - fairly sure she's my

wife, by the way - will be more than glad of whatever

help you can offer her.'

He stopped, all of a sudden, as if this was more words

than he'd ever said before in his life. His friend, Dr

Whatever, coughed. 'Well, there we are then. Perhaps we

could borrow some clothes while these things dry?'

I looked at their clothes. They seemed... actually quite

remarkable.

He caught my eye, and smiled. 'Travelling gear. You

know how it is. Trying to be comfortable rather than

presentable.'

The fool stuck his hands in his pockets with a wet

squelching sound and tried to look dignified.

I smiled at him weakly. 'Well, of course. Of course,

only too delighted to offer you hospitality. I shall find a

room for Madame Pond and then my wife will fetch you

some fresh clothes.'

Within minutes, my dear Perdita had arrived, the model

of soothing efficiency. She conveyed the poor invalid girl

to a room, the men were packed off to a warm fire and

some baggy spare clothes, and I was left staring out of the

window, down the rocks to the beach wondering what it

all meant. Had they really come here by accident?

I didn't hear her come in, but dear Perdita was suddenly

back at my side. She wrapped her hand around mine and

then settled her chin on my shoulder. 'Don't you worry,

my dear,' she said, smiling up at me. 'I've taken care of

them. It will all be fine.'

'Really?' I squeezed her hand and she squeezed it

back. 'I'm just worried, that's all.'

'Of course you are,' her laugh was so tinkling it could

make light of the worst disaster. 'Of course you are. But

you're a brilliant man. You've done wonderful things.

This is... this is simply an inconvenience.'

'How inconvenient.' I rolled the last word, exaggerating

my slight Germanic accent until she smiled. Perdita has

the most beautiful smile. 'Years of work have gone into

this place. Untold effort. We are so nearly at the finishing

line. You know what? In all those years of effort, I've never

been scared. Three strangers turn up, and suddenly...

suddenly I'm worried.'

We both stood at the window, holding hands and

looking down at The Sea.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

5th December 1783

Dearest Mother and the Puppies and ALL the Horses,

We have strangers and they are ever so, ever so

EXCITING! Today I met Monsieur and Madame Pond.

They're staying here - their coach came off the road nearby,

and they were brought here last night. Madame Pond is

called Amelia, and she is lots of fun. She says she can't

wait to play games with me and likes puppies. She has

lovely long red hair (longer even than Cecile the kitchen

maid's) and her laugh is very LOUD. She is from Scotland

and her voice sounds all funny, but her French is really

very good, much better than nasty Monsieur Nevil's.

Monsieur Pond is also very lovely, although he seems

a little lost. They're both suffering from bumps to the head

from the crash of their carriage, at least that's what their

personal physician says. He tells me he is called Dr Smith

and I like him ever so much, even if he is a bit nervous.

Whereas Monsieur Pond looks worried and severe, Dr

Smith is quite smiley. He's ever so clumsy, and I don't

think his suit quite fits him, but he's very good fun. He

likes talking to girls - quite unlike Dr Bloom. He smells

nice, much nicer than Monsieur Nevil - so I suppose not

all Englishmen are filthy. Dr Smith keeps telling me he

isn't a proper doctor, but Madame Pond clearly thinks

the world of him. Monsieur Pond doesn't seem quite so

convinced - it would not surprise me if he was un petit

peu jealous?

Dr Smith and Madame Pond were talking about

perhaps playing some kind of ball game, but Monsieur

Pond didn't want to join in. He said that he wouldn't be

any good. I told him he was wrong, but he looked all cross,

as though people are always telling him he is wrong.

Then the door opened and Dr Bloom came in. I could

tell that Madame Pond - she has told me to call her Amy

and so I shall - that Amy had never met him before. She

found his presence intimidating - I have got so used to

him filling up the room like a big, cross flamingo. But she

just looked at him. Ill tell you what happened, as it struck

me as interesting, and I remember that you always found

Dr Bloom so amusant...

'Ah, up and about, my dear?' he said, clapping her

on the shoulder. 'Oh it's splendid, splendid. You're

looking better already, much better. It's the air here, quite

marvellous. It's a miracle, I tell you. Just fill your lungs

with it and you'll be right as rain in no time.' He pushed

his glasses high up onto his beaky nose so that he could

peer down at her. He always does that - I suspect to make

himself look serious, but how can he expect to when he

has that ridiculous white wig? He patted it down, but

it still stuck up around his ears, making him look like a

spaniel. Without even looking at me, he laughed. 'I see

you've met our youngest guest, dear little Maria. You

must not let her tire you, Madame Pond. You really must

rest up until you're feeling more like yourself.' He patted

her carefully on the wrist and then turned to Dr Smith.

'Well, I must say, it all seems very, very promising

with the patient, I'm sure you'll agree, Herr Dr...?'

'It's Smith, actually.' Dr Smith smiled, bowing. 'I've

remembered that my name is Smith. Almost definitely.

Good old English name, Smith. Hopefully means "noble,

valiant warrior" and not "he who hits kittens with a

hammer". You'd be surprised the derivations of common

surnames in the English countryside...' He stopped,

realising we were all staring at him, and coughed. 'Sorry.

Amy is better, you say?' He coughed again. 'Well, it is

early... early days yet...' and then he trailed off. 'Dr...

er? Now I've remembered my name only to forget yours.

Whoops.'

'His name is Dr Bloom,' muttered Monsieur Pond.

He was standing by the window, frowning down at the

beach. He didn't turn around, he just sounded cross. You

remember how Papa would sound when the porridge

was burnt? Like that, really.

'Dr Bloom, of course!' Dr Smith clapped a hand to his

head. 'Sorry. So sorry. I really don't... I think last night

has shaken my head up a bit more than I realised.'

Dr Bloom threw a friendly arm around his shoulder

and squeezed him reassuringly. He was making them

trust him, and no one should, should they, Mother? 'Not

at all, dear fellow, not at all. You're all very lucky people.

Why, when you were found on the beach, I nearly gave

up all hope of you.'

'Is there no sign of our carriage?' Monsieur Pond was

barely polite. I know if you'd been there, Mother, you

would have given him quite a look. The English are so

rude! Poor Dr Bloom took it in his stride, however.

'Alas no, monsieur. It appears the horses cantered clean

away with your vehicle. I am sorry. Not a sign of it, yet. But

once your own personal physician is happy that you've

all made a full recovery then I'll be only too delighted to

make arrangements for alternative transport.'

'Um,' said Monsieur Pond. He didn't sound the least

bit pleased.

Dr Smith spoke hurriedly. 'Perhaps you should sit

down... Maybe you're not feeling yourself.'

'No,' muttered Monsieur Pond crossly. 'No, I'm not,

Dr Smith.' He made it sound as though it was all Dr

Smith's fault, which seemed unfair.

Amy made a face at me. 'They're always like this,' she

muttered. 'Catch you later, eh?'

I took my cue and left. As I went out, I heard her say

to Dr Bloom, 'If my boys were at all polite, I'm sure they'd

say that we're very grateful to you for putting us up here.

Perhaps you can tell us more about this place?'

I don't like going to the beach. But I wanted to get

away from Dr Bloom. I also wondered if it was the beach

where Amy's carriage crashed. Perhaps I'd see a trace of

it, or find one of their horses wandering around hungry

or something.

The weather wasn't too bad so, remembering what

you told me about wrapping up warm, I walked down

the path. It was a grey, miserable day. Even from the cliff

top, I could see the beach was crowded.

The Dead were there, as always. They never move, any

of them. They just sit there on their deckchairs, not even

noticing the rain, just staring out to sea until the sun sets

and someone brings them in. I know fresh air is supposed

to be good for them, but I just can't believe that.

You know the beach scares me. So I didn't stay long,

just until... well, until it all happened again. At first it

seemed it was going to be all right. Just the Dead sitting

there. Then the mist rolled in from the sea. It was like night

falling, the light fading as the fog came in thicker and

thicker, wrapping itself around the feet of the patients, all

sitting there unmoving as the mist started to hide them

from view. I didn't like to watch. It made me feel cold

and afraid.

Then the Dead started to talk to the mist. I wasn't close

enough to hear what they were saying, but I could hear

them talking to it. AND THE MIST SANG BACK

TO THEM. Then figures started to come out of the sea,

striding through the fog to stand with the Dead. I wasn't

close enough to see their faces, only their shapes, shrouded

in the mist. Over the air drifted a song, just a single, high

sad voice, as though the sea was singing to them.

Then each figure lifted a patient out of a chair and

started to DANCE with them, moving across the sand

in sad time to the song. Oh, Mother, I had never seen

this before - the way they moved was both beautiful and

terrifying. I felt my stomach fluttering with excitement at

the strange pageant. What if they should see me?

'Interesting,' said a voice at my shoulder. Gasping, I

turned. Dr Smith was standing there, looking down at the

beach, at the dancing figures. His face was grim. 'I really

don't think I've seen anything like that before.'

We stood there for a while, watching the Dead dance

with the Ghosts. Dr Smith turned to me.

'Do you want to go down there?' he asked.

I shook my head. I did not want to go down to the

shore. I realised I was biting my lip and I know how cross

that would make you. I shook my head again.

'Are you frightened by them?' he asked, his voice

soft.

I nodded.

'I am too,' he said. Then he smiled. 'You're a clever

girl, Maria.'

We walked back to the hotel, and sat down for a cup of

chocolate in the morning room. In the corner, the Elquitine

sisters were already playing music.

'How lovely!' said Dr Smith and bowed to them.

I told him all about the Elquitine sisters - one fat, one

thin. You remember how they tried to get you to play as

well? Well, today both sisters were well enough to play

- the thin one with her cello, the fat one with her violin.

They were joined by the glum lady from Salzburg on

another violin. The pale man from Nantes tried to join in

with the flute, but you could tell he didn't quite have the

breath.

'Extraordinary,' sighed Dr Smith, humming along.

'Quite beautiful.'

I agreed. 'It is a good day, monsieur. Some days, not

all of them are well enough to play.'

'Oh, of course, a quartet.' Dr Smith nodded gravely. 'It

must be taxing.'

'The Elquitine sisters says it does them good... Well,

the larger one does. The thin one, she does not speak.

'Really?'

I shook my head solemnly. 'Why, no. Her sister says

her lungs are so bad she keeps her remaining breath for

herself.'

'Ah.' Dr Smith looked around us. 'This is a clinic for

consumption?'

'Among other things, yes. Dr Bloom is famous for it.'

'A place where the patients dance with creatures from

the sea? That's quite odd, isn't it?' He grinned.

I thought then how much you'd like him. 'I know. Dr

Bloom is not like ordinary doctors.'

'No indeed.' Dr Smith's smile vanished. 'Something's

wrong here.'

When the Elquitine sisters stopped playing, Dr Smith

insisted on talking to them. Olivia, the large one, made

sweet conversation while Helena, the thin, silent one

sat scribbling away. Dr Smith kept up the conversation

with Olivia, but I could see his eyes wandering to what

Helena was writing. Her scribbles made no sense to me,

but he was clearly fascinated, so much so that Helena

noticed, and placed a protective hand over her work, like

whenever Claude thinks I am copying his schoolwork

(which I NEVER do).

'I am so sorry,' said Dr Smith, looking at Helena

with those big eyes of his, 'but those are wonderful

equations.'

Helena said nothing, but Olivia spoke, her lips pursed

disapprovingly. 'My sister has always preferred numbers

to people.'

'Well, I can't say I blame her.' Dr Smith managed a

quite dazzling smile. 'Those are very beautiful numbers.'

Helena flushed, hurriedly picked up her papers, and

left the room.

He was about to say something more, but we were

interrupted by that angry Englishman, Monsieur Nevil.

He had barely walked in and was already complaining

about his breakfast.

He was yelling at one of the serving girls like an angry

toad. "This egg is insufficiently cooked. I will not have

it left runny again,' He pounded a big fist on the table,

making his little basket of pastries jump, and then glared

at Dr Smith and me.

'What?' he demanded. 'Have you brought us in a

stranger, girl?'

I introduced Dr Smith, and Monsieur Nevil simply

barked, 'Ah, another quack! Another sawbones! I'm not

surprised that old fraud Bloom has got someone else in.

About time too. I keep telling him he needs to get a proper

doctor. Not that you look any better, sir. I have provided

Bloom with a list of physicians I have personally approved

and can recommend. He pays it no attention. Says my

condition is brought on by bad diet. Bad diet, I ask you!

In this place even a cricket couldn't get fat. Where is that

girl?' He swung around, his great cheeks rolling slowly

after his eyes.

Dr Smith winked at me. 'Actually, monsieur,' he

said smoothly, 'I hear Dr Bloom has a remarkable rate

of success. Are you not joining the other patients on the

beach?'

'That lot?' spat Monsieur Nevil. 'I've no time for

exercise. I have work to do. Important papers and state

documents and vital work that is proceeding very well

and is not to be interrupted by fripperies.' He waved an

arm, dismissing us.

Dr Smith led me as far away from Monsieur Nevil as

possible. We watched him yelling at a grapefruit.

Dr Smith smiled. 'Well, I can see why you're lonely

here, Maria.'

I told him how much I missed you and the pony and

the puppies, and he nodded sadly. 'I miss my home too,'

he said. 'Maybe, one day well get back there... when Amy

is quite...' He closed his eyes. 'Sorry,' he sighed, tapping

his head. 'Took quite a knock last night. Not sure I'm in

any better a state than she is.'

'Have you known her long, monsieur?' I asked him.

'Since she was a child,' he said, the smile widening

on his face before he became serious again. 'Tell me what

you think about the beach. It's really very odd, isn't it?'

That's what Dr Smith is like - his whole face is soft

and kind, but he says the sharpest things, his eyes darting

around like a madman's.

I shrugged. 'It is what you saw, M. le Docteur. I do not

understand it. I don't want to speak about it, as no one

will believe it. I want to tell Mother. Maybe then she'll

bring me home.'

Dr Smith folded his hands. 'I think you should tell

her,' his voice was grave. 'This is no place for a child.'

So I am telling you, Mother. There is something NASTY

on the beach, and it makes me feel strange. Nice Dr Smith

says you should bring me home. Please oh please oh

please, can I come home?

Your ever loving

Maria

What Amy Remembered

I woke up to hear Dr Smith and my husband shouting.

'Boys!' I groaned. 'I've still got a pounding headache.

You are not helping. Invent paracetamol or shut up.'

'Right,' said Dr Smith and slouched off to the

window.

My bloke perched on the edge of the bed. "This place is

a bit wrong,' said the light of my life.

'It's a leper colony,' said Dr Smith.

I sat up in bed right then.

'Well, kind of,' he added. 'Most of the people here

have tuberculosis. A nasty disease - completely fatal. Of

course, by our time it's still serious, but it's treatable.'

My husband (trained medic, thank you) piped up. 'It's

not even called TB yet is it? Just consumption.'

'What?' I nearly laughed. 'The thing poets die of on

sofas?'

'Exactly.' Dr Smith was grim. 'A dreadful, slow

wasting disease. For centuries, people mistook it for

vampirism. You know...' He waved his arms in the air.

'As thin and pale as a model, red eyes, blood around the

lips... Not a great fan of sunlight... Plus, if you got it,

your family shunned you. At best, they thought it was just

a dreadful plague they'd catch from you. If they weren't

quite so enlightened, they figured you drank their blood

at night.'

'Nice,' I said.

My husband nodded. 'But this is just about the time

that doctors were sending people to the seaside for

treatment, isn't it?'

'Well...' Dr Smith tipped a hand back and forth - in a

gesture that said 'more-or-less'. 'This place is ahead of its

time. About a hundred years ahead of its time. You've got

to wait for Queen Victoria until someone sets up a proper

sanatorium for TB.'

'Wait a second!' I said. 'That means... well, either this

place is a bit special...'

I swung my legs down, about to get out of bed, but my

husband stopped me.

'Or it's wrong,' he agreed grimly.

'Exactly,' I said, in my excitement shaking him off and

wobbling on my own two feet. 'This is just the kind of

thing we love. It's what we live for.' I stepped towards Dr

Smith on my shaking pins. 'This is what we do. Isn't it?'

Dr Smith turned around and looked at me, his soft

face worried. 'Are you sure? It's just... I'm terribly sorry,

but I can't remember what it is that we do.

'Or how we got here,' sighed my bloke.

'Or... much about who we are,' Dr Smith echoed

again, slumping down on the edge of the bed. 'Although

I'm getting the weirdest feeling that we travel in time.'

This was quite a lot of news to take in.

I put my hands on my hips and leaned back against

the wall to steady myself.

'What are you saying?' I asked.

The men in my life looked at each other and then back

at me.

Eventually my husband spoke, gently. 'Amy... we're

in a spot of bother,' he said.

Dr Bloom's Journal

5th December 1783

I knew it! Those strangers are trouble.

Perdita told me she met Mr Pond on the beach. He was

standing by the patients, watching them sleep.

'Can I aid you, monsieur?' she asked politely.

'No, no.' He was most rude. 'I was waiting for the

show.'

"There is no show.' She was rightly crisp. 'These are

very ill people receiving treatment.'

'So I've heard,' said the scoundrel. He gestured around

him at the beach and The Sea. 'Apparently extraordinary

things happen here.'

Perdita laughed politely. 'I am afraid there are no

miracles here, monsieur. We simply let them fill their

lungs with clean fresh air. But now the sun is setting and

it is nearly time for them to come in.' She busied herself

tidying around them, tucking in a blanket here and there,

checking the occasional forehead. She is so caring.

Mr Pond continued with his abrupt questioning. 'But

that's not all, is it?'

Perdita looked up from smoothing down a rug and

met his impudent stare. 'Monsieur?'

'I've heard the sea sings to them.'

Perdita shook her head.

'And I've heard that people come from the sea and

dance with them.'

Perdita permitted herself a smile. The scoundrel!

'Am I wrong?'

Perdita gestured at the slumbering invalids. 'As you

can see, monsieur, there is no singing, no dancing here...

My husband's patients are too ill to move and are not to be

disturbed.' She continued, her voice as firm and hard as

it could be. 'Perhaps you would care to go in, monsieur?

It is not long since your accident. I would hate for you to

fall ill.'

'Was that a threat?' the rogue said, as good as accusing

her.

She laughed off his rudeness. 'I am afraid I don't

understand.'

'I'm sure you don't,' said Mr Pond sourly.

'Please, monsieur, I entreat you to go in, for your health.

You have my guarantee that you will miss nothing...

There will be no dancing on this beach tonight.'

'Is that so?' Mr Pond became even more outrageous.

'But what if I were to ask you to dance?'

My wife quashed his impudence simply and firmly. 'I

do not dance.'

Mr Pond stood there for a moment, looking at the

patients, and at The Sea. It was a cold evening and the

canvas of the deckchairs started to flutter like the sails

of a ship. My wife held her ground, equally firmly, until

attendants arrived to fetch the patients in.

At that, Mr Pond turned to go.

My wife's voice halted him. 'You interest us, sir.'

'I'm sure I do,' said Mr Pond as he walked away.

When Perdita relayed this conversation to me, I was

chilled to the bone. There is something terrible about these

three people. I know it. What are they up to? I should

never, never have taken them in! But Kosov assures me

that they must be kept close. The Sea is very interested

in them.

I must find out more about them, I must. So I have

invited Dr Smith to dinner.

A Letter from Mr Nevil

St Christophe

5th December 1783

My Dear Octavius,

Greetings, etc., you old fraud. How dare you send

me here to this school for charlatans? Outrageous! As if

I don't pay enough for your quackery, you ship me off

here at vast expense and inconvenience to be practised

on by foreign fools who speak English indifferently and

balderdash fluently.

Do you know their idea of treating my poor old lungs?

To freeze the devils like a sorbet! Indeed, that's God's

honest truth - if I let them have their way, they'd plonk

me down on the seashore on a flimsy canvas chair with a

rug and a periodical. It is, need I remind you, December.

I would be inhaling ice! They call it fresh sea air, I call it

more work for the undertaker.

The society here is paltry and threadbare at best.

Accounts are given that a Russian prince is also staying

here, but he's retreated to his rooms. I must say, I do not

blame him.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, I must share common

rooms with the insane. St Christophe? St Bethlehem

Asylum more like - there is a gibbering lunatic in a most

remarkable necktie who can only run around prattling

that the mist is talking to him, they let young women

run around without check, and the food... oh the food is

disgusting.

The goggle-eyed fool with the necktie turned out to

not only be a medical man (no surprise, dear Octavius

- you are all fools), but also, to my everlasting shame, a

fellow Englishman. This Dr Smith had no sooner seen me

this morning than he insisted on sitting down at my table

and disturbing my cheese-pairing breakfast (some kind

of empty pastry - blooming thing was so light a strong

breeze would blow it away).

He sat opposite me, grinning like a simpleton,

evidently awaiting some kind of pleasantry. He looked as

nervous as a courting spinster.

'Well?' I demanded.

'Good morning,' the impudent man said with a

nervous lick of his lips. 'Have you, ah, by any chance been

down to the beach?'

'That entirely depends on what you mean,' I checked

him coldly. 'If you refer to any beach, ever, then I must

avow that I have visited several. If you mean the beach

outside this very window, then I must sadly answer in

the negative.'

'Good,' said the man.

'May I enquire why you ask me?' I kept my voice as

frosty as a chapel pew on Whitsun.

'I really don't think it's safe,' ventured Dr Smith.

'Is that your medical opinion?' I asked him. 'For I am

very much inclined to agree. I rather think that all this

fresh air is tommyrot. There's nothing wrong with my

lungs that can't be knocked out with a pint of porter and

a good old clay pipe.'

Dr Smith widened his eyes like all medical men

whenever anything other than stale bread and gruel is

suggested. 'Ah, um, I would rather... What I meant was

that I don't think the beach itself is safe...' he said. 'It is

not... I think it's very unusual.'

'Explain,' I commanded.

'It's kind of difficult... But there are... people

dancing...'

'Dancing?' I rolled my eyes. 'Some dreadful local

custom.'

'And there is a fog.' He sounded deadly serious for a

moment. 'It talks.' He looked green as he said it, as though

aware of the madness of his words even as they fell out

of his mouth.

'Talks?'

Dr Smith nodded glumly. 'I know how that sounds.'

'Sirrah, do you not think it may perchance be the

dancers who talk?'

'Nope, it's the mist.' His face was a picture of

wretchedness. If he was one of my constituents back at

home, I would gladly have had him horsewhipped on the

spot, but, as he was a fellow guest at this establishment,

I afforded him the courtesy of simply asking him to pass

me the jam. Reluctantly he did so.

A stony silence ensued as I attacked the pastry, which

was so brittle that it splintered everywhere.

'So, er... Listen,' Dr Smith resumed. 'I am certain that

something, is happening on that beach. Something very

wrong. Please, if you have not been down there - stay

away.'

I fixed him with a gimlet glare that has had hardened

poachers trembling. 'I will take that under advisement.

Good day to you, sir.'

He took the hint, stood up, and went off to ruin

someone else's day.

A few minutes later, the proprietor's wife hovered

over me. She's as plump and jolly as a barmaid, but not

bad looking in a severe Fraulein way.

'Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr Nevil?' she asked,

and didn't even wait for my damning reply. 'If you

have settled in, may I suggest you begin your fresh air

treatment? There is a lovely seat waiting for you on the

beach...'

I held up a firm hand. 'Not today, Madam. I do not

care for it.'

Fingers as soft as a peach landed on my sleeve.

'Perhaps, Mr Nevil, you would care to try it just for a

moment...'

'Madam,' I snapped, 'the only thing I would care for is

a proper meal. Can you provide one? If not, I recommend

you shepherd the rest of your flock down to your precious

beach. I shall remain here and dream of bacon and eggs.'

She eventually scurried away, and I finally had some

peace for the rest of the day. I have used it to call for a pen

and paper and to write this missive to you. I am called in

for dinner now, and I fear it will be as odious a meal as

can be imagined.

So far, Octavius, consider yourself warned - this place

does not live up to expectations and merely appears a

dull fraud. I bid you good evening.

Your faithful servant,

Henry Nevil

Dr Bloom's Journal

5th December 1783

Charm! Charm! Charm!

Put on a good face and soothe the opposition! That's

always been my motto. So the easiest thing to do was to

invite the wretched Dr Smith for dinner.

I met him at the door, all wreathed in smiles. 'Come in,

Dr Smith, sit down, sit down!'

'Dr Bloom.'

'Dr Smith.'

We bowed, courteous. I'd arranged my private dining

room very nicely. A merry little fire crackled away, and a

tree tapping away at the window was the only indication

of the storm raging outside. Dr Smith paused, about to

take his seat, and then curtsied elaborately to Maria who

was scampering around our feet.

'Good evening, Mademoiselle.'

Maria giggled.

Nervous, I patted down my best wig (there is

something about the curls on it that never quite sits right,

damn it). 'Ah, Maria is... well, she's very much our pet.' I

tried laughing, but it didn't sound funny. How to explain

the child to him?

Dr Smith raised an eyebrow. 'A pet?' He turned to

Maria, dropping his voice. 'You don't look like a pet to

me, Maria.'

'I like puppies,' said Maria, proudly. 'I have two in

Paris.'

'Her mother has left poor Maria with us,' I explained

hurriedly. 'For the winter. For her health.'

Maria nodded solemnly. 'Mother is all better now.'

'I see,' said Dr Smith. He looked at me sharply.

I nodded, swelling with pride. 'Indeed. That surprises

you doesn't it, my dear sir, but it is true. A complete

recovery. A cure for consumption! But shall we eat?

Maria, my dear, if you'd care to...?'

Maria bobbed slightly and went to a sideboard to fetch

plates.

Dr Smith turned to me, curious.

'Oh, Maria likes to wait on us,' I said hastily. 'It's like

a game for her, and the Dear Lord knows there are few

enough games for her here.'

Maria continued laying the table, banging down heavy

plates and cutlery with enthusiasm, if not neatness. She

trotted backwards and forwards, humming some silly

little tune. 'It's like arranging a tea party for my dolls,

monsieur,' she explained, staggering under a soup tureen,

'although a little heavier.'

Dr Smith rushed to help her, settling the soup on the

table with a loud crash and a spill. Maria stifled a laugh,

damn the child. Honestly, she was making such an effort

out of the whole thing. But Dr Smith didn't seem to

mind - I wonder if he deals a lot with children back in

England? Or, having met Mr and Mrs Pond, maybe he

just specialises in the simple-minded?

'This is very nicely done, Maria,' whispered Dr Smith,

stooping slightly.

Maria stood up on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:

'Don't worry, monsieur, I do not do the cooking as well.'

Dr Smith looked genuinely disappointed. 'Oh that's

a shame. What would you cook for us? I've a friend who

likes fish custard. Have you ever tried that?'

Maria shook her head solemnly, but pulled a face.

Truly, Dr Smith had just confirmed all the terrible things

one hears about English food!

'No, no, I guess it's not to everyone's taste,' admitted

Dr Smith. He looked like he could prattle on for hours.

Enough of this. Frankly, it had been a long day and I

was hungry. I stepped up to the table, rubbing my hands

together. 'My, my, what a spread,' I said. 'My dear wife

will not be joining us, alas. Mildly indisposed.'

'Perhaps some other time?'

'Oh indeed.' I turned to Maria, dismissing her: 'Well

done my dear. Now, if you hurry off to your room, I'll have

a nurse come and read to you. Would you like that?'

Maria nodded solemnly, then turned to Dr Smith and

shook her head slightly.

Dr Smith winked back at her. Confound him!

After she'd gone, it was just two medical men together,

enjoying a pleasant evening's company. How remarkable,

I thought. It's been so long since I have sat down with a

fellow student of Hippocrates. A chance to really show

off my quite remarkable work. I decided to tell him

everything. Where could the harm be?

Instead, the foolish man just wanted to talk about that

dratted Maria! 'She's a very bright child.' He smiled at

me. Waiting.

I just nodded. 'Indeed, she doesn't miss a thing. I fear

we are very dull company for her. But, sadly, we must

wait... wait for her to be called home.'

'How is she?' asked Dr Smith.

I shrugged. So he was curious, was he? Well, let him

remain so! 'She is passing well, sir, passing well. It's always

so hard to tell in these infant cases.' I helped myself to the

wine jug and turned to business. 'But tell me, Dr Smith,

and speak freely - what do you think of my clinic?'

'Ahhhh...' Dr Smith sipped his wine carefully. 'Har.

Well...'

I scented disapproval. He was going to be as sceptical

as one of those Swiss dullards. 'You do not approve?'

'No, no,' Dr Smith said hurriedly. 'Consumption is

a terrible disease. Considering what you are up against

this place is a triumph.' He faltered, as though stuck for

something to say, and then beamed. 'And ever so well

meaning.'

I paused, a loaded fork halfway to my mouth. The man

was a fool. But even a fool must be encouraged. I smiled

at him. 'Goon...?'

'Yes,' said Dr Smith, a little lost.

I watched him, as he chewed on his steak (I found

mine a little tough, the sauce a touch strong), swallowed

and then sighed regretfully. I figured he needed a little

prompting. Perhaps the knock on his head was still

affecting him. 'Tiens, tiens,' I said, allowing myself the

tiniest of belches, which Dr Smith did not even seem to

notice. 'It is true, there is little we can do for most of the

people here. So little indeed. The diseases of the lungs,

the constitution, the kidneys, the dreadful cankerous

wasting... there is so little we can offer them... and yet,

and yet...' I gestured around me. 'I have decided to try

and do something. This humble place has effected some

marvellous cures. Some real miracles.' I rubbed my hands

together and helped myself to more carrots while I let the

words sink in. 'Genuinely remarkable.'

'Indeed,' said Dr Smith, and appeared to be distracted

by the willow pattern on his plate.

He coughed, and then he started to talk. The stuff he

said! I shall try and write it down... it was like a summary

of our time, but seen from afar. He spoke of how the

Eighteenth Century was a peculiarly lethal place. Of how

if you and your mother both managed to make it through

childbirth alive, and you then beat the odds to make it

out of childhood, you could drop dead from hundreds

of nasty things... all manner of common complaints

that would be cured in days to come with a handful of

pills. He spoke of how few people in our wretched times

died of old age. He said ours was a grimly filthy period,

not helped by the fact that people had started drinking

water in large amounts without learning how to purify it

properly. How much happier, he said, we'd all have been

a hundred years before. Or, indeed, a hundred years later.

He shook his head all of a sudden, and stared at me.

'I'm so sorry,' he said, and coughed again. 'Miles

away. Years away.'

'Not at all, not at all,' I said, waving it away as though it

was a nothing. But suddenly... suddenly I had a dreadful

cold feeling. I observed him from over the potatoes and

thought about his words. The icy worry wouldn't go. I

could see again what made Kosov say our strange friends

down on the beach were so interested in him.

He had his back to the French windows, of course. I

had arranged it most carefully. So he hadn't an inkling of

what stood out there. It was listening to his every word. It

was watching him.

'Tell me,' he said, coughing again, 'what really goes on

down at the beach?'

I stifled a gasp. It was as though he was reading my

mind, as though he knew what was outside... But how

could he? I searched his face. He just stared at me. Wide-

eyed and innocent as a young whelp.

'The beach?' My mouth was dry. I swigged down some

wine, and it dribbled everywhere, going down my chin.

Stop this now, Bloom, you are letting him see how rattled

you are. His gaze carried on boring into me. Unblinking

- I suddenly realised it was more like a snake fixing on

its prey.

'Yes,' he repeated. 'The beach. It's quite remarkable.

All those patients sitting out there.'

'You've seen them...?' I swallowed. The fellow's

directness alarmed me. Both he and Mr Pond had

returned to the beach - this was worrying. How much

did they know?

'Yes,' he nodded and his smile widened. 'I wandered

down there today. Really very interesting indeed.'

'A simple fresh air cure.'

'I would hardly call it that.' How much had he seen?

A noise. A light tapping. Anyone else would have

thought it a branch lightly brushing against the window.

But I knew it wasn't. I knew what it was. I looked up

through the glass. With a signal I could end this. I could

invite the creature inside. It would make short work of

Dr Smith.

Should I? Is that really what I had become? I licked my

lips and tried to make up my mind.

I was saved by the door opening, and my wife

sweeping in. She looked the picture of health, so beautiful,

so kind, so caring. I sprang to my feet. 'My dear, are you

all right?'

In the candlelight, my wife shone with a fragile beauty,

like a paper lantern. Her hair was tied up in tight ringlets

which framed her face with wonderful curls. She smiled

thinly, and bowed elegantly to Dr Smith.

Dr Smith whistled. 'Someone is batting out of their

league,' he murmured.

'What?' I asked.

Dr Smith looked embarrassed. 'Madam, I am delighted

you are recovered enough to join us.'

'Thank you.' My dear wife shook Dr Smith's hand,

tightly and politely. 'Good evening, monsieur, I am

delighted my husband has the company of another of

his profession.' She held up a hand, stilling my anxious

entreaties for her to retire to bed. 'No, please don't look at

me like that - it's just a headache, that's all. I have enough

trouble putting up with dear Johann's constant attention

when I so much as sneeze!' She smiled at me fondly, bless

her. 'Now then, may I bring out some cheese for you

both? I may even add to the fire.' She waved away both

our offers of help. 'Servants are thin on the ground here,

Dr Smith. We scrape along quite well by ourselves in

winter. Everyone is very tolerant of our housekeeping...'

She paused.

Dr Smith helped her heap some logs around the

glowing coals. 'Apart from poor Mr Nevil?' he asked with

a laugh.

Perdita straightened, dusting her hands before settling

them on her hips. 'Quite! How on earth do you practise

medicine in England, if all your patients moan so?'

Dr Smith looked at her, and then his face fell. 'I'm

terribly sorry,' he admitted sadly. 'You know what? I just

can't remember my medical practice at all.'

She nodded, sympathetically and motioned him to the

cheese. Dr Smith plucked some grapes, spitting out seeds

into the fire without a care for his company.

He kept trying to return to the subject of the beach, but

my dear Perdita waved each enquiry away effortlessly.

Her every word was a kind paean to my achievements,

to the wonders of the area, to the crystal purity of the air,

the wonderful weather, to her genuine pleasure in seeing

a hopeless case go home cured for ever.

Eventually, after coffee (not much improved, sadly

- really must have another word with Cook), Dr Smith

stood and bowed to us both, thanking us for a pleasant

evening. Then he turned and stared out of the French

windows. There was not a sign that anything had ever

been there. He coughed again, bowed, and left.

After Dr Smith had retired for the night, dear Perdita

turned to me. 'Well,' she smiled. 'I don't believe he came

from The Sea, do you?' And we laughed.

What Dr Smith Thought

I am the Doctor.

I am in a room. The room is very large and very dark. In

the middle of the room is a small box that's even blacker.

With 'THIS WAY UP', 'HANDLE WITH CARE' and 'DO

NOT OPEN TILL CHRISTMAS' chalked on it.

It is not yet time to open the box.

The room has a window. Out of it I can see the

beach and everything that is happening on it. I can see

Maria. I know that she is important in a way she doesn't

understand. I can see that Dr Bloom thinks he is in control

of this clinic. But he is not. Is it his wife? Perdita Bloom,

who is so very pretty and wears such wonderful dresses.

What about the Elquitine sisters - especially the quiet one

who draws out complicated mathematical algorithms

over and over?

Who owns this place, really? What is actually on the

beach? What is wrong with Amy?

The difference between a really good chutney

and a really good jam recipe. That's a tricky one. Both

involve boiling fruit with sugar. Is it the ingredients or

the preparation? You could argue, very carefully, that

marmalade is a chutney. But you'd be on thin ice. Or

maybe that's sticky ground.

The box in the middle of the room is very black and

very small. It should not yet be opened.

Boiling down fine Seville oranges to make marmalade.

Oddly, it is about this period that marmalade was

invented - legend has it that Marie Antoinette was ill

one day and had requested a fine orange cake (she did

so like eating cake). Her cook stood stirring the mixture

of bubbling oranges and saying, 'Ma'am est malade' over

and over... she was so worried she quite ruined the cake,

but invented Marmalade. Well, so the story goes.

Something very bad is happening here. It's like this

whole clinic is a snow globe that's being shaken and

shaken and shaken.

Is this place a hospital? Just because people are getting

better does that mean they are being cured? Depends how

you look at it. Jam. Chutney. Chutney. Jam.

I know an old man called Michael Finnegan

He grew fat and then grew thin again

He had twelve lives

Then had to begin again

Poor old Michael Finnegan

Begin again.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Mother,

Good news! Today my new friend Amy was feeling

ever so much better, so please don't worry that I am

still feeling lonely. I went to see her after breakfast and

found her sat up in bed, a cunning look on her face that

reminded me of that housemaid who kept helping herself

to the teaspoons.

'Morning, kid,' she said, i was wondering if you

fancied joining me on a secret mission.'

She was up to something, I knew that. But I didn't

really mind, as Amy is great fun and wouldn't ever get

up to any harm.

'What kind of secret?' I asked, hoping this wouldn't be

like when Eloise tried to run away with that coachman.

Her eyes lit up excitedly. 'Well, it's like this,' she said,

beckoning me up onto the bed. 'Dr Smith — '

'I like him,' I said.

'So do I,' she agreed. 'Very much. He's handsome,

don't you think? Well, he wants to know if there are

any... secret patients. You know, VIPs hidden somewhere

around the building. Nothing naughty or dangerous. Just

people that Dr Bloom might not want us to know about.'

I considered. 'Not really,' I replied. 'I don't think

Dr Bloom would care that much what you knew. But

Madame Bloom... she'd be ever so cross if she found you

where you shouldn't be.' I paused. 'Or perhaps that's just

how she is with me.'

'So come on, tell me, Maria,' she said. 'Where aren't

you allowed to go?'

I looked down at the floor, considering. I knew I'd tell

her. I just didn't want to seem too eager. 'All right,' I said

at last. 'There are Prince Boris's rooms.'

Amy laughed delightedly. 'Prince Boris?' She clapped

her hands together.

'He's very handsome,' I sighed. 'And Russian.'

Amy ruffled my hair. 'A hot Russian with the cold

dead eyes of a killer? Bring it on!' She seemed excited.

I was doubtful. 'I don't think he's killed anyone. I

mean, he's probably killed ever so many peasants, but

they really don't count in Russia.'

'Um,' said Amy.

'But he's very nice. He has chocolate.'

Amy fell back against the pillow, smiling. 'Sounds like

my ideal man.'

Which is how I ended up wheeling Amy to meet Prince

Boris. I found a bath chair in one of the corridors and

pushed her quite easily. She said it reminded her of going

round a superb market with a trolley. What emporiums

they must have in England where one is wheeled around

in chairs! I would so like to visit an English Shop, Mother.

The superb markets of White Rose can't be as good as the

delicatessens of Paris, but apparently die Tescaux family

stock ever so many things.

The chair squeaked, which made us both giggle, and it

honestly wasn't that hard moving Amy around. She kept

protesting and apologising that 'her boys' were 'out and

about'. She pulled a face. 'Honestly, when you grow up

you'll learn you may as well try herding cats as keeping

men in one place,' she told me solemnly, which I vowed

to remember.

Prince Boris still has that quite nice set of rooms in the

west wing of the resort. Normally that dreadful Mr Kosov

is around and chases me away, or sometimes plays cards

with me, but there was no sign of him today, so I just

knocked at the door.

'Come in!' yelled Prince Boris. He was speaking French

and he does it ever so well.

Amy was immediately struck by Prince Boris. He's

ever so nice, isn't he, Mother? He was sitting up in

bed, reading, wrapped up in furs. Looking every inch

how a Russian Prince should look - handsome, noble,

his nightshirt beautifully made, and his long beard

wonderfully trimmed.

'You look like a yeti,' breathed Amy.

Prince Boris laughed. 'And you are?'

'Amelia Pond,' she said. 'Your Grace. Sorry if I don't

get up. Maria, curtsy for the nice Prince.'

I curtsied and Amy nodded, pleased. 'She does it very

well, doesn't she?'

Prince Boris bowed his head, solemnly. 'I am likewise

indisposed, I fear. Forgive me for not rising. I have been

stuck in this bed for weeks, I regret.' He sighed, tossing

his book to one side. 'You wouldn't think I used to be an

athlete, would you?'

'So what you in here for?' asked Amy. Scottish women,

were, I thought, a little direct.

'Laziness!' Prince Boris laughed again with his deep

and lovely laugh. 'Oh, I'm wasting away along with

everyone else!' There was the tiniest rattle which you

could just hear under his voice. 'My family don't care to

look at me like this, so they've packed me off here to be

out of the way. Which I am doing splendidly. It's quite a

relief really. No estates to look after, no serfs to deal with.

I'm reading ever so many clever books. But I do miss the

dancing and the hunting and...' he paused, gallantly, 'the

company of a pretty young lady, Mademoiselle.'

'Madame.' Amy was firm, wheeling herself a little

closer to the bed. 'I'm a married woman,' she said softly.

'Aren't they all?' Prince Boris laughed, again with that

slight echo in his chest. 'I've no doubt you are, my dear.

So what is your story? What are you doing among the

dead?'

She tipped her head to one side. 'Our carriage came

off the road nearby, and I'm still a bit the worse for wear.'

She winced. 'A bump on the head, but I should be up and

about in a day or so.'

'Oh.' Prince Boris has very nice manners. 'How sad

that I shall not long have the delight of your company. I

should have adored taking you horse riding.'

'You can still ride horses?'

Boris nodded. 'Maybe, soon. My manservant Kosov

taught me to ride when I was a boy. Been with me ever

since. Even followed me to this lacklustre place. He says

there's actually some improvement in my condition, can

you believe it? Put it down to the fresh sea air! How he

can tell, I don't know. Bless the fellow, he watches over

me while I sleep. I should be touched by his loyalty. But it

is rather like having a faithful hound.'

'One that does the ironing,' muttered Amy.

Prince Boris noticed I was getting a bit bored of all this.

'Ah, and what do you think of our very own pet here, the

adorable Maria?'

Amy looked at me, smiling like she'd stolen sweets.

'She's a treasure. If I were her mother, I wouldn't leave

her alone.' I am sorry Mother, but that is what she said! I

think you are CRUEL for leaving me here!

'Indeed,' agreed Boris (see, even ROYALTY agrees!).

'But she's here for her health, aren't you, my dear?'

'I'm feeling much better, thank you, Your Highness,' I

muttered dully.

'Now, now, none of that. Especially not in front of

Madame Pond. You'll call me Boris. Now, what can we

do to amuse you?' He cracked such a lovely smile.

Which is how we ended up having a chariot race. Amy

objected, but Boris had soon settled her on his bed while

he and I faced up to each other in wheelchairs.

'I can't believe you're doing this,' protested Amy.

'Nonsense,' laughed Boris. 'A little light exercise will

do me the power of good.' He tested his grip on the

wheels. 'Capital,' he announced.

'Don't let me win, Boris,' I warned him.

He looked at me solemnly. 'My dear, I am a Romanov.

We were brought up never to let anyone else win

anything.' He turned back to Amy, bouncing his chair

off the ground. 'Come now, will you start the race like

Queen Guinevere by dropping a handkerchief? Permit

me to fetch you one.'

A minute later one of Prince Boris's embroidered silk

handkerchiefs fluttered to the floor and we were off, round

the room and down the corridor. To be truthful, it was

harder work than I had thought, my hands stiff against

the squeaking wheels and the chair itself so heavy.

Prince Boris had a clear lead and was laughing loudly,

a laugh that simply spurred me to try harder and faster.

The wheels rattled against the hard floor and I spun them

faster and faster, catching up to his chair. As I started to

overtake, he gave an enormous hearty roar of outrage and

grabbed his wheel, twisting it so that his chair brushed

against mine. 'I do not play fair!' he hissed, his eyes

FLASHING.

I could hear Amy yelling foul, but I pushed on ahead

and streaked off around the corner.

I had travelled a hundred yards before I realised that

something was wrong.

Oh Mother! Will they forgive me for KILLING him?

What Amy Remembered

Prince Boris toppled out of the bath chair, taking it with

him. The ridiculous, funny bear of a man crashed to the

floor with a rattling groan. He was gasping for air like a

drowning fish, one leg kicking out over and over again.

I ran to him, as best as I could, and stroked his vast

mane of hair. He held his breath suddenly, like he was

trying to ward off hiccups, and then whispered urgently:

'Don't let the child see me like this.' Then a fit of coughing

racked him. The coughs were like a great engine misfiring,

tearing him apart.

I stood up, trying not to panic, looking around for

Maria.

Instead, looming over me was a giant, all beetroot face

and red hair. He looked furious. 'What have you done?'

he roared, his Russian accent thick as stew.

'It was just a game,' I protested, my voice sounding

like I was a naughty 6-year-old.

The man scooped up Prince Boris with ease, carrying

him off to his room and slamming the door behind him.

The wheelchair sat in the corridor, one wheel spinning to

a halt. I gingerly set it right, leaning upon it. I could feel

my strength go and rested against a wall for support.

With a pathetic squeak-squeak-squeak, Maria's chair

slowly rounded the corner, her eyes wide as plates.

'Where's Prince Boris? What's happened?' she asked.

'He, uh...' I looked at the door and then back at her.

She looked at me, clearly worried. 'He's gone for a lie

down,' I said.

She looked at me, her lip starting to tremble. 'Am I in

any trouble?' she quailed.

I shook my head. 'No, no, no. He's just tired. What

about you? Do you fancy an afternoon nap, too?'

Maria stared at me, unblinking. 'You're a terrible liar,'

she said.

I was about to reply when the door to Boris's room

started to open. 'Run!' I hissed, and she did.

A giant steak of a hand landed on my shoulder. It was

that strange giant and he didn't seem any happier.

'I think you should come inside,' he growled.

A Letter from Mr Nevil

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Octavius, you old fraud,

This terrible place continues to grind me down most

intolerably. Run by a pinched goose of a fellow and his

hell-cat wife, the food is terrible, and the treatment is

laughable.

The rest of the patients are as addle-pated as one could

hope for - no doubt you are praying that I shall join them

in insanity.

Four of the wretches play music all the dashed day -

only it's a mere three at the moment as one has become

mercifully indisposed. It is wretched German vulgarian

stuff, but then the main players are two dried-up old

spinsters from the Danube, the Elquitines.

The fat one speaks passable English and seems quite

intelligent, but the thin one simply scowls and writes

sheet after sheet of numbers - no doubt laundry lists.

Of course, those two new English guests can't leave

them alone. It is Mr Pond who insulted the thin one. He

picked up one of her sheets of paper, which scandalised

her.

'I am sorry,' he said, apologising too late. 'But really,

these are extraordinary. This is amazing work.'

His colleague, the one who calls himself a doctor

(but clearly isn't) nodded. 'I was wondering when you'd

notice.' He smiled a big fat smile - it's the look I've seen

on many a poacher returning home with a rucksack full

of my rabbits.

'These... these are.

This Dr Smith nodded again, leaning forward and

returning the sheet of paper to a clearly very distressed

Elquitine sister. 'Helena,' he said, 'you are amazing. Years

ahead of your time... this is extraordinary stuff.

'It looks like machine code...' muttered Mr Pond,

talking gibberish.

'Well, exactly,' agreed Dr Smith. 'It's a logic gate. You

sexy thing, Helena. Why, with work like this.

Olivia, the fat one, cleared her throat and then

addressed this impertinence severely. 'If, gentlemen, you

are addressing my sister, then I must point out that she

does not speak. My sister has always been brilliant with

mathematics. But she had to give up her studies when

this disease claimed me. Then she fell ill herself, no doubt

catching this dreadful disease while nursing me. Now she

can only manage to work a few hours a day. I feel I have

ruined her life.' She glowered at them dourly - she's quite

spirited for a filly. 'So instead we play music. Which has a

magic all of its own, I am sure you'll agree.'

She bowed to Dr Smith, collected her sister, and they

retired to their room. We stood to bid them farewell. Once

they were out of earshot, I gave those two stupid men

a piece of my mind. Such rudeness to ladies! What can

foreigners think of we English? Sadly, I think I shouted

so much that I have done myself a mischief. My breath

has been short and ragged ever since, and most certainly

I now appear to be very ill.

Some cure this is proving to be! Some cure, indeed!

Your faithful servant,

Henry Nevil

Dr Bloom's Journal

6th December 1783

Amateurs!

'I'm so sorry to disturb you in your study,' bellowed

Mr Pond, sweeping a hand nervously through his hair,

'but I think poor Mr Nevil is having a funny turn.'

I glared at him. This was all I needed.

I made my way to the restaurant, Mr Pond trailing

behind me like a nervous insect. Apparently, he'd been

sitting with Dr Smith trying to have a quiet tisane when

Mr Nevil had thundered up to them, no doubt having one

of his outbursts about... well, anything and everything.

According to Mr Pond, he'd been pounding the table

about some imagined insult or other when he'd turned

purple.

I could see Dr Smith tugging at the floundering man's

shirt. Nevil's ridiculous wig had come off, and his giant

shining bald pate was as purple as his face. There was

froth around his mouth, but that didn't stop him from

swearing as soon as he saw me.

I tried to ignore the abuse, and checked his pulse and

temperature.

Dr Smith muttered something about blood pressure. It

seemed Mr Nevil had nearly bitten off one of Dr Smith's

fingers while he'd been stopping him from swallowing

his livid tongue. It hadn't been a pretty sight.

'Damn you, sir, damn you!' screamed Nevil hoarsely,

frothing at the mouth. 'I came here for a cure and you

have nearly finished me off! What's happening to me?'

'Calm down, dear sir.' I tried out my professionally

soothing voice. 'Deep breaths; as deep as you can manage.

You've not been following the treatment plan.'

'Plan, pah! Sitting on the beach catching my death of

cold. We have quite enough bad weather in England not

to expose myself to it abroad.'

'I can assure you, the results are remarkable. You need

to trust me.'

'Trust a foreign quack with my health? I'd rather trust

Tom Long the Butcher's Boy.' Nevil spat with disgust. I

cast a professional glance at the spittle to see if there was

much blood flecked in it. Little enough, so that was all

right, at least.

We laid Nevil out on a bench, and he gradually got his

breath back. He used it to call for brandy, but I waved this

away. Then I looked at him sternly.

'Mr Nevil, my patience is exhausted. I beseech you

one final time to take my treatment and go and sit with

my other guests.'

'Of course I shan't!' he protested, settling his wig again

on his head and sucking in breath like a broken bellows.

'It's mere choleric, that's all.'

I shook my head. 'It is not bad temper, sir, and you

know it. I'm sorry, but the truth must be faced. You are a

very ill man.'

'I demand a second opinion!' he roared.

Dr Smith coughed delicately. I tried not to glower

at him, but managed quite a nice professional smile, all

things considered. 'Dr Smith?' I asked.

'I'm happy to offer a second opinion,' he ventured. I

should, perhaps have clouted him over the head for that,

but I merely nodded.

'I should be interested to hear it, my dear sir.' I forced

a grimace.

Dr Smith paused, waiting until he had all of Nevil's

attention. 'I am afraid, Mr Nevil, that I can only agree

with Dr Bloom. You are very seriously ill.'

Nevil deflated, sinking back onto the bench. 'I see, I

see,' he gasped, his eyes rolling madly.

I nodded gratefully at Dr Smith, and then continued,

gently. 'As I was saying, enough is enough. If you won't

try the fresh air cure, then I shall simply make alternative

arrangements. Please come to my study at eight o'clock

tonight. If you do not attend, then I shall reluctantly ask

you to leave my establishment. Is that clear?'

I did not wait for a response, I simply turned on my

heel and left. These English! They are truly awful!

Perdita was her normal supportive self when I told her

what had happened. 'You did exactly the right thing,

Johann,' she enthused. 'These rude men respect only

rough handling.'

I nodded. 'I know, I know, but it does rather lack our

normal subtlety.'

She cupped a hand to my face. 'But he'll be delighted

with the results. Mr Nevil is a very important man back

in England. Hell spread the word of your marvellous

work, and then more important people will come here.'

She smiled, tapping me fondly on the nose. 'And you will

cure them all, my brilliant husband.'

I took her hand in mine and smiled up at her endlessly

lovely eyes.

'Yes,' I agreed. 'I will cure them all.'

It took a lot of arranging, but everything was prepared

by eight.

Nevil marched into my study without knocking. He

immediately saw the open French windows. 'Dashed

freezing in here,' he complained. 'That Smith fellow tried

to tag along. He didn't want me to come alone, blast him.

Dashed fellow probably just saw a chance to send me

a bill! I will not be mollycoddled. Do something about

that perishing draught, though, will you?' He jerked a fat

thumb at the open door, swinging in the evening breeze.

I demurred. I was keenly anticipating what was about

to happen. 'I'm afraid it's necessary.'

'Blazes it is,' he thundered like a cross toad. 'It's like

my nanny, she was always making me sleep at night with

the window open. Nearly killed me as a child and I've

never stood for the cold since. Nor do I fancy wasting my

time shivering under a blanket on your blessed beach.

Let's go to it - you promised me hope, and all I've had so

far is thin soup and cheap cuts of meat.'

I bowed and drew back the curtain further, exposing

the open door, the terrace, and the thing beyond it. The

thing that had sat there, waiting for him.

Mr Nevil stared in horror as the thing drifted and

crawled into the room.

'What... what is that?' he screamed.

'That, sir,' I said calmly. "That is your cure.'

The creature engulfed him.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Mother,

The most horrible, terrible thing has happened!

PLEASE come and get me! Oh, please do.

I had been looking for Monsieur Pond or Dr Smith to

let them know where Amy was, and there was Monsieur

Pond, standing on the veranda outside Dr Bloom's study.

He was admiring the flowers.

'Ah, Maria, hello, your dress is very pretty,' he said,

handing me a flower. He was dressed very smartly, I

noticed.

'Why thank you,' I said, thinking him ever so nice.

'What are you doing out here?'

'Taking a stroll,' he answered after a pause. 'Yes, taking

a perfectly innocent stroll. Does that sound reasonable?

It's really quite true.'

I shook my head, smiling. 'And monsieur, what are

you really doing?'

He stuck his hands in his pockets. 'I am waiting to see

what happens. Softly, softly, catehee monkee. It can be

our little secret.' He stopped, and stuck his tongue out as

though he'd just said something silly. 'Now then,' he said,

his face stern. 'I heard a noise and some rustling in those

bushes. Was that you?'

I shook my head again.

'Oh dear,' he said. 'Well, far too big to be a rat. So...

what is it? And where has it gone?'

I was about to pluck up the courage to tell him about

his wife and Prince Boris when there came a sudden cry

from inside Dr Bloom's study. I felt Monsieur Pond's

hand fall onto my arm, but I was already running into the

study, desperate to stop any harm...

I fell through the French windows, and skidded to a

halt... What I saw was... Oh, Mother, I can't describe it,

but I know I've seen it before. It was just dreadful, and

it seemed to fill the entire room, and I screamed and

screamed until Monsieur Pond came in.

It took him only seconds, but by then everything was

normal. Monsieur Nevil was sitting on a chair, breathing

heavily, Dr Bloom was standing by the fire, looking cross,

and there was I, wilting under his thunderous gaze.

'What happened?' asked Monsieur Pond.

Dr Bloom managed a hearty laugh, and threw a hasty

arm around my shoulder. 'The poor child has had a fright

that's all.'

'It was in here! It was dreadful!' I protested, bursting

into tears. Oh, shameful behaviour, Mother, but I couldn't

help it.

Monsieur Pond sank to his knees, staring me straight

in the eye. His voice was urgent, but quite gentle. Now

then, Maria, what was here? What did you see?'

'I can't say!' I cried, bursting into tears. I really,

REALLY couldn't.

Monsieur Pond looked around the room at the two

men. 'Did you see? What was here? We both heard a cry

Monsieur Nevil, puffing and wheezing, just shook his

head.

I could tell Dr Bloom was furiously cross, so cross I

became even more frightened and started crying again.

I looked up at Monsieur Pond, desperate to tell him

what I'd really seen, but I just couldn't.

Instead, he looked at me, so quiet and so kind. He

sniffed the air. 'It smells funny in here,' he announced.

Then he muttered, 'Warp transfer coil', almost to himself.

Horrible Madame Bloom appeared as if by magic, and

took me back to my room, dragging me by my arm like a

cheap governess. She washed the tears off my face with a

flannel, scrubbing hard until it felt like she was tearing off

my skin. 'Now then, Maria,' her voice was like stone, 'We

do not like tell-tales and fibbers, do we?'

'But I saw it! I saw it!' I protested.

She reapplied the FREEZING flannel vigorously.

'What did you see, child? There was nothing to see!'

I stood, looking at her defiantly. I did not say anything.

I just glared, using the look you employ whenever the

dressmaker presents his bill.

Madame Bloom placed her hands on her hips. 'Very

well, Maria. I can see there is no reasoning with you.' She

sighed, as if she was hard-done-by and exasperated. I

have never liked her, not since she refused to let me come

home with you.

'Oh, my poor child,' she said. 'What are we going to

do with you?' She pursed up her mouth and for an instant

she looked truly sad.

'Let me go home!' I cried. 'Please, let me go home. I

want my mother!'

Madame Bloom shook her head, smiling as she patted

her hair into place. She checked her appearance in the

mirror, and then smirked at me. It wasn't a nice smirk.

'No, Maria. I don't think so.'

With that she walked away, locking the door behind

her. Oh, Mother, she will NEVER let me come home! I

will NEVER see you, or the puppies. (Shall we call them

Louis and Antoinette?)

I cried for a while, and then I started to fall asleep,

staring miserably at the pillow. There was a quiet tap on

the window. Who do you think was there? Why, it was

Dr Smith!

'Hello, Maria!' he said, casually.

'But monsieur! However did you get up there? The

ledge is very narrow and the ground is really such a long

way away.'

He pulled a face. 'I'm suddenly very aware of that. You

couldn't perhaps be an angel and let me in, could you?'

I ran to the window, and slid the casement up. He

dropped in, landing on the carpet.

"Thank you,' he said, brushing stone dust from his

knees.

'Did you climb up looking for me?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'That would be most improper.

No, I was trying to find my patient. Amy. Have you seen

her?'

The guilt showed on my face. I clapped my hands to

my blushing cheeks. 'Monsieur Doctor, I am ever so sorry.

I totally forgot! I tried to tell Monsieur Pond, but I got

distracted. It was all ever so complicated. You see, I saw

something terrible downstairs... I cannot say what, but

they were doing something horrid to Monsieur Nevil.'

'What were they doing to him?'

'I cannot say,' I said, desperately. 'But please,

monsieur, this is MOST important. I am trying to tell you

about Amy. We were visiting the Prince in the Tower and

I think the ogre captured him.'

'Ogre?' He blinked. 'Could you just repeat that a bit

more slowly?'

I explained as best as I could about Prince Boris and his

dreadful manservant Kosov and the chariot race. Twice.

Eventually Dr Smith stood up.

'Thank you, Maria. You've been very brave.'

I flushed with pride.

'But... I really think... you're in a lot of danger. More

danger than a young girl should be in, no matter how

brave she is.'

'It's all right, monsieur,' I said. Dr Smith made me

feel all warm inside. He really is ever so kind. 'It really is

going to be all right.'

He shook his head again. 'No, no it is not all right.' He

stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Amy is missing, there's a

secret patient under guard, the patients are being attacked,

you can't go home, and there's something wrong about

that beach... No, the time has come to tell you something

very special.'

He looked at me very, very seriously.

'Right then. Maria. Please listen terribly carefully. If

you ever get into trouble, I want you to scream this word

at the top of your lungs. If I hear it, I will come running.

All right?'

I nodded solemnly.

'Right. In a minute, I've got to go and rescue Amy.

But first, promise me you'll stay safe.' He smiled, but he

wasn't happy. 'Maria, I am going to tell you my secret

name. It is very special. Can I trust you only to use it if

you're in trouble?'

'Cross my heart.'

And so, Mother, Dr Smith told me his secret name. I'd

love to tell you, but a promise is a promise.

Your ever loving

Maria

Dr Bloom's Journal

6th December 1783

Drat the child. Drat that Maria!

If her mother won't have her then... well, I don't see

why I should. I've put up with her behaviour for quite

long enough. But I won't stand for it. I just won't stand

for it any longer. That's absolutely it. I am putting my foot

down.

Perdita was very understanding. 'Of course you're

right, my dear husband. Something must be done about

Maria.'

'She nearly ruined everything with that fool Nevil,' I

said, feeling the need to explain myself.

'But it's all fine now,' she said, soothingly.

She poured me a cup of tea, and I sipped at it gratefully

My Perdita makes wonderful tea.

'Don't worry. You can't cure everyone. In which

case...' She smiled that beautiful, understanding smile of

hers. 'Well do something about the child tonight. We'll

take care of her together.'

I crossed over to the window. In the darkness outside

I could see Kosov walking down to the beach. 'Oh dear,' I

sighed. 'I wonder what hell tell them.'

Perdita clucked disapprovingly. 'I'm sure he'll just tell

them the truth. It will be fine, my love, just fine. They are

very understanding.'

She can always mollify me. But I am glad we're taking

care of that wretched girl.

What Amy Remembered

No doubt about it, we'd been locked in by Prince Boris's

servant. Which was a sackable offence, if you ask me.

Prince Dreamy was most apologetic, but far too calm

about it for my taste. When he'd stopped coughing, that

is. I offered him a glass of water, but he waved it away.

'Just... let... me... get... my... breath...' he pleaded.

While I waited I contemplated climbing out the

window. Turns out it was a very big drop. So no.

'I guess it's just you and me, your majesty,' I muttered.

'I don't suppose you've got Connect 4?'

I was taking this quite casually, almost as though I was

used to being locked up. I scratched away at my brain.

What was my life like? Why couldn't I remember?

'What's Connect 4?' asked Boris. Good point. Turns

out, that was another thing I couldn't remember. So I tried

Pond Distraction Tactic No. 3, and changed the subject.

'How are you feeling?'

Boris sat up slightly. 'The fit has passed. Kosov is a

saint, you know. If I hadn't have come here, if he wasn't

looking after me... well, they said I'd be dead within a

matter of months. The surgeons back at home had quite

given up on me. And they were terrified of me! Certainly,

I wouldn't have seen the spring. Instead, look at me!' He

beat his chest proudly, only spoiling the effect with a tiny

cough. 'It's amazing what a bit of fresh air will do, isn't

it?'

'Isn't it?' I said, oddly unconvinced. He was supposed

to be dying, wasn't he, and yet he was up and about after a

couple of minutes. Sleeping Beauty was right - something

was up with the Prince.

Boris had made us tea from a samovar before I'd

realised. He was more like his old self. 'Don't fuss, dear

Madame Pond,' he said. 'I'm quite better. The attacks are

getting less and less severe. You really shouldn't worry.

Some things are worth making an effort for, and one of

them is tea.' He passed me a beautifully elaborate cup and

saucer. 'Now, drink this and tell me all about yourself.'

He smiled. It was a really charming smile.

So, I told him. Or, at least, as much as I could possibly

remember. The more I said, the more scared I became as

I realised there was really very little I knew about myself.

I stopped.

The wind blew outside the window and the sea

crashed against the rocks. The distant trees danced in

the wind. It was like when you're little and there's one

of those storms and you're really praying that no one is

going to mention ghosts. We sat on Prince Boris's bed,

sipping hot, sweet tea and looking at each other. He was

terribly kind and he seemed to be listening attentively,

even if he was yawning ever so politely. There was an odd

expression in his eyes, as though, beneath all that merry

laziness, he was calculating away intently, like a beardy

computer.

I told him what I could about my boys and me - but

it all sounded like nonsense. I could remember so very

little. I knew we travelled a lot and that we did amazing

things. There was something else - something dark and

wrong that I couldn't quite remember. Oh, and I may also

have told him that I quite fancied Dr Smith. Which in the

1780s was probably punishable by stoning or corsets.

'Poor Amy,' he said when I had finished. 'That was

quite some bump on the head.'

I nodded. 'What's the matter with me?' I groaned.

Time passed. The wind blew, rattling the windows.

We talked and drank tea. No Connect 4, but Boris found

some draughts. Turns out draughts is a lot harder when

you've not played it since you were a kid, and he beat me

solidly. Several times.

'Oi,' I complained. 'You could let me win just the once.

It would be chivalrous.'

Boris roared with laughter. 'I have told you, I am a

Romanov and—'

'Yeah, yeah, you never let anyone win. Your wife must

be so miserable.'

He shrugged. 'Madam Pond! We are locked up

together! What care we of husbands and wives?'

I had a sudden worry - was I going to be found by my

husband being chased round a bed by an excited member

of the Russian Royal Family? Ah well, Ra Ra Rasputin...

But Boris's attention was elsewhere. He was checking

the time on an elaborately jewelled carriage clock by his

bedside. 'Where is Kosov?' he moaned. 'The man is late.'

'Does his majesty need his pillows plumping?' I asked.

Truth to tell, I wasn't eager to meet the grumpy giant

again.

Boris shook his head. 'No... no... it's not that...'

The storm crashed on. Something was wrong.

I looked out of the window. Through the rain-streaked

glass I could see... well, it looked like Maria, walking

down to the beach. I hammered on the window. But she

didn't hear me.

Boris hunted in the chest of drawers for cards. Then he

stopped, and sank back onto the bed.

'Are you all right?' I asked. He was a very funny colour.

By which I mean a very funny lack of colour.

'He doesn't normally leave me for so long...' Prince

Boris gasped. He shook his head, as though drowning.

'Get Kosov... I need Kosov...'

He was a shadow of his cheerful self. I helped him back

onto the pillows. 'I am so weak... please...' he muttered,

sinking. And then he stared at me, aghast. 'Who are you?'

he whispered. 'What are you doing in my room?'

Then the coughing started again.

I went and hammered on the door, called for a doctor,

for my husband, for Kosov.

But no one came.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Mother,

I know I promised not to go down to the beach again,

but I couldn't help it, really I couldn't. After everything

that has been going on, I just wanted to see what was

happening down there.

The Dead were sat there, muttering and humming.

The storm was raging around them, but they didn't seem

at all bothered by it. I felt my heart leap into my throat as

I crept up to them, but they didn't respond - they looked

like they were frozen, waiting. They scared me. I tiptoed

ever so gently away, and found Monsieur Pond.

'Hello, Maria,' he said softly and gently. 'How can I

help you?'

'You are hiding behind a rock,' I said.

'Well, yes,' Monsieur Pond agreed sheepishly. 'There's

room for one more.' He patted the cold sand next to him

invitingly.

So I hid next to him. 'Why are we hiding?' I asked.

'Can it be our secret?'

Suddenly, Mother, everyone is telling me their secrets!

I feel very proud. I told him, very seriously that he

could trust me. Why, Dr Smith had also told me a secret.

Monsieur Pond did not look pleased at that.

'What did he tell you?' he asked sourly.

'Oh, monsieur,' I laughed. 'I am not to be tricked that

easily!'

He said nothing. I stuck my tongue out at him.

He tried to ignore it, but eventually he smiled and

pointed down to the sea. 'Maria, I am hiding because

things are very wrong.'

'Right,' I said, very seriously. 'What have you seen,

monsieur?'

Monsieur Pond started to roll his eyes like that

schoolteacher we got rid of. 'Oh, Maria, Maria, I'm not

sure I can even start to tell you everything that's wrong.

Amy's ill, I'm not feeling myself at all, we're at a hospital

that's about a hundred years early, it's the depths of

winter and the patients are still sat on the beach in the

middle of a storm...' He paused. Just then he sounded

exactly like Dr Smith. Then his face fell. 'Oh, and there's a

really very tall man standing behind you.'

I turned and squeaked. Kosov was towering over us.

A comforting hand seized mine. Monsieur Pond's.

'Now, don't be afraid,' he whispered, squeezing gently.

He straightened, facing up to the giant. 'Good evening.

My name is Pond.'

Kosov grunted at him.

'Russian, eh?' Monsieur Pond smiled. 'Well, there we

go. Such fun.'

Kosov stepped closer. He grinned. It wasn't quite right

somehow.

'Warp transfer coil,' said Monsieur Pond and then

shook himself like a wet puppy. 'Sorry. I keep saying that,

no idea why. What I meant was there's something wrong

with your walk.'

Kosov paused.

'Well, when I say that, the posture's fine and all that.

It's just that you're hovering about half an inch off the

ground.'

I stared. Kosov, giant Kosov, was floating. Like a ghost.

I screamed.

Kosov looked down at his feet and then back at

Monsieur Pond.

'Made you look, ha-ha,' cried Monsieur Pond. His grip

on my hand tightened. 'Let's run!' he cried.

We ran. Oh Mother, it was thrilling. Well, except that

Kosov ran after us... or rather... flew. Like some ghost

or a nightmare or something terrible, always just at our

backs.

Somehow I felt utterly safe with Monsieur Pond. Very,

very scared, but also very, very safe.

We ran through the mist towards the sea, Kosov

seeming to run, or to glide behind us. We lost him for a

moment in the mist, and then, I don't know, I twisted my

foot, and lost my grip on Monsieur Pond's hand, and I

was alone in the mist. I turned, but the mist was so thick!

SO THICK!

I turned again, calling for Monsieur Pond. I could hear

him calling me, and then suddenly, there in front of me

was Kosov, his face like stone, making a grab for me.

I screamed and ran from him, falling back.

Suddenly I was in the sea, running into the waves.

'Maria!' I could hear Monsieur Pond shouting. 'Stay

out of the water! Stay out of the water!'

'But monsieur!' I cried back to him, splashing along. 'It

is very shallow! Where are you?'

He did not reply. I splashed on through the sea and

the mist, my heart hammering in my throat.

Something grabbed my foot. At first I just thought it

was the swell of the icy water.

Then it pulled, and I fell forward, face first into the

freezing waves.

The pull increased, dragging me back and down.

I choked on a mouthful of freezing salt water, the

waves breaking over my head and pushing me down. No,

SOMETHING ELSE was pulling me down.

My left arm was grabbed, wrenching me further

under. I could feel myself rushing through the water, feel

it flying past in a bubbling rush. I was fighting for air,

twisting over and over, down and down and down.

With a struggle, I broke the surface, wanting to scream

but just coughing and choking, the sea still burning my

throat and eyes. It all seemed so horribly familiar. Why

is that?

The mist had cleared. I could still see the shore. I wasn't

so very far away from land. I tried to fight towards it, but

something was still dragging me back. Back and down. I

couldn't move.

There on the shore, sat in their chairs, were the Dead.

Watching me drown.

I called out to them, over and over.

But they did not move. They just carried on singing.

I felt so cold. So cold and so frightened.

I wondered - was now the time to call on Dr Smith?

But how could Dr Smith help me? I got ready to scream

out his secret name, but the salt water was still burning

my throat and the words just WOULD NOT come out.

The mist pressed in around me, and the terrible

thing in the water wrapped itself around me tightly and

squeezed. As the breath rushed out of me, I was sucked

under. My eyes were popping as the waves spread over

my head...

Then a hand grabbed me. A warm, actual hand. And

it pulled.

'Let her go!' I heard a voice say.

I opened my eyes. Again, it was wonderful Monsieur

Pond. He was standing above me, his face stern as a statue,

his hand tight around my wrist, pulling and pulling.

Around us the sea churned like a boiling stew. I

could see things floating in it and a strange light dancing

through it. For an instant it was almost like the waves

drew back from us, and I could see all the way down to

the wet sand.

Then Monsieur Pond held me tightly, his necktie

tangling in my hair.

'I've got you, Maria,' he said. 'Come on.'

We waded through the thinning waves, reaching the

shore.

There was Kosov. He was standing in front of us, arms

folded.

'Hello again,' sighed Monsieur Pond.

Kosov nodded. 'You should have let The Sea have

her,' he said.

"That was never going to happen.' Monsieur Pond

sounded very firm.

Remember David and Goliath? Kosov looked so large,

so fierce, and Monsieur Pond looked so small and so

determined - like a tiny puppy facing up to a large wolf.

For an instant he stood his ground and I thought he was

going to stand and fight.

Then Kosov opened his mouth, and mist POURED out

of it.

'Ooh, that's bad,' gasped Monsieur Pond. He grabbed

my hand and we ran again.

We were nearly at the hotel, near the top of the cliffs.

We were both exhausted and panting, and soaked to

the skin, the ice water freezing on our clothes.

But still Monsieur Pond struggled on, dragging us up

and up the stony path. Behind us, I knew, was Kosov,

advancing like a golem.

The lights of the clinic looked so warm and friendly

and so far away.

Monsieur Pond pushed me forward. 'Go inside,

Maria,' he said. His face was sad and stern. 'Ill deal

with... well, whatever that is, I'll deal with it. Find Amy.

Keep running.'

I paused for a second, watching him turn around to

confront Kosov, who was gliding up the stiff mountain

path.

'Ah, good evening. Fancy meeting you...' And then

Kosov's arms wrapped around Monsieur Pond in a great

bear hug. Then he turned slightly, dangling Monsieur

Pond over the cliff edge.

'I am warning you,' gasped Monsieur Pond, legs

pedalling furiously at the air. 'I am an expert in ... argh!'

Casually, Kosov let him go. Monsieur Pond vanished

from sight. Kosov turned to me.

I screamed and ran, ran for the house.

Somehow, I made it to the door, running and crying.

I slammed the door behind me and rested my weight

against it, panting. The hallway was so dark I could see

Kosov's shadow shining through the frosted glass. I

wasn't even thinking about how I could possibly keep out

such a brute. I was simply scared.

A hand rested on my shoulder. Hooked up, gulping.

It was Madame Bloom, staring emptily down at me,

absently patting her hair in place with her free hand. Her

other tightened its grip on my shoulder. She smiled.

'Good evening, Maria, my love. We have been ever so

worried about you.'

A Letter Iron Mr Nevil

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Octavius, my dear fellow!

Well, stop the clocks and blow me down with a feather!

The cure is working. I have no idea how, but it's honestly

miraculous. I feel so much better. I can almost run up

stairs and (don't tell a soul here this) I can puff away on

my pipe without feeling like it may be the last thing I'll

ever do.

It's marvellous - I have only the haziest memories of

the cure starting to work, but I tell you - tomorrow I am

trotting down to the beach with the rest of them for more

Fresh Sea Air.

I pottered into the lounge and caught myself whistling

a jaunty little tune. The Glum Sisters were sat there

- Helena and Olivia Elquitine, sawing away at some

mournful ditty. They laid aside their instruments at my

approach. Helena immediately began scribbling her

wretched sums, while her busty sibling engaged me in

polite conversation.

'You seem much improved, Mr Nevil,' Olivia

ventured.

Thank you, madam, you are too kind. You seem pale

still.'

Oddly, I noticed myself flushing slightly when talking

with her. Most unaccountable.

She demurred. 'It has been a while since I have received

any treatment.'

'Ohhh,' I said, turning my face down. 'I had no idea

that your case was so sadly advanced. You have my

condolences, madam.' Bit of a facer, that. What do you

say to a filly when she tells you she's coffin-bound? I

regarded her, looking for signs of her imminent demise,

and instead noticed for the first time that Olivia Elquitine

was, well, a fine figure of a woman. Pale as porcelain.

Helena looked up from her scribbling and frowned,

her face more pinched than ever.

'My sister,' began Olivia, looking embarrassed.

'She still receives treatment. But for some reason... my

situation... I am afraid Dr Bloom hasn't selected me for

the cure.' She coughed, and, for the first time I heard the

tell-tale rattle. 'But he has been most kind.' She paused.

'Yes, most kind

I suddenly felt like a heel for gloating at my

improvement. I laid a hand on hers, gently. 'Oh my dear,'

I said, feeling a tenderness towards one worse off than

myself. 'I am so sorry to hear that.'

'Thank you,' Olivia said, and for a moment, I detected

more than simple politeness in her features. Odd woman.

By candlelight she no longer looked quite so monstrously

plump - instead she seemed rather pleasingly ample. I

became acutely aware I was still holding her hand, and

looked away, embarrassed.

We sat there in silence for a while, the only sound the

scratching of her sister's pen as she worked on her sums.

I shall keep you updated on any further progress in

my condition.

Your delighted servant,

Henry Nevil

What Amy Remembered

Prince Boris's door burst open. We were rescued!

'Did someone call for a doctor?' cried Dr Smith,

staggering in. 'Sorry I'm late, shoulder-charging a locked

door, actually a lot harder than it looks.' He winced, then

looked around the room, heroic and mad, and then his

eyes settled on me and lit up. 'Hello Amy! Oh, I am so

pleased to see you.' And he hugged me, right there and

then. 'Goodness me, you smell great.'

I could have kissed him. Actually I did, and then

pulled back slightly. 'Careful, cheeky!' I protested. 'I have

a husband.'

'Do you?' Dr Smith blinked, puzzled for a second. He

regarded me, staring right into my eyes until I felt a little

uncomfortable. 'Oh yes, I suppose you do.'

'So she keeps saying,' muttered Prince Boris from the

bed.

'Tell me about it,' Dr Smith yawned and made yap-

yap-yap gestures with his hand. 'He's a nice enough lad if

you like your orange squash very weak.' He made a face,

the rude boy, then turned to Boris. 'Hello! Who are you?'

Boris looked up and introduced himself.

'Great,' I thought. 'You boys can get to know each

other and then have heaps of fun mocking my taste in

men. Brilliant.'

I jabbed Dr Smith in the ribs, and indicated Prince

Boris.

'Can you do anything for him?' I asked. 'He's very

ill.'

'Is he now?' Dr Smith's tone was instantly fascinated.

He peered into one of Boris's pupils intensely. 'Hum.'

He paused. It was one of those Simon-Cowell-before-

a-result pauses.

He reached for something in his pocket, and used it to

depress Prince Boris's tongue. 'Say ahh.'

'Ahhh,' said Prince Boris, winking at me.

'Right then,' said Dr Smith. 'Odd.' He pulled the

thing out of Prince Boris's mouth, waving it around. 'Oh.

Blimey. This is not a spatula. What is it?'

I stared at the stubby thing. It looked like the world's

chunkiest novelty gift pen from Chessington World

of Adventures. I coughed. "That, Doctor, is the sonic

screwdriver.'

'Ah,' Dr Smith boggled. 'Right. Is it? Oh dear.' Another

pause. 'What does it do?'

'Well... it screws things... sonically. On a good day,

we fight off monsters with it.'

'Monsters, eh?' Dr Smith nodded gravely and peered

at it, as though seeing it for the first time. Then he pointed

it at the doorway like a gun and said, hopefully, 'Pew!

Pew! Pew!' He turned back to me. 'Like that?'

'Other way up,' I said, gently.

'Phoo.' Dr Smith plonked himself down next to me on

Prince Boris's bed. 'Luckily, don't need a sonic anything

to tell you the good news, Prince B. You are cured.'

'Very pleased to hear it, my dear sir.' Prince Boris

smiled charmingly.

Dr Smith's face fell. 'Poor Amy here can barely walk,

my brain is like scrambled egg, but oh ho, someone has

cured you of tuberculosis. Sorry, not called that for about

forty years. But your wasting disease is wasting away.

Quite remarkably you are getting better before my very

eyes. That's wrong.'

'Wrong, sir?' Prince Boris smiled, but then his eyes

shifted slightly.

'What is it?' I demanded. I know when a man is trying

to hide something.

'Don't ask me how... but if I am getting better...

it means that Kosov is coming.' Prince Boris looked

alarmed.

'Who?' Dr Smith asked.

'Large, scary, goes grr!' I explained.

'Oh, met him.' Dr Smith waved the idea of him away.

'But you say that him being near you makes you better?

Hmm...'

There was a sound from the doorway. Dr Bloom stood

there, with Kosov next to him. 'Good evening, Dr Smith,

Madame Pond. I see my door is broken,' purred Dr Bloom,

his voice as silky as expensive shampoo. 'Now then, we

don't want Prince Boris over-tiring, do we? Charming

company is so very taxing, isn't it? I'm afraid we must

ask you to let poor Prince Boris rest.'

'No need,' snapped Dr Smith. 'He is fine. Absolutely

fine! I stake my reputation on it. And guess what...

apparently his cure has got something to do with you,

Mr Kosov.' He bounded off the bed, and stood on tiptoe,

trying to glare eyeball to eyeball with him. He settled for

squinting at Kosov's chin. 'Why is that, Mr Kosov? Would

you care to explain?'

'No he wouldn't.' Dr Bloom shrugged. 'It's been a long

day, and I have plenty of work still to do, Dr Smith. Come

along, come along.' He ushered us to the door.

Prince Boris stood up, throwing off the covers. He

immediately dominated the room, in the way that only

a really posh person can. 'I think not, Dr Bloom,' he said.

'These people are under my personal protection.' He

seemed more awake than normal. 'What are you planning

to do with them?'

Dr Bloom sighed wearily. 'Kosov,' he commanded.

The giant manservant turned, ever so slightly, and

glanced at the Prince. Puppet. Strings cut. Prince Boris fell

back on the bed, blinking weakly.

Dr Bloom turned, sticking his hands in his pockets, and

stared at us. 'Dr Smith and Madame Pond. I don't think

either of you are very well. The time has come to find out

what exactly is wrong with you.' He pulled something

from his pocket, a rag that smelt of something really quite

remarkable. I can tell you this because he immediately

clapped it over my nose and mouth and it filled my brain

with a reek like freshly mown grass and wax floors and

cheap aftershave.

When I woke up, I was strapped to my wheelchair on the

beach. It was night.

I was not alone. A little distance away from me were

the empty deckchairs, flapping in the wind. The mist

rolled in and around me. I could hear a voice on the sea

air, like a song, chanting over and over again, not even

a word, just a sound. The mist spread around me, the

waves washed into the shore and out. It was freezing and

I was very scared.

I tried moving, or getting up, or anything, but the

more I struggled, the tighter the ropes holding me to

the chair seemed to get. I remembered my lovely little

old Dad trying to put up a deckchair on a family beach

holiday. It had gone awfully wrong, and Mum said he'd

been lucky not to lose a finger. It was that same feeling of

helplessness.

Amy Pond. Sat on a beach, surrounded by fog. Come

to think of it, fog that glowed, drifting in and out. And

still that high-pitched singing noise echoing off the rocks,

like the noise that opera singers make when they're

trying to break glass. It was so cold. I was so scared. And

I desperately wanted the Doctor to come and rescue me. I

thought about just how much I needed him right now.

A little way out to sea, in the green-tinged darkness, a

shape started to form. The shape of a man, walking out of

the waves towards me...

Dr Bloom's Journal

6th December 1783

Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear Me.

Well, what a day. Still, all's well that ends well!

In good news, very good news, Kosov informed me

that he had taken care of Mr Pond. We'd also made sure

that his wife was safely on the beach, which would mean

that we would shortly have everything we needed from

her. And then she would trouble us no more.

This just left Maria and Dr Smith.

Perdita had tied them both up in my study. She had

done her usual wonderful job of the knots and now

stood behind my chair, her hands resting lightly on my

shoulders. 'Tea, dear?' she asked, ever solicitous.

The little girl opened her eyes, looked around and

starting crying.

'Now then, Maria, my dear,' I counselled her, using

my best Dealing-Firmly-With-Children voice. 'Don't

worry. Don't worry. We've brought you in for a spot more

treatment. You remember the treatment, don't you?'

The girl nodded her head, but carried on staring at me,

sobbing and calling for her mother. My darling Perdita

was at her side in an instant, wiping away the tears with

a handkerchief and shushing her. 'There's nothing to be

worried about, child, nothing at all,' she said, soothing

her expertly.

Soon Maria was just sniffing and staring at me. 'What

are you going to do to me?' she asked miserably. Very

direct, that child. Well, not for much longer.

'Don't you worry about a thing. It'll be very quick and

then it'll all be better, I can assure you.'

She turned in her chair, twisting around so that she

could see Dr Smith, still dead to the world.

'Oh, he can't help you,' said my lovely wife firmly.

The ill-mannered little brat snapped at her, biting her on

the arm. My lovely Perdita darted back, slapping at the

wretch with her other hand. I ran to Perdita, pleased to

see that she hadn't broken the skin. I glared at Maria.

'We have tolerated you for long enough, girl. You

know that, don't you? Well, our indulgence comes to an

end right now.'

I snapped my fingers and the French windows were

flung open, the doors banging wide in the storm, wide

enough to let what had been waiting outside flow in.

Maria started to scream.

'Oh yes, you remember it well enough now, don't

you, my girl?' I snapped at her as it poured towards her.

'Believe me, it's as angry with you as I am. You have been

a very naughty girl. Disobeying orders, and being quite

uncontrollable. Well, we are bringing you to heel.'

The creature stopped before her chair and reared up

over her, making a noise that was quite disagreeable.

Maria made some tiny little child pleading noises,

but I haughtily ignored them. Dear Perdita squeezed my

shoulder. 'You are doing the right thing, my dear,' she

assured me. 'Harden your heart, it's for the best.' She

always knows exactly what to say.

'Goodbye, Maria,' I sneered, unable to resist the

triumph. 'I'm afraid that with your usefulness over, it's

time for absorption.'

The creature towered above her... Oh, how to describe

it at this moment? Somewhere between smoke and

pulsing green meat, as wet and cold as clay yet somehow

as vital as lava. It looked incongruous, squeezed into the

room between the settee and the fire. It looked wrong and

yet magnificent And it was about to solve the biggest

problems in my world.

It paused - seeming to sniff the air. To sense the

vastness it was about to sample. I remembered when

Kosov first told me about the three strangers - that one of

them contained great knowledge, great power. Something

that The Sea could really, really use. Kosov was ever so

excited. Now I was about to give The Sea what it really,

really wanted. It had Mr Pond. It had Mrs Pond. Now I

was going to give it Dr Smith.

The creature twitched. It was ready. I savoured

the moment, and then gave the command. It began to

descend.

Maria stopped snivelling, and stared up at it.

She spoke quietly and firmly. I was astonished.

'Dr Smith...' she began, sniffing bravely. 'Dr Smith told

me that if ever I was in trouble, and if ever I needed him,

really needed him, I was to use his secret name. He said

it was incredibly powerful and I could use it to defeat

you.'

'Go on, child,' I laughed. 'A name cannot help you.'

'Yes, yes it can,' she said, babbling excitedly. 'Because

Dr Smith is the most wonderful man in the whole world.

And his secret name is all I need.'

'Enough!' I cried. 'Absorb her!'

Maria, the vile little brat, stared up at the creature,

threw open her mouth and screamed like only a child can.

She yelled out one word...

'Rory!'

What Dr Smith Thought

I am the Doctor.

I am in a room. The room is very large and very dark. In

the middle of the room is a small box that's even blacker.

With 'THIS WAY UP', 'HANDLE WITH CARE' and 'DO

NOT OPEN TILL CHRISTMAS' chalked on it.

It is time to open the box. It is time to begin again.

I open the box.

Oh.

I am not the Doctor after all.

Begin again.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Mother,

It worked! I called out Dr Smith's secret name, and

he woke up, all startled like he'd sat on a pincushion. He

saw the THING that was hovering over me and squealed,

pressing himself back against his chair and howling. It

wasn't exactly the bravery I was hoping for, but I could

kind of see his point. Whatever it was, it looked dreadful

and smelt worse. And it was coming for us.

'Rory!' I yelled again. 'Your name is Rory!'

His head snapped round and he stared at me. 'What?'

he said. Then he licked his lips. 'Right. Right. Yeah...'

He blinked. 'That makes sense.' He nodded casually

and, somehow ignoring the giant monster, turned back

to Dr Bloom. 'Yes, that's it,' he said. 'My name is Rory

Williams.'

The Blooms looked at him.

'I... I'm sorry, but I don't understand,' said Dr Bloom.

He sounded different. Worried.

'Neither do I,' explained the man called Rory. 'But I'm

not the Doctor. You think you've won, but you haven't.

You've got the wrong man.' He laughed then, a laugh that

turned into a cough.

'What?' Dr Bloom cried. It was odd, Mother, it was

like everything in the room had changed without anyone

moving a muscle.

Dr Smith... well, Mr Rory Williams looked at Dr Bloom

and really, really smiled at him. It took quite the hero to

be tied to a chair and be winning. And Rory was my hero.

You remember that maid who broke things and denied it

so impudently? That was the same expression that Rory

wore, tied down firmly to the chair, but so triumphant.

'You've got the booby prize,' he taunted Dr Bloom.

'The Doctor is still out there somewhere and he's now got

his memory back. You've just got me tied to a chair. I'm

pretty worthless. Sorry.' He managed to shrug despite

being tied up, clearly a practised manoeuvre. 'Really. I

honestly don't know why I've been pretending to be

him, but I am definitely not him. I am plain, simple Rory

Williams from Leadworth. It's a lovely English village

with a post office and a duck pond,' he added, helpfully.

He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

His smirk faded as he noticed the creature again. He

narrowed his eyes. 'Sorry if I'm pointing out the obvious,

Dr Bloom, but you're a nasty piece of work. I mean, you've

got me tied up next to a little girl. And is that thing really

going to eat us?' He wrinkled his nose and turned to me.

'You know, I should be used to this kind of thing by now,

but I'm really not.' He seemed different, Mother. Less...

odd, less like a schoolteacher, more... friendly and fun and

somehow charming. He pointed at the towering creature

with his shoulder. He winked. 'Now then, Maria, don't

you worry about that thing, the Doctor will probably be

crashing through that door in a second.'

"The Doctor?' demanded Dr Bloom. 'Who is this heroic

Doctor you're going on about?'

'Ah,' said Rory, visibly growing. 'Bit taller than me,

bit weirder, goes crashing around, breaking things.

Always rescuing me at the last moment.' He coughed and

repeated loudly: 'At the last moment.' His eyes wandered

over to the door, and for a second he looked hopeful.

'Did he by any chance wear a bow tie?' I asked,

suddenly fearful.

'Yes,' he said. 'Looks silly, doesn't it? Why?'

'I think he may be dead,' I said.

'Quite right.' Dr Bloom laughed like a drunk uncle.

'Kosov threw him off a cliff.'

'Oh,' said Rory. He seemed crushed. The moment

of triumph had passed. I felt so sorry for him, but also

disappointed - I'd used the secret word and very little

seemed to have happened.

He went silent for a moment, then he looked up. There

was a different tone in his voice. Worried. Defensive.

Really angry. 'Where's Amy?'

Dr Bloom leaned back against his desk. 'She is down

on the beach,' he admitted eventually.

'Oh.' Rory thought about this. "That is not good,' he

said, really angry.

'Not good at all.' Dr Bloom nodded in agreement. 'So

you see, my dear sir, you've not won anything at all, have

you?'

What Amy Remembered

I sat in my chair on the beach, watching the figure come

striding out of the fog towards me. It was so cold, and I

could hear the distant singing from the sea.

The figure walked through the waves, each footstep

making a churning noise as it pushed against the

churning sea. The mist rolled across, hiding it from sight

for a second. The fog was all around, almost choking me.

I was breathing it and it felt thick - like cold soup. Cold

soup that glowed. I tried not to breathe it in, choking on

it. I realised that the fog itself was making the strange

whispering, singing noise - like it was calling my name.

Amy, Amy, Amy, Amy. .. over and over.

I couldn't see anything, not even my own feet - just

this cold green glow. I have never felt so alone. I missed...

my husband. I missed... the Doctor... I missed my boys

so much.

Something moved and shifted in my brain, like the

singing buzz along a railway line before a train turns

up. Something important was coming. Something was

clicking into place.

I was almost blind and alone and I could hear something

walking towards me... Slap! Slap! of wet footsteps on the

beach. In a panic, I grabbed at the bath chair, turning it

somehow, desperately tugging at the wheels and trying

to drag it into life, to get me away - but the wheels were

stuck in the sand. But the more I struggled, the looser I

could feel my bonds getting - perhaps, just perhaps, I

could get free if I tipped the chair.

I started to rock the chair backwards and forwards,

all the while hearing those footsteps, expecting an arm

to shoot out from the mist and grab me. But finally, with

a crash, I went down, head-over-heels, shooting out

of the chair like a brilliant failure of the Scottish Space

Programme.

I landed on the wet sand with a firm thud and tried

to stand up - but my legs were still too weak to take any

notice of me. Try as I might. I also couldn't see which

way to go - disoriented, I realised even the wheelchair

had vanished in the fog. I was crawling on my hands and

knees in wet sand, utterly lost.

Then I looked up, and I saw him. The mist had cleared

slightly. And there, yards ahead of me, like a hero on a

little rocky outcrop stood... It was definitely him - I'd

have known that silhouette anywhere.

Oh.

Like an elastic band pinging my ear, I felt a sharp

stinging sensation, and realised it was my head. Someone

had flicked a switch in it, and it had started working.

Like a box of missing information had suddenly opened.

My brain suddenly sorted itself out like a jigsaw puzzle,

everything falling into place including the missing bit of

sky tucked down the back of the sofa. I realised everything

that had gone wrong. Everything that I had forgotten the

last time I was on this beach. I knew who was standing on

the rocks by the sea.

The Doctor.

I crawled towards him, crying with relief, calling his

name over and over. He meant so much to me. My Doctor.

The man I...

He started to turn towards me and then... something

crashed out of the mist behind him, carrying both shapes

into the sea. I screamed, trying to stand, but nothing. I was

left crouched on the beach, crying and alone and helpless.

I beat my fists in the sand, but that didn't do anything.

When I stopped, I realised something.

Slap! Slap!

Footsteps, coming nearer.

The Doctor had come back, and something had killed

him. Something dreadful that was now coming for me.

Madly, I crawled towards the sea, calling out the

Doctor's name, in case he'd survived and was somewhere

out there. The waves started to rush around me, freezing

cold running over my hands and legs, dragging at my

clothes. The fog started to push down on me. And those

footsteps were still coming, closer and closer.

I had no idea what to do next. I struggled desperately

to my feet and, of course, immediately fell. As I tumbled,

a cold hand gripped my wrist like steel. I cried out in pain

and stared up - a man was standing over me in the mist.

It looked like the Doctor. But I knew. I knew... It

wasn't. And then, when it spoke to me with that flat, dead

voice, I was certain.

'Amy Pond,' it said, cautiously, as though trying the

name out for the first time. 'I've come back for you...'

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

6th December 1783

Dear Mother,

Things looked bad. Really bad. Just AWFUL, and

I felt ever so let down. I had been hoping that my hero

would rescue me like a storybook princess from a castle.

Instead we were still tied to chairs. Rory wasn't the man

I'd thought him to be. He was nice, but he was no hero.

And above us - that strange cloud of... No, I just can't

describe it. It's too horrible. But it was starting to pour,

very slowly down towards us.

'Think of something,' I hissed at him.

'I've got nothing,' Rory said with a shrug.

Dr Bloom was watching, quietly amused. His wife was

pottering around, actually tidying the study. As though

seeing us being eaten alive was boring her. I never liked

her, Mother, and now you know why. She was fussing as

she arranged Dr Bloom's pens neatly in order.

'Pens,' muttered Rory.

'Monsieur?'

'Could you reach my left pocket?' he asked.

I managed to twist around in my chair, my hand

grabbing something pen-like sticking out of Rory's

pocket.

'Very good,' said Rory. He winked at me. 'Now...

point it at THAT. No. Other end, apparently.'

Well, I had no idea what it did, but I knew which end

to push. I hoped it was not a gun. It had a very pretty light

at one end. Maybe that would distract everyone.

Instead it pumped out a sound... a sound so horrifying

I squealed.

So did the creature above us, reeling back.

'Oh, well done, Maria,' cried Rory over the din.

'What are you doing?' gasped Dr Bloom. He ran to

his wife. She was doubled over in agony. It looked like

whatever I'd done was really, really hurting her. Good.

Rory stood up with some difficulty, the chair still tied

to him. He leaned over me and managed to pull my ropes

free. Then he turned to Dr Bloom.

'We're escaping,' he said. 'Goodbye.'

Chair still tied to his back, he ran with me from the

room. I take it all back. Rory is just wonderful.

Your ever loving

Maria

Dr Bloom's Journal

6th December 1783

Oh, for the sake of Saint Peter! What a disaster!

One of the strangers and the child Maria have

escaped.

I watched them go. 'No! Stop!' I cried, running to the

door. 'Stop! Stop! Stop!'

Then I realised I was shouting at no one, and I felt

silly.

Her own pain overcome, my beloved Perdita was at

my side in an instant, soothing me. 'I've rung for help,'

she said. 'They can't get far.'

I looked up at her. 'Are you sure?'

She nodded. 'I will go and issue instructions.'

She left the room with a swish of skirts.

That left me alone with the Thing. It stood there,

patiently. Waiting for orders. So, with a weary sigh, I sent

it away. Off it went back down to The Sea.

Dear Perdita came back in, closing the French windows

after it. She tidied her hair and paused before turning to

me, her face sympathetic. 'Don't worry, my darling. It's

all in hand. Why not have a rest now? It will all be better

in the morning.'

And it will be. Because she tells me so.

7th December 1783

A new day! A glorious new day!

Well, I say that It was perishing cold, the water in my

bedside basin nearly frozen, and even the carpet chilly.

The maid had lit the fire in my bedroom, but the heat was

hardly spreading out beyond the hearth.

Perdita had dressed already and had an excited look

on her face. 'Come, my dear, come and see.'

It was the same look my mother wore when she told

me the brilliant news that it had snowed. The sight was

almost as wonderful.

I stood at my study window and watched as the

patients were wheeled out onto the veranda and down the

sea path to the beach. Each one, still and silent, bumped

along in their chair, their ever-faithful attendants with

them.

I felt Perdita squeeze my hand. 'Look,' she breathed.

And then I saw her. The girl with the bright red hair,

slumped in her chair, staring blankly ahead of her, being

wheeled patiently along. Miss Pond, and the figure

behind her, grim and expressionless, a man I now knew

was called the Doctor. Only it wasn't really the Doctor.

This version of him had come from The Sea, to learn

all it could about Amy Pond. She was completely in its

control.

'What a wonderful day!' I beamed. I actually beamed.

'Exactly,' Perdita agreed, clasping my hand to her lips.

'Oh beloved! It is taking her down to the beach. Soon we

will know everything about them.'

I left my study, and crept out behind our guests,

following at a distance, trying not to rub my hands with

glee. I felt the same childish thrill I always felt as the wet

sand sank under my feet, leaving squelching footprints.

I remembered that first time I had stood on the beach

and realised there was something there, something in the

water that called to me, that rolled out of the mist and into

my mind, wrapping itself around my every thought and

giving me everything that I wanted. Ever since, I'd always

kept at a wary distance as the spirits worked their magic

on my patients - every single day they came down to the

shore, and they left better. I don't know how it works, but

I know that it does. The Sea gives them exactly what they

need. And in return... it learned all about them.

It wanted Madame Amelia Pond, I knew that. It had

tried before, and it had failed, summoning Kosov to

bring them to me. There was something about those three

strangers - how had they come here? What were they?

Something I did not know and The Sea wasn't telling me.

But it wanted desperately to try again.

Now it had its chance. It did not matter about the boy

called Rory. It was a pity about the man called Doctor. The

real Doctor was probably lost on the waves and would

wash up in a fisherman's net somewhere.

But Amy Pond. Oh! The Sea had briefly been able to

touch her mind - it knew that the Doctor was the most

important thing in the world to her, and it had given a

copy of him to her. If they spent enough time together, the

copy would become every bit as good as the real Doctor.

It stood there now, wheeling her down to the beach, one

hand resting lightly on her shoulders, drawing all it could

from her.

There she sat, her head nodding slightly, those pretty

eyes wide open, listening to The Sea as it washed in, waves

folding over and over, calling out 'forget, forget, forget' as it

washed across the beach. Her hair was the brightest thing

in the world that morning, red against all that grey. Her

skin was so pale, pale as a freshly laundered sheet. She

was probably cold, but she wouldn't feel it - not as The

Sea reached into her.

I watched as the fog came up from The Sea, rolling

out along the beach, little fingers stretching up across

the beach, and dancing around her feet. The fog glowed

slightly, a faint green, as if thousands and thousands of

little candles flickered inside it.

It would not be long now before it knew everything it

needed.

The figure of the Doctor stood behind Amy Pond, his

hands resting on her shoulder. Gentle, but firm. There

was no escape for her. Not any more. Soon she would

remember, and then everything of hers would belong to

us.

What Amy Forgot

So the TARDIS had crashed, and there we were on a

beach, spilling out of the blue box in a dazzled heap.

Rory and I were just glad to be alive, but the Doctor was

already bounding around as excitedly as a dog chasing

after a rubber ball. His sonic screwdriver was held out in

front of him, lighting up the night like a torch.

'We've arrived!' he boomed, then repeated the phrase,

testing the echo. 'Cote d'Azure, lovely spot for a holiday

but not in... ooh, early December. 1780s. Just around the

corner from the French Revolution. Not perhaps the best

time for topping up the tan and reading John Grisham.

But hey, what do I know? Suit yourself. There's beach

towels aplenty in a trunk somewhere in the TARDIS

and... Ow!'

The Doctor stopped and stood very, very still.

We caught up with him. We hadn't been badly injured

by the crash, even though the TARDIS now lay on its

side, door open, light spilling out of it weakly. Rory was

rubbing a bruised elbow.

'It's Baltic,' I said, huddling closer to Rory for warmth.

'It is absolutely freezing.'

Then I realised the Doctor had stopped moving. 'Are

you OK? Doctor?'

'Ow, sorry.' The Doctor spun round on the spot, facing

us. 'Sony. Ow. Something out there. Tiny little psychic

probe, tugging away at my head. Reading my mind. Which

it Must Not Do! Bad Psychic Thing!' Hie Doctor flapped

a hand. 'Get out, get out, get out!' He grinned, tapping

his forehead. 'I've got expert mental shielding. But ooh,

it's having quite a go.' He threw the sonic screwdriver to

Rory, who just about caught it, bless him. 'Torch setting,

see if you can see anything. I can't move at the moment.

Due to... ouch.' The Doctor winced. 'If that's you again,

Derren Brown, show yourself, you bad boy.'

'Is that what brought us here?' asked Rory, casting

about the beach with the sonic screwdriver. All I could

see was sand and rocks, sea and fog.

'Um, possibly.' The Doctor frowned. 'Something alien

and a bit wrong twinkling away in space-time. The old

girl couldn't resist that and... Oh dear.'

'Warp transfer coil,' said Rory.

The Doctor's face fell. 'I was afraid you'd say that.

Naughty psychic thing, still jabbing away. Causing a bit

of brain spillage.' He tapped Rory on the forehead. 'Sorry

about that. If it's any consolation I now know that you

really don't like kippers. Who does?' He screwed up his

face. 'Stop that! Stop that at once! My name is the Doctor

and I can help you if only you... stop...'

'...If only you stop reading my mind,' said Rory.

'Keep out. Beware of the Dog. Here there be dragons.'

'Rory?' I grabbed him. 'Are you OK?'

'Dangerous.' Rory's head spun to face me, but his

expression was very odd. 'Amy Pond,' he spoke, his voice

all wrong. 'Something very bad is about to happen. Very

bad and a bit painful. Run.'

'I'm not leaving you.' I was firm. 'Either of you.'

'Get back to the TARDIS, please...' begged Rory, as

the Doctor's hand jerked out, pointing. 'Quickly now,

hurry up, bits of brain going everywhere. Get out of the

way. Doing what I can. That thing is less of a mind probe,

more of a food processor.'

'Whizz,' said the Doctor. He sank down to his knees,

his feet drumming on the sand.

Rory's face twisted, his voice buckling. 'He's right,

Amy. I don't know what's happening, but it really hurts.

Please. Keep back. I love you... Whizz.'

And Rory fell over, his legs twitching.

I ran.

Sorry. I left them. I didn't know what else to do.

I ran, ran as fast as I could towards the TARDIS.

Maybe there'd be something in there that could help me.

All around me was a fog, a fog that danced with strange

lights and pushed at my head. The TARDIS wasn't much

further. I kept running. I could see the door up ahead. Just

keep running, Amy, just keep them out of your head, get

inside, work out what to do. Save Rory. Save the Doctor.

The TARDIS door slammed shut, trapping me outside.

In the dark on the beach, the only light was that strange

glowing mist all around me, pressing in.

I heard a voice in my head. A voice that could only

be the Doctor's. 'Sorry, Amy,' it whispered, and I felt my

knees give way.

I lay there for a bit. One of three bodies lying on a

beach as the mist rolled around us.

Then my brain switched off.

What Any Remembered

My brain switched back on.

'Watch,' whispered the Doctor's voice in my ear.

Figures came from the sea. From the mist. I couldn't

quite see how - but it's not like they bobbed up from

underwater. They just coalesced, striding forward,

becoming more and more solid. Just a shadow, then a

silhouette, then as it reached the shore, a fully formed

person, clothes and all. Some of the figures were old,

some young, there were children and, in one case, a dog.

They stepped out of the sea utterly dry and they walked

up to the patients. The mist fell away from them as they

stepped across the sand, leaving no footprints at first, and

then gradually they settled into the ground, solid and

real.

The poor patients, each one still and almost lifeless,

each one suddenly faced by a figure, looming over them.

The strange singing note drifted out from the water,

keeping time with the waves. An old man looked up from

his chair as a tiny fat lady danced up to him, taking his

hand in hers. She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her

then stood up. They started, ever so gently, to dance.

A tired-looking woman with grey hair laughed as her

hands were seized by two children, two silently laughing

children who dragged her into the dance.

There was fat Mr Nevil, slumped snoring under a rug.

Even comatose he looked sour. Until a big dog with a shiny

wet nose laid its muzzle in his lap and tapped him with

a paw, looking up at him with big beggy eyes. And then

Mr Nevil stood up, beaming like it was Christmas, and he

started to dance with the dog. It was a little awkward, but

they were doing it.

'Fascinating,' breathed the figure of the Doctor in my

ear. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

'Shall we dance?' he muttered.

'Must we?' I asked him. But I gave him my hand and

we danced on the beach, stiff and awkward. I noticed

my legs were working again. I wondered if that was his

doing.

'Are you real?' I whispered.

'Are you?' he countered.

Then he trod on my foot and I knew he was real.

'Sorry.' The Doctor frowned. 'Always getting born

with two left feet.'

I sighed. 'So what's the plan?'

'Well, first I convince you that I'm real, then I win

your confidence, and finally the mind parasite out there

devours your brain.'

'Oh great.' I smiled. 'Thanks for being honest.'

'Not a problem.' He winked. 'Don't worry, I'm

shielding you. When we crashed here and it first attacked

me, I was caught with my mental trousers down. Not any

more. Psychic force field's intact. Belt and braces. Braces,

by the way, are very cool.' He tapped his head. 'I've put

a brick wall round your brain, Pond. Nothing can get

through.'

'Won't whatever it is out there be suspicious?'

'Well, in a bit, maybe. But I've put you in a trance for

hours, and while you were asleep I've scattered some

false little Amy Pond brainwaves all around the barrier.

Lots of lovely memories of holidays bird-watching on the

Isle of Man.'

'I've never been to the Isle of Man,' I hissed.

'Well there we are, the perfect crime. I was

improvising.' The Doctor flashed a reassuring smile. 'It'll

take the parasite a while to realise that it's just getting

a few holiday snapshots of the Greater Crested Glebe

and nothing juicy. Not a whisker of the real Amy Pond,

the little girl who has travelled through universes. And

absolutely nothing about her friend the Doctor. No. It

absolutely mustn't read my mind.' The Doctor's voice

was very firm. 'Now I'm myself again. Took me quite a

while. Luckily someone threw me off a cliff last night and

things jogged back into place on the way down. Result!

When I came to, I was pretty much myself again. Not

too sure about the colour puce, mind, but it'll come back,

eventually. Anyway, pretty much normal service, just in

time to stop that thing out there fooling you by sending

in the clones. Knocked its copy of me out into the sea and

came and rescued you. It's all good.'

'What about Rory?' I asked. This was very important.

'Oh, he's back to normal,' the Doctor said. 'Lots of my

memories ended up in his head - lots of spare room in

there. Bit of a rushed job. Not my finest work, but bits of

brain were flying everywhere. I had to move my mind in

a hurry - and let's face it, Rory Williams is the last place

anyone would look.'

I glowered at him. Sometimes he can be SO rude. I

stamped on his foot and he winced.

'Sorry. Anyway, he's fine now - all my memories have

snapped back. Still missing my favourite chutney recipe.

New fact - that boy really does hate kippers. Which is

annoying because I really fancy one now.'

'Enough kippers.' I prodded him, gently continuing to

waltz to the ethereal singing. 'What are we up against? An

alien version of Strictly Come Dancing?'

'Oh, Amy Pond, you are absolutely my favourite,'

sighed the Doctor. 'Look at our fellow patients. About

three minutes ago, each and every one was dying of a

dreadful, incurable disease. Now look at them. They're

dancing!'

I looked. Even grumpy Mr Nevil looked years younger

and happier.

'The brain parasite out there gives them someone they

love. A little bit of itself that they trust enough to let it

wrap around them and heal them.'

'Aw,' I said. 'That's quite nice.'

The Doctor's face stopped me.

'Isn't it?'

'No, Amelia, it is very wrong indeed.'

As we stood there, surrounded by the dancing dead,

he told me why. It was utterly terrifying.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Mother,

Oh, what a wonderful night! It was like the best game

of hide and seek - you remember for my seventh birthday

party when all my friends came and we hunted over the

entire house and then had meringues?

It was like that. Only without meringues. And a little

bit scary.

Monsieur Rory Williams and I were being hunted

throughout Dr Bloom's clinic. We hid in cupboards,

under beds, in a cellar, and even, at one tense moment,

under the desk in Dr Bloom's study.

It was when we were there, curled up in a ball, that I

whispered to Rory, 'Sir, what do you think will happen

when they find us?'

Rory shook his head sadly, his voice even quieter than

mine. 'I don't know. Nothing very good. I'm not exactly

lucky.'

'What was that creature we saw last night?'

'I have absolutely no idea.'

'I have seen something like it before,' I told him. And

I had, I just cannot remember how or why. But I know

it was here. Oh Mother, when you get this, can you try

and remember for me? If you can, do write back and tell

me. I know I am sending you ever so many letters at the

moment, but this is the most EXCITING time of my whole

life.

We spent some of the night in the kitchen. I ate some

cheese and two slices of cake. Rory did not eat. We heard

a squeaking of wheels, and we looked through to where

Amy was being wheeled stiffly past by a man who I had

thought was Monsieur Pond, but Rory put me right.

'That is my wife,' he said, sounding ever so sad. 'And

the man with her is the Doctor. And they're just not

right.'

'Should we go to them?'

Rory shook his head and slumped down on Cook's

chair. 'Something is very wrong. I want to. But I can hear

the Doctor's voice in my head, telling me not to.'

'How?'

'I don't know. But it's what's had me so confused these

last couple of days. I think I ended up with some of him

in my head.' He grimaced, like he was swallowing cough

medicine.

I nodded. Amy, Rory and the Doctor. Three wonderful

and marvellous people who have such extraordinary

lives. Oh, Mother, when I come home, do you think we

can have them to stay?

So the two of us sat in the kitchen until the restaurant

was empty, then we went and hid under a table. 'Well

just stay here and think of something.'

We stayed there for hours. I think I even slept a bit.

I know Monsieur Rory snored gently. But after a while,

breakfast came and went, and we were alone. I wondered

if we should move out... but Rory wanted to make sure

we were absolutely alone.

He was right to worry.

'Monsieur,' I breathed. 'Someone is coming!'

I could hear my heart pounding ever so loudly. Rory

stared at me. We could hear footsteps coming closer and

closer. We were about to be discovered. My heart leapt

into my mouth!

The footsteps stopped at our table!

They paused!

Oh, Mother!

They crouched down!

They lifted back the tablecloth.

'Rory! Maria!' cried Amy. 'I am so pleased to see

you.'

Then another face appeared. The Doctor. He grabbed

hold of Rory's ankle, dragging him protesting out from

under the table. 'Rory!' he grinned, wrapping him in an

enormous bear hug that squeezed the breath out of him.

'I've been you!'

'Right,' mumbled Rory.

'You've had a gorgeous time, I bet.'

'Not... especially, no.'

The Doctor stepped back, his eyes were wide and

dancing. 'Did you escape from any monsters? Did you

set anything on fire? I'm always doing that. Honestly, one

minute it's Tell Me Your Plans, the next it's BOOOM! My

insurance premiums are terrible.' The Doctor uses ever

such strange words. 'Anyhow, you're all back to normal,

yes?'

'Yes.' Rory was ever so tight-lipped.

The Doctor nudged him with his elbow. 'Go on then.

What was it like being me? Wasn't it just a bit brilliant?

Did it open up your tiny mind?'

Rory looked a little ill. 'It's nice to be me, actually. I'm

not a hero.'

'Oh, don't be modest. You've done some wonderful

things.' The Doctor winked at me. 'You've married

Amelia Pond and can probably mend a fuse. I've never

got the hang of that. Very important.' He turned to me

and lowered his voice. 'It's OK, Maria, you don't need to

know what a fuse is. They're rubbish.' He turned back to

Rory. 'Anyway, Rory, you've got your brain back.

Rory sat on the chair and looked up at the Doctor. For

a second he looked angry. 'And what was it like being

me?' he asked.

The Doctor tugged at his braces, embarrassed. 'Oh,

don't apologise - I'm sure I'll get over it.' He waved it

away.

At which point, Amy reached down and took my

hand. 'Come along, Maria, let's go find some buns. They'll

probably be shouting at each other for a bit.'

Your ever loving

Maria

A Letter from Mr Nevil

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Octavius,

I had an early breakfast with Olivia Elquitine.

'Aren't you going to play your violin?' I asked her,

chewing on a pastry (actually, one can get used to those

things).

She shook her head, smiling. 'We never play in the

mornings. And my sister doesn't come down to breakfast.

She prefers to sit in her room.'

'What does she do?' I asked. 'What are all those figures

she's always scribbling? Dressmaker's bills?'

Again, Olivia smiled at me. 'My sister is quite brilliant

with mathematics, Mr Nevil.'

'To be sure, to be sure,' I ventured, humouring her,

but she was having none of it. There followed a quite

exhausting explanation of logarithms and whatnot, but

I merely nodded away, all the while thinking that Olivia

would look rather good as the mistress of the hunt back

home, perched on a horse, leading a charge.

I was aware of a tap at my shoulder. It was Mrs Bloom,

all silky charm. 'Time for your morning treatment, Mr

Nevil,' she oozed.

I glanced at Olivia and noticed her frown. 'My dear

Mrs Bloom,' I protested. 'Perhaps... well, perhaps I can

postpone?'

Mrs Bloom shook a firm negative. 'Come along now, I

really do insist.'

'Ah, well, in that case, perhaps I should...' I stood up

and bowed to Olivia, carefully avoiding her glare.

As I set off for the beach, I could see the damn filly

looking at me. She seemed disappointed.

Ah well, that's women for you! I'm sure shell keep.

Your servant,

Henry Nevil

What Amy Remembered

Never take the Doctor for granted. Just when you think

you know where life is going, you're having breakfast

with a Russian prince. Once the Doctor and Rory had

stopped arguing, the Doctor insisted we go and hide in

Prince Boris's rooms.

Prince Boris was only too happy to see us. 'Ach! I love

refugees!' he said. 'My mother once took in a whole group

of gypsies for months on one of her dacha. Said it was

good luck for the hens. And you two gentlemen travel

under false identities! How daring! More caviar?'

Yes, that's right - we had caviar for breakfast. To be

honest, it was a little bit like when someone sticks too

much anchovy on a pizza. Although the Doctor was

layering it with marmalade and swore it was heavenly.

Rory seemed relieved to be back to his normal self,

perched on the bed, drinking tea, while the Doctor tried

to make amends.

'Sorry about messing with your head, Rory. It was a

bit of an emergency.'

'That's fine,' said Rory politely. 'Everything's back

now...'

'Well, almost,' muttered the Doctor. 'I don't suppose

you can remember...'

'Yeah, there's a recipe for Onion Chutney that I really

think isn't mine.'

'Thank you!' The Doctor hugged him warmly. 'I have

missed that!'

'I'm fine thanks, by the way,' Rory muttered. 'All back

to normal.'

He'd need a bit of tender loving care and a back rub

later, I could just tell. Meanwhile... well, breakfast.

But even then, Rory wasn't at ease. 'Where's your pet

ogre?'

'Kosov?' Boris shrugged. 'Out and about, my friends,

probably looking for you, eh?' And he laughed. I noticed

there was no rattling echo when he laughed now. He

seemed much better, the picture of health. Bit like George

Clooney doing Rasputin, frankly. He was even wearing a

tasselled velvet nightcap that I noticed the Doctor eyeing

up. If Boris didn't watch out, that'd go missing and we'd

never hear the last of 'Nightcaps are cool'.

While Boris made coffee as hot and thick as lava, the

Doctor explained the situation to us all, scribbling the odd

note on the window with a sharpie. Little Maria sat in the

corner, licking stray caviar from her fingertips and staring

at him with wide-eyed admiration. He does that to girls

and never notices. Not once.

'So, basically - turns out, we're time travellers. If the

universe has a problem and no one else can help, then it's

us. The A-Team. The Doctor and the brilliant Amy Pond.'

Rory coughed, quietly. 'Oh yeah, and Amy's husband,

Roger.'

'Rory.'

'Whatever.'

Maria let out an admiring gasp.

Boris was nodding sagely. 'So you come from the

future?' he asked.

The Doctor nodded. 'Sometimes the future, sometimes

the past, and sometimes just a little to the right. That's

us.'

'And what's wrong with this place to make you come

here?' Boris asked sternly.

'I have been dying for someone to ask me that!' the

Doctor beamed at him, delighted, and that's when the

lecture began. One day, I swear hell do a PowerPoint.

'Right then. Let's just for a moment ignore the utterly

mad aliens on the beach -' Boris opened his mouth, but

the Doctor sailed on, bless him. 'I said ignore them! Not

one word! Fact. We are in one of the most important years

in history. 1782!'

'1783,' whispered Maria.

'What I said! 1783. Very, very important year. Well,

not that much happens, actually, but it's just around the

corner from a whole lot of interesting. Wars, revolutions

and so on all over Europe - the kind of grim human thing

you lot do so well.'

'I take it you are here to prevent that?' Boris looked

grave. To be fair, he'd taken the whole 'we're from the

future, hello' thing remarkably well. He looked vaguely

bored by it, but then that was Prince Boris, really.

'Nah, let's leave the future be.' The Doctor shrugged.

It was exactly the tone of the lady next door about her

cat's massacre of the dawn chorus. It's just a cat. They

don't know any better. Sometimes the Doctor can be both

patronising and chilling. He whirled around. 'Which is

the point - Time is like a big messy house of cards that

just keeps teetering higher and higher into infinity. So

brilliant, so delicate, so much of it. And you don't want

to go fiddling with any of the cards. Believe me.' He

clapped his hands together and caviar went all up the

walls. 'Broken hearts everywhere.' He spun round again.

'Dr Bloom really is amazing. He's curing people from a

dreadful disease, but he's doing it about a hundred years

early. And that's not good.' He glanced at the ground and

looked a bit sheepish. Eventually he continued, the words

dragged out of him. In that moment his great, stretchy

rubber face was so kind and so sad. 'Which brings me to

you, Prince Boris. And I'm sorry, but here's the thing... I

think you're one of the nicest Russian aristocrats I've ever

met and not been forced into an arranged marriage with.

You are kind and brilliant and make lovely coffee and

probably ensure that every one of your serfs gets a goose

at Christmas. That's good. And what's dreadful is that

you've got this awful wasting disease... a disease that

will shorten your life. Only it isn't doing that any more,

is it?' Suddenly, without moving, the Doctor was staring

out the window, no longer looking Boris in the eye. Like

he couldn't bear to. Boris had gone very, very still, every

word the clang of a dreadful bell. 'You are getting better.

And I really don't think you should be. It's not just you,

either...'

Rory took my hand. He knew what was coming.

'You see... this place is expensive. You've got to be rich

to come here. Which, sad to say, in this time means that

you're probably important. Maria's mother has a lovely

house in Paris. A really lovely house in Paris. Practically a

palace, isn't it, Maria?'

Maria nodded solemnly. She looked so scared. I held

out my hand, and she came and perched on my lap.

It was just the four of us against him. Four lonely,

scared humans staring at the dreadful alien. Who just

wouldn't shut up.

'Even nasty old Mr Nevil is actually an MP. Hard to

believe it of someone with such awful table manners,

but there we are. I hate to say it, but if he lives ten more

years, that's ten more years before people stand a chance

of electing someone nice.' The Doctor stopped, his hands

in his pockets, glaring out of the window down at the

sea. "Then there's silent Helena Elquitine - she's doing

advanced logarithmic tables a decade before the man

who dreams up the computer is even born. She's utterly

amazing - imagine if she finished her work - Napoleon

might have radar and remote-controlled missiles.' He

glared at Boris and Maria sternly. 'Please forget I've even

said the words Napoleon or radar immediately.' Prince

Boris tried to look nonchalantly bored, but I could tell he

was deeply interested.

The Doctor carried on. 'Every single patient here is

part of the house of cards that makes up history. If it was

just the odd one or two then I could look the other way...

but no. Every one of you.' He faltered, miserable. 'Every

single one of you.'

The Doctor sank down on the end of the bed, not

looking at us. A wind started up outside, rattling against

the window, pulling cold air through the room. The

Doctor's voice was so quiet I barely heard him over it. 'I

hate my life sometimes,' he sighed.

Rory spoke. If I ever, ever forget why I love him, it's

for moments like this. When we've been overcharged

in a restaurant or the Doctor's sentenced a whole load

of innocent people to death. No one else knows what to

say, but Rory will just say something. He looked just as

pained as the Doctor - not surprising since he's just had

the Doctor's memories stamping around in his head. 'So

it's got to be stopped - but what's causing it?'

'Oh, not Dr Bloom, poor silly booby.' The Doctor

spread caviar on a cracker, the knife scraping away at

it over and over and over again. I knew then he'd never

eat it. He was just looking for something to do. 'It's those

creatures in the sea. They're called The Familiar. You'll

find them through Earth history - lonely travellers

guided across a treacherous moor by the figure of a long-

dead loved one, or the spirit of an old friend. That's kind

of them. Living ghosts drifting from world to world,

a well-meaning and barely sentient water-dwelling

hive. They're... The worst thing is they're pretty much

benevolent in themselves. But... oh, you know how it is,

you land on a strange planet, meet a glamorous stranger

who looks cool... they're easily led. And something...

there's something here that is exerting an evil influence

over The Familiar. They've formed a strong psychic link

with something or someone nearby... and it's not good.'

'Fascinating,' muttered Prince Boris.

The Doctor crumbled his biscuit, watching the flakes

land on the bedspread the wrong way up. Someone would

have to clean that, I thought sadly.

'They probably don't even realise they're being used,

bless 'em.' He groaned. 'It's all such a mess.' He threw his

arms up in the air. 'Cards everywhere.' He flashed us a

sad smile.

Boris started to protest. He'd suddenly put on the

Aristocratic Air and it suited him very well indeed. He

demanded an explanation, why, in all the many months

he'd been here, he blustered, he thundered, he threatened,

and then, eventually, he went very, very quiet.

'Kosov,' he said.

'Yes?' The Doctor sounded patient and kind. All the

time in the world.

'If I tell you I had a difficult childhood, you'll just

laugh. The fine son of a very rich family, while thousands

and thousands of children toiled on my farms hacking

turnips out of the frozen soil. But... mine is a cold country.

I was never alone with my parents. Always in big, gloomy

rooms with a distant fire and lots of people watching.

My father was severe, always grave - and if there was a

twinkle in his eye, I was never close enough to see it. My

mother, oh, the hour a day I saw her, she seemed like a

goddess from another world. But the rest of the time was

the nursery and the schoolroom. The only person who

ever seemed to care or like me was Kosov. He worked in

the stables, and he laughed and he joked and he taught

me to ride and he encouraged me and he seemed proud

of me... and... well, he was like a proper father. He had

his own family, but he always seemed pleased to see me.

I liked that. I liked him. But oddly, you know, you move

away, you send the odd present, but it's never easy to

find out how your old stablemaster is doing. And then...

then you fall ill, and you do nothing with your life. All

those dreams, pointless. It all feels a waste... and then a

countess discretely whispers at a party about this place.

How marvellous it all is, especially with Kosov here again,

looking after me.

The Doctor nodded. 'You see?' he said, like he was

scoring a point he wasn't happy about.

'I see,' murmured Boris, sadly. 'Could Kosov be

working with these creatures somehow?'

T don't know.' The Doctor's hands were jammed in

his pockets, his gaze fixed on the beach. 'I'm not quite

sure what's going on. But I'm open to suggestions.'

We argued about this. About what he was going to

do.

It took us a while to realise that someone was

missing.

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

Disaster!

I was standing on the beach with Kosov. Even my wife

was frowning.

'The Doctor was not Familiar,' said Kosov sadly. 'The

Doctor that The Sea created... lost...' He gestured out to

the grey watery horizon. 'We need the Doctor.'

Perdita patted him on the arm comfortingly. 'Don't

worry - well find him and Madame Pond. Well find all

of them.'

I made to protest, but Perdita stilled me with a glance.

'My dear, you worry about so much - leave this to us.'

She is always so kind to me.

We stood there for a minute, listening to the song

of The Sea, watching the other patients dancing gently

around each other. There was a light rain. There always

was a light rain, and The Sea churned a dull grey, little

flecks of white floating on top of it like snowy mountains

or sleeping gulls.

Behind us, we heard a cough.

'Hello,' said a voice. 'Could I have a word?'

We turned. Standing there was poor Rory Williams.

He waved, nervously.

What a funny little man, I thought. His face still looked

soft and foolish, even if it was set with determination.

Kosov grabbed hold of him, the fog pouring out of his

mouth, but I stayed him. Perdita put on an interested

smile, and Mr Williams continued.

'It's just... well, I thought I'd come and... talk to you.

Before it gets... before it gets unpleasant.' Mr Williams

looked as though he wanted to run away. I remember

confessing to my father about stealing apples. He was

trying desperately hard to be brave. 'I think the right

thing to do, the fair thing to do, is for me to tell you about

the Doctor.'

We looked at him. He was offering us just what we

wanted. The Sea washed in, The Sea washed out. We

waited, eagerly. Some of my charges say that I am not

a patient man, but this is not true. A good doctor learns

the art of waiting, of letting things play themselves out,

of not interfering. Many is the time I have sat up with the

dying. I know that they will find peace in the end. But in

between sometimes they shout, laugh or cry. It is rare the

dying wish to play cards.

Eventually, Mr Williams spoke. 'Right then,' he said,

eyes darting around the beach. 'The Doctor. I understand

him so well right now, because I've had bits of him

bubbling around in my head. You see, the thing is, what

you're trying to do, Dr Bloom, is so good. You are trying

to cure a terrible disease - and you've got so much of

it right. Fresh air, clean linen, sterile equipment, lots of

rest. But whatever it is that's in The Sea... it's wrong,

somehow. It's using you. And, at the moment, it's simply

a difference of opinion between the Doctor and you. You

both want the best. You've only tried to kill him a couple

of times.'

I argued at that grossly unfair accusation. But Mr

Williams pressed on, his voice getting firmer. 'I mean,

don't worry about that I've seen people do much worse

to him and at the end of the day hell take them out for

pizza. He's very forgiving. The Doctor is brilliant'

Perdita spoke, her voice carrying across the beach.

'So is my husband,' she said warmly. 'My husband is a

wonderful man. Your Doctor wants to keep us in the Dark

Ages. My husband is changing the world.'

'I think that's rather the problem.' Mr Williams stopped

again. A bird flew overhead, calling out a warning.

'Go on,' said my wife, smiling.

'The thing is, when the Doctor decides something is

wrong, he doesn't stop until he gets what he wants.' Mr

Williams pulled a face at that, as though worried about

something personal. 'You see... the Doctor always wins.

And if he decides that he's got to stop you, then he will.'

Mr Williams looked at us all, and smiled slightly.

'Is that it?' asked Perdita.

He shook his head. 'I just... You're doing such good

work, and I don't want to see it all... wasted... just

because he...' Mr Williams stopped and started tracing

a pattern in the wet sand with his shoe. 'Well, he's not

exactly subtle.'

'Are you threatening us, sir?' I rumbled.

He shook his head. 'Oh no. Really, no. I'm just

saying... just for once... I'd like a simple life. You know.

For the Doctor and the people he's up against to just sit

down, have a chat, sort things out. It'd be a change. Cos

I'm getting fed up of the alternative.'

'What's that?' asked Perdita sweetly.

Mr Williams pointed down to the sand. With his foot

he'd written the word 'BOOM'.

'Anyway...' He shrugged, no longer nervous, just sad.

'I wanted to try. I can see it hasn't worked, but I tried. Just

once. And I'm sure hell be happy to know that he was

right. Because he always is. If it's all right with you, I'm

going to go now - unless you want to knock me out and

tie me up or something. Whatever.' And, looking tiny and

miserable, Rory Williams turned and walked away.

I watched him go.

He got a few paces before he stopped. At first I thought

he was going to turn around and say something else.

Instead, he coughed. And coughed again, wrapping his

arms around himself as though trying to hold himself in.

He fought for breath, but the coughing wouldn't stop.

Perdita looked at me, her eyes bright.

'Are you feeling all right, Mr Williams?' I asked,

stepping up to him.

He stood there, staring at me, hand still covering his

mouth. He lifted his hand away and stared at it.

'What's happening to me?' His voice was faint.

I put an arm around his shoulder. 'Mr Williams...' My

tone was grave. 'You are extremely ill.'

He was still staring at his palm. It was covered in

blood.

What Amy Remembered

'Rory's not my pet dog!' I yelled at the Doctor.

'Well, that would be better.' He was truly angry. 'Dogs

I can live with.' He paused, suddenly hopeful. 'Quite sure

you're not more of a cat person?'

'This isn't getting him back,' I said.

He pulled a face. 'Who said I wanted him back? I was

just suggesting a few alternatives. Nice little ginger torn.

Have to get it neutered, of course.' He smiled winningly.

'I'd let you name him.'

'Well find Rory.' I was firm. 'And then neuter him.'

I flopped down on the bed. Prince Boris patted my arm

sympathetically. 'Have you been married long, my dear?'

I guessed he was making a 'women, eh?' face at the

Doctor. I caught him at it, and he flushed slightly.

The Doctor pointed at the window. 'Out there, Amy

Pond, is an alien intelligence that is about to shred human

history. Now, who do you want popping off to have a

word with it - a thousand-year-old Time Lord or a mostly

qualified male nurse?'

'Don't say it like that,' I hissed.

'Well, what do you want me to say?' The Doctor was so

angry he was almost hovering. 'Well done on marrying the

only male nurse not to have a full set of Barbra Streisand

records? Why did you pick him, anyway? Were there no

flight attendants in your village?'

'Only Jeff.'

'Ah.'

I stood up. I stood up quite a lot. It takes a bit to stand

eyeball-to-eyeball with the Doctor. It's not just that he's

taller. It's that his eyes are like... it's like looking into

something you shouldn't. When I was young there was

a solar eclipse and we had to peer at it through cards or

combs or some such in case you went blind - and everyone

sneaked a peek directly at it, anyway. At this rolling,

burning light that rubbed away at your eyes. The Doctor's

gaze is like that. Only with slightly kissable eyebrows.

'I picked Rory, always Rory, because he is just like

you,' I yelled at him. 'He is sweet and understanding and

funny and he always tries to do the right thing. Plus you

both run the same way.'

'We do not.'

'Do so.'

The Doctor and I both sank down onto a sofa opposite

Prince Boris who was trying his best to look like he wasn't

there, poor sock.

The Doctor puffed up like he was about to shout, then

flexed a leg. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. 'You

really think I'm like that? And you really think he's like

that?'

I nodded. Thing is, it was complicated. You can't

talk about these things with the Doctor because they

always slide off the wrong way. He's odd about emotions

sometimes. Like he's crossing them off in a Spotter's

Guide. 'Ah, yes, that'll be Anger, that'll be Fear, and I've

a hunch that's Love. Tick tick tick.' I imagine him sitting

around chatting to his friends (does he have friends?),

saying, 'Humans, eh? Sometimes you can almost tell

what they're thinking.' And yet at other times it's like he's

spent a hundred years living out every emotion, one at a

time.

Don't even get me started on the whole Doctor-Amy-

Rory thing. It's kind of like... I dunno. Suppose you'd

always fancied Ryan Reynolds. That's fine, yeah. You

meet someone else, who is maybe not Ryan Reynolds, but

perhaps he's got the same goofy smile. And you think,

'Yeah, that's it, I'm happy.' Then Ryan Reynolds himself

roars up in a camper van and says 'Hey guys! Let's all

go on a road trip. Bring the boyfriend! It'll be fun.' Only

Ryan Reynolds doesn't save the universe. Well, not at

weekends.

So I guess that's my life. Crammed in a camper van,

sneaking the odd glance at Ryan, squeezing the hand of

my lovely husband, staring very hard at the map and

wondering where we're going.

Look, while I've been ranting along like this, well...

not much has happened really. I mean, that's a lot of

thinking going on, but it only takes a couple of seconds -

all these thoughts are whizzing through my head at like a

million, million miles an hour. So heaven knows what it's

like in the Doctor's brain. I imagine it's like someone built

a large hadron collider in a candyfloss factory.

It's clear we're not saying anything. We're just sat

there, on a sofa. The Doctor and Amy Pond. Not currently

saving the universe. Not currently shouting at each other,

either. So there's progress.

Prince Boris got up. 'No, no, stay there,' he protested,

with a theatrical cough. 'I am only a dying Prince, of

course it's absolutely no trouble at all for me to make you

some more fresh tea.'

That broke the mood.

We bustled around making the tea. All this time, Maria

had been sat watching us, her eyes as wide as saucers. Big

curious saucers.

She tugged at the Doctor's sleeve. 'Is this all real?'

The Doctor crouched down. 'Does it feel real, Maria?'

She nodded solemnly.

The Doctor tapped her ever so gently on the nose.

'Then it is real. Remember that for ever.'

'But...' she looked at him, almost scandalised that a

grown-up was saying this. 'It just...'

The Doctor, still somehow squatting, grinned. 'Maria,

you've seen it all with your own eyes. Don't doubt it for

an instant. When you grow up - remember that. If you

see it, it is real.'

She nodded, very solemnly. Frankly, he was giving it

110 per cent, but it was only inches away from 'always let

your conscience be your guide'. But I could tell that, from

that moment on, the Doctor had a friend for life.

Maria carried on looking at him. 'I like Monsieur Rory

very much. He was very kind to me. Please don't leave

him on his own.'

The Doctor stared at her, blinked, and grabbed a cup

of tea from Prince Boris. He dropped three cubes of sugar

into it, drained it in a gulp and winced.

Then he glanced at me. Not the full Oncoming Truck

brilliance, but a sly little look. The closest he'll ever give

me to 'you win'. Very, very quietly the Doctor spoke.

'Amy Pond, Tiddles will have to wait. We're going to

go and rescue your husband.'

Tie Story of Rory

Hello. My name's Rory, and I'm dying.

I've not really said much so far. I've kept out of it. To

be honest, I'd much rather let everyone else get on with

i t

But it's complicated. I mean, Amy always knows

exactly what to do. Even if she doesn't, she acts like she

does. Running through a burning spaceship, laughing.

Trust me, she's just the same down the supermarket.

Every now and then, I get left behind.

I love you, Amy Pond. I know that

I really think you love me too. Sometimes. Well, I

wonder if it's just that you really, really, really love me

because you do, and sometimes if it's just that you slightly

love me just because of the way that meeting the Doctor

meddled with your childhood. If you see what I mean.

See, now, that bit makes me cross. Cross because I don't

like that thought as it works out badly whatever way you

look at it. I'm cross that the Doctor messed up your head,

but if he hadn't, perhaps we wouldn't be married. So

maybe I should be grateful. The next titling I tell you is a

lie, the last thing I told you was the truth. Bang.

Of course, now the Doctor's messed with my head too,

and I really don't know what to think any more.

The Doctor once told me off for dropping litter. We

were on a lovely alien planet. Walking through a park

of singing purple trees. And I dropped something. Now

don't get all cross, not a tin can or anything. Just a banana

skin.

It was like I'd dropped a grenade. The Doctor can't

have heard it, but he stopped walking and turned around,

glaring at me.

'What did you just do?'

'Nothing.'

'No, really, what? No one does nothing, not ever.'

I shrugged.

The Doctor took a step closer.

I felt my mouth go dry and wondered if this was how

Daleks felt. Sudden urge for a wee.

His eyes drifted down, pointedly at the floor.

I followed his gaze.

Banana skin.

Amy came bounding up. Little bit like Tigger. If Tigger

could totally rock a mini-skirt. 'Oh, come on, Doctor, it's

just a banana skin.'

'Yes.' The Doctor spoke slowly. 'A. Banana. Skin.'

'Sorry,' I said. 'It's biodegradable, but fine. Ill, ah, pick

it up.'

The Doctor's hand grasped my wrist. 'Repeat the B

word.'

'What? Biodegradable?'

'Yes.'

I humoured him. 'Biodegradable.' Not like I fancied

walking home.

The Doctor's next words came out like a hiss. It

reminded me of that history teacher at school. Everyone

has one - the one who just loves scoring points and

leaving nasty notes in your homework in red pen. 'This is

an alien planet. A totally unique ecosystem. A world that

has, up until this precise moment, had no bananas on it.

And you've dropped one casually onto it.'

'As I said, sorry, I'll pick it up...'

'You have infected this planet, Rory. Imagine what

could happen next. That banana could decay, some stray

seeds could germinate, and grow and lots of banana

trees could sprout, all over the place. Who knows what

could happen next? In five years' time this forest could be

utterly dead. No more singing trees. Do you know what -

these are the only singing trees for quite a number of star

systems. So famous that, when many, many thousands of

years from now, when two terrible warring armies meet in

this solar system and find this world, what will they do?

Will they fight over it? No, they land, and they just look

at the trees and listen to them sing. About three hundred

yards to the left and five thousand and three years from

now, they declare peace. But no. That no longer happens.

Not now. Instead they'll find a dead world, and their

war will carry on for thousands more years until both

civilisations, billions of people are dead. All because you

have just dropped a banana skin.'

I was very, very quiet. Very quiet indeed.

'Pick it up, now,' said the Doctor.

I pocketed the banana skin.

'Thank you,' said the Doctor. He smiled. 'Of course, it

won't happen. Bananas are good. I'm just saying.'

We walked on.

You see, that's the kind of grand gesture he loves. But

every now and then I wonder, does he realise the mess

he's made of Amy Pond? It's a brilliant mess, and it's a

mess I absolutely love, but I wonder if he knows it's all

his fault. And if he does know, does it keep him awake at

nights too?

I'm just saying. It's all really complicated. I don't

pretend to understand it.

So anyway, imagine how it feels. You're trying to do

something brave. Instead, the bad people you're trying to

reason with are suddenly, awfully, being really kind.

After I'd stopped coughing, Dr Bloom sat me down in his

study. He shut the French windows, and his wife handed

me a glass of something. 'No brandy, I'm afraid,' she said.

'It's quite a dry sherry.'

I sipped it. I didn't taste it. I tried to stop coughing. It

wasn't easy.

'My poor boy,' said Dr Bloom. 'How long have you

felt like this?'

He passed me a handkerchief of his own. It had 'J.B.'

embroidered on it and some flowers. It's funny what you

notice. There was a buzzing in my ears.

Strange. You work in a hospital, you see it all. The

saintly old lady who had a fall and banged her head and

woke up in a bed screaming and raging at everyone until

she died, like she was suddenly letting go of ninety years

of anger. The people getting thinner and yellower who still

laughed at sitcoms. The worried looks that every patient

had when they thought no one noticed. The mothers who

came in every day to visit their sick children and tried

ever so hard not to look bored, ever.

You see people dealing with bad news in a lot of

different ways. Some people burst into tears there and

then. Some made jokes about it and only went quiet when

they thought they were alone. Some just went numb until

the very end.

I guess that's me. The weak, silent type.

I mean, I was sat in a nice chair in front of a warm fire

and I was coughing up blood. And the coughing gradually

ebbed away. Just a little. Then it came back.

I had tuberculosis. My lungs were being eaten from the

inside out. Slowly but surely and utterly lethally. Which

was weird. I mean, you do still get it in the twenty-first

century. It does dreadful, dreadful things to people. But...

there are pills and treatments and all sorts of wonders.

And suddenly I was over two hundred years away

from all that. I was just sat in a chair, sipping sherry and

fighting for every breath. It was all a bit confusing. There

was also an odd feeling. Like the grimness of it all was

pressing down on me. Like I was dying, right there, so far

away from home, from Amy.

'How long do I have?'

Why did I even ask that?

Dr Bloom chuckled and patted my hand. Not in a

patronising way. 'My dear fellow, you mustn't give up

hope already. You are in the very best place for this. This

is your very first attack, yes?'

He leaned over me, and pressed his ear to my chest.

'Hmmm. The left aureoles are rupturing. Don't worry

about that as a phrase. It's all good. All good. So long as

we know. Just breathe and breathe.'

'Can you stop the coughing?' I asked. It's actually

really very horrible coughing up blood. True fact.

He shook his head sadly. 'It will pass. Just let it

pass. Drink. Relax. You are in very capable hands, Mr

Williams.'

I sank back into the chair. Suddenly I saw them all. Mrs

Bloom looking so kind. Kosov stern. Dr Bloom eager.

'What will happen to me?'

Dr Bloom sat there. 'Don't worry. Just relax.' He patted

my hand, and it felt good.

I was very ill. I was in a time without antibiotics.

Without aspirin. I was so scared. I drank the sherry,

feeling it burn the back of my throat.

'How... how have I got this?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'I am afraid you are... Well, this is a

clinic. You are surrounded by the sick.'

I nodded at that. What a stupid thing to ask. Of course

I'd become infected.

'Amy!' I cried. 'Please, find my wife. Find my wife and

tell her.'

Dr Bloom nodded. All games were off. 'Of course. It's

the least we can do. Where should dear Kosov look? I

should hate to have him traipsing fruitlessly through the

clinic.'

'Prince Boris's room.'

'Ah, yes. Of course.'

Kosov nodded, and left the room.

Dr Bloom leaned closer. 'Don't worry, Mr Williams.

You are in good hands. Just lean back and relax. The fit

will pass and then we can begin the treatment.'

I was so scared. I was so scared.

I had a sudden thought - the Doctor wouldn't let me

die, would he? Not back here in history? It would be so

easy for him to just nip into the TARDIS, grab a few pills

and...

And then I realised. I could imagine the look on the

Doctor's face when he found out. Because I had already

seen it. Sad and angry.

Would he save me or leave me lying there?

Because I am just a banana skin on the ground.

A Letter from Mr Nevil

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Octavius,

Is there anything so unaccountable as woman? You

would think that anyone would be pleased that a fellow

is feeling a bit better and no longer breathes like a broken

bellows. But no! Not our precious Miss Olivia Elquitine.

The dashed hussy actually gave me the Cut Absolute

when I met her in the breakfast room earlier.

Her froideur is quite unaccountable! Simply because I

am going down to that beach. It's a rough bit of cheddar

that she's not allowed down there, but I have spoken to

Mrs Bloom about it and apparently the treatment just isn't

available to everyone. Which is a real shame - especially

as Miss Elquitine's thin sister is allowed down there.

I cornered Olivia by the pastries and tried reasoning

with her, but she wasn't having any of it.

'I am pleased at your good health, sir,' she said coldly,

deftly unclasping herself from my hand.

'But blast it, Olivia,' I protested, flushing as I used her

first name. 'I just want you to be happy for me!'

'You have nothing but my kindest regards, Mr Nevil.'

She managed a chilly little bow. Why, if someone treated

me like that in the House of Commons, I would knock the

fellow down without a second thought!

Instead, I kept my head. 'It's a deuced shame that

you're not allowed down there, my girl, but I can intercede

with the Blooms. I am not without influence.'

'Indeed?' She arched an eyebrow. 'Does it not strike

you as wrong that a cure is available only for those with

influence?'

'Well, no,' I said without thinking. 'After all, there's

rather too many people aren't there? Something like this,

good for thinning out the common herd.'

I can't think why, but she just blinked at that, bade me a

good day, and left me. As I said, women are unfathomable

creatures!

The treatment itself is unaccountable. My memories

are of a pleasant daydream and of Stoker, the dog I had

when I was a child. Oh, there was never such a hound as

faithful Stoker. Why, he smelt like a drain, but he was ever

so good-natured. Funny how one suddenly remembers

such things.

In other news, this place continues to be a veritable

madhouse. Those three new visitors turn out to be crazy

- the two men were pretending to be each other as some

piece of foolery, or worse. I ask you Octavius - what kind

of chap pretends to be a lady's husband? That sort of

thing is all very well for poets, but not at a respectable

resort. Of course, one of the men is now reported to be on

his deathbed, which serves him right, if you ask me.

As ever, your faithful servant, etc.

Henry

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

Win them over with kindness! It works as well with

enemies as it does with difficult patients.

The Doctor walked into the conservatory. Neutral

ground. I bowed to him.

'It is a pleasure to meet you properly, my dear sir,' I

said to him. So, I thought, looking him up and down, this

is the creature that The Sea is so interested in, the brain

so interesting it hid itself. There we were, scrabbling for

Amy Pond or for poor blithering Mr Williams, and there

he was all the time, neatly evading us.

Can what Kosov whispered to me have been true -

that this was a man, not just from beyond this world but

from beyond time itself? Personally, I thought he looked

like a rather haughty student from my home in Geneva,

right down to the studiously ramshackle attire. Yet, those

eyes - those eyes were flashing with intelligence. He'd

certainly done a lot to avoid the attempts of The Familiars

from The Sea to read him - which merely made them

want to read him all the more. They hungered for him so

much I could feel them pushing down on my thoughts.

With an effort, I cleared my head.

I noticed the Doctor just stood there, wary. Waiting for

my move.

'It is all right, my dear sir, rest assured... I had Kosov

call for you with only the best of intentions.' I tried on a

warm smile. 'If I could wave a flag of truce, I would.'

'Go on,' he seemed arrogant, smug. Well, that would

go in a minute. I nodded to Perdita, and the dear angel

laid down two cups of steaming chocolate for us. The

Doctor sat, scraping his iron chair across the tiling and

made an elaborate fuss of looking around before settling

himself, as wary as a caged animal.

'Well, I must say, this is all very civilised but it's not

the same without a marshmallow.' The Doctor glared at

the cup of chocolate that my Perdita had put in front of

him. I ignored the rudeness.

'All the same, monsieur, it is excellent, I assure you.

Perdita makes an unparalleled cup of chocolate.'

The Doctor sipped experimentally at the cup and then

smiled. He nodded to Perdita. 'Wonderful, madame. My

compliments. And not poisoned either.'

Perdita returned his nod with more politeness than he

deserved.

I forced a chuckle. 'Come now, Doctor. Neutral

territory, sir.'

The Doctor glared at me.

'Come, let's be reasonable,' I said, spreading my hands

out.

The Doctor banged his hands on the table. The cup

jumped. A little chocolate spilt over the edge. 'I am being

reasonable. Where is Rory?'

'He is... indisposed.'

'What does that mean? You've kidnapped him?'

'Not at all... I regret to say...' It's hard doing this.

Imparting bad news. Even to someone you can't actually

stand. I have always hated causing pain. Physical or

mental. Sometimes it is like striking a physical blow.

'Your friend. Mr Williams...' I continued.

'What have you done to him?'

'Nothing. Believe me, dear sir. But he is not well.'

'What?' The Doctor went pale.

'Indeed.' I put on my most candid expression. 'He is in

an advanced state of consumption.'

The Doctor looked as though he was about to say

something. He stopped. He stared at me. In some ways, I

was pleased. He didn't say 'you're wrong', 'you're lying',

'there must be a mistake'. He just looked at me. And

nodded.

'You haven't done this to him?'

'You have my word. I have taken the Hippocratic Oath.

I am bound not to cause harm to others.'

'But how... how has he caught it?'

'How does anyone catch this dreadful illness? I have

dedicated my life to eradicating it. You know this.'

'It's just...' The Doctor stood up and stared out to sea.

He pointed out the one thing that had been nagging at

me. He wanted to shut down my clinic. The clinic that

had become the only way of curing his friend. 'It's highly

convenient.'

'None of my doing.'

'And yet... And yet... If I was to tell you that there was

a force manipulating events... driving us to this... Well,

you'd see my point?'

'I'd see your point, yes.'

'So, if I were to tell you that, whatever you've been

promised, you're not to trust it... would you believe

me?'

I looked the Doctor over, carefully, before replying.

What kind of man was he, I wondered?

'I have given my life over to progress, monsieur,' I told

him. 'Surely you can see that sometimes Fate itself takes a

hand? Look at the happy accidents that have led to great

progress - in order for someone to invent a wheel, they

must surely have seen a log roll down a hill. The secret of

bread, the genius of a candle... perhaps animal fat dripped

onto the fire and burned, or some flour went mouldy on a

hot day... but imagine the hand that sits behind creation,

nudging these events along... it is a remarkable hand, and

sometimes, rarely, we can glimpse its movements.'

The Doctor shook his head, obstinate. 'Fate does not

make my friends ill.'

'Perhaps, in this case, monsieur, it has. In order to

make you see the bigger picture.'

'So... I have to let you cure him?' The Doctor stood

up, the chair scraping along the tiles. 'Thank you for the

chocolate. Much nicer than having a gun pointed at me.

Can Amy see him?'

I spread out my hands. 'But of course.'

The Story of Rory

I was on the beach. In a chair. The wind was blowing like

a gale. Amy leaned over me. 'Hey, babes. I've pulled up

your blanket.'

'Thanks,' I said, trying not to cough. 'It's really not so

cold out here, once you get used to it.'

She nodded. 'Yeah.'

'You look very beautiful,' I told her. 'Windswept.'

She laughed. 'Thanks. It's the autumn look. Pale and

interesting. How are you feeling?'

I coughed a little. 'Scared.' I managed a brave smile.

In the distance, I could hear something singing... a

strangely timeless noise that I vaguely remembered.

She hugged me. 'I'm scared too.'

'I'm a bit lost... There wasn't much call to know about

tuberculosis in Leadworth.'

She smiled. 'Well, no.'

'It's kind of like knowing about Bubonic Plague. Or

scurvy, you know.'

'Yeah.'

'I'm kind of glad to be a bit in ignorance. Medical

people make the worst patients. We always know exactly

what's going on. It's terrifying.'

'You're doing really well, though.' She squeezed my

shoulder reassuringly.

'Kind of. I'm just sitting here.' I shrugged, but it was

difficult.

'That's probably a good thing.'

'You think so, Amy?'

'I don't know. It's so odd. It feels like something

dreadful is going to happen.' Amy stopped, and she

shifted slightly, uncomfortable. 'It's just... Do you think

the Doctor is right? Do you think this should all be

stopped?'

I looked at Amy. I looked at the beach all around us.

The wind tugging at the lonely tufts of grass. At a distance

were some of the other patients, sleeping or nodding or

murmuring quietly in their chairs. At the strange sea.

'I don't know. I'm just so scared, I can't think straight.'

I stopped. 'I mean, I know I should tell you that the Doctor

will save me. But I'm just not sure this time.'

'Do you trust him?'

'You do. That's all that matters.'

'OK. But what if... what if I told you I don't think he's

right? What if I were to say that... that I don't think this

clinic is so bad? That the Doctor wants to shut it down. To

let everyone here die. I mean, that's not right, is it?' She

tugged at my blanket, neatening it.

I laughed. 'We're supposed to save planets and people.

That's why we travel through time.'

Amy repeated my words, nodding. 'Is it?'

'Good point. I mean, he's never actually said that. It

just happens to us, doesn't it? We turn up somewhere and

when we leave, things are normally better. Remember

that cafe?'

'Which one?'

'The one where the guy couldn't make an omelette.'

'Oh yeah.' Amy smiled. It was a tight little smile. As

though she was humouring me.

'And the Doctor said, "Claude, you can't make an

omelette without breaking eggs," and taught him how

to make a really good omelette, while telling us lots of

stories about breakfasts with Napoleon and Churchill and

Cleopatra. While we ate omelettes. So many omelettes.'

Amy nodded, grinning.

'Point is... we can't even go for a meal without him

trying to make things better. But at the same time.

'You can't do it without breaking eggs,' Amy finished

for me.

'Yeah,' I said.

I noticed the fog drifting in across the beach, glowing

gently.

'It's coming,' said Amy.

'Yeah.'

'Scared?'

'A bit.'

'Don't be. I'm here for you.'

Amy wrapped her arms around me, and I felt a little

better. The fog spread itself around us both, a sickly

green.

'Amy—'

'Shhh...'

Rory Williams. Sat in a deckchair. On a beach. About

to be devoured by an alien fog. For my own good. With

my wife there to help me through it.

One more thing.

One thing I'd forgotten.

Neither of us had mentioned that I was tied to this

chair.

'You're not really Amy, are you?' I said.

'Shhh,' she whispered in my ear, and the fog flowed

over us both, pushing the world a long way away.

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

Impudence!

Kosov tells me that I am sent for by Prince Boris. Sent

for! I am not his servant!

I thought for a moment about not going, but Perdita

urged me to attend. 'It would look very bad if you did not

go. He practically pays for the entire clinic, my dear.'

There was, as ever, truth in her words...

I traipsed over to Prince Boris's rooms. He was sitting

there, a weak smile on his tired face.

'And how are you feeling, Your Highness?' I asked, my

best professional manner shrugged on like a comfortable

old jacket.

He waved this pleasantry away. 'Ach! Dear Dr Bloom

you know I feel amazing! Kosov and I,' he chuckled,

'have much to thank you for, really.' He closed his eyes

for a moment, ever so tired. The wretched man is so lazy

I wonder how he can even breathe. 'One feels almost

invigorated,' he told me with a yawn.

'Indeed, sir,' I said. Truth to tell, I hadn't much time

for this. Mr Williams was on the beach, telling The Sea all

he knew, and the Doctor and Amy... soon, soon they'd

agree to what I wanted. But I had to dance attendance on

this yawning fool. 'So, how can I help you?' I tried to keep

the impatience from my voice.

Prince Boris seemed asleep for a moment, then slyly

popped open an eyelid.

'Actually, my dear Bloom, it is I who can be of help

to you,' he said with a smirk. 'Finally, I am feeling like

the man I should have been all these years. My head is

clearer. My lungs are fresh. And I owe it all to you. So, my

dear sir, I shall give you a gift.' He dropped his voice so

low it scraped along the floor.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a

muslin-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it with a flourish

and dropped it onto his breakfast tray, where it landed

with a loud, metallic thump.

I stared at it. In horror.

Prince Boris chuckled at my reaction. 'Oh come now,

Bloom, surely you have seen one of these before.

I shook my head.

'Ah, then you are in for a treat. This was made for me

by a silversmith in St Petersburg.'

'You brought this into my establishment?' I was aghast.

I mean, plainly, stupidly asking obvious questions. Clearly

he had. It was there. On the tray, a gun nestled absurdly

amongst the eggshells, cold toast and teaspoons.

Prince Boris didn't even bother replying. Instead he

picked it up and turned it until it caught the light. 'It is

a lovely gun, Bloom. And the time is coming when you

will need it.'

'Never!' I cried automatically.

Boris nodded sagely. 'You love your wife, don't you?'

Outraged, I demanded he explain himself.

He cleared his throat. 'I cannot pretend that I can see the

future... but Bloom, I know things. I know terrible things.

Allow me to make a prediction. Very soon, someone will

try and kill your wife. I pray they won't succeed. But if

they try...' He wrapped my hands around the gun. It felt

cold, ever so cold. 'I want you to be protected.'

His voice hung in the air. I stared at him, at the gun,

and then at him again. He didn't blink.

He nodded, gravely serious. 'Please, Bloom. Take this

gun.'

He was so stern. Almost as if he was issuing an order.

I pocketed the gun and then didn't know what to do.

There really isn't a social precedent for a man telling you

that someone will try and kill your wife and then handing

you a firearm. There just isn't. So instead I found myself

talking banalities to him about his treatment. I even fluffed

up one of his pillows and then, as quickly as I could, I left

his room.

As I walked down the stairs, the gun weighed heavily

in my jacket, like it was trying to pull itself free from my

pocket with every step.

I made it back to my study and sat down, heavily.

When I was quite sure I was alone, I pulled the weapon

from my pocket and held it, turning it around and around

in the candlelight.

'Someone will try and kill your wife...'

What Amy Remembered

I sat down, numb.

The Doctor repeated what he'd just said, but there was

just a buzzing noise in my head.

'I'm cold,' I said, rubbing my shoulders.

That didn't seem to be the reply the Doctor was waiting

for, but stuff that.

'Did you hear what I said about Rory?' his voice was

slow and patient.

I nodded. 'Yeah. But I'm cold. Really cold.'

'I see.' The Doctor looked around the conservatory. It

was freezing and there was what looked like sleet coming

down. Big, loud drops of rain fell on the filthy glass roof.

It's funny where mould gets - pretty much everywhere,

really. Even on a glass roof.

I'm sure the conservatory was cheery enough in the

summer - it wasn't really a greenhouse, but more of a

fancy shed nailed onto the side of the building. But, you

know, stuffed full of plants. All of them looking like they

needed a blanket and a cup of cocoa.

The Doctor stood over me, all concern and fumbly

fingers.

'It's all right, Doctor, I'm not in shock. I just want to

know what we're going to do about it.' I took a deep

breath. 'So, Rory's dying?'

'Well...'

'Is he?'

'He... Amy... I'm so sorry...'

'Yeah. I just wanted to know. Can I see him? Where is

he?'

'I don't know.'

'What? Of all the times to lose him. Can't we get him

space medicine from the TARDIS?'

The Doctor pulled a face. 'Um.'

'What?'

'I've lost the TARDIS as well.'

I was outraged. Considering my husband was dying

and we were stranded in the past, the Doctor seemed

fairly calm about things. 'Someone's nicked it!'

'Not so much, no.' The Doctor looked awkward.

'There's a mechanism... thingy. If the TARDIS senses a

threat it removes itself from the scene. First sign of danger,

it goes and hides behind the curtains.'

'Whose genius idea was that?'

The Doctor swallowed, embarrassed. He claims to

be the last of the most advanced race in the universe.

Sometimes I'm just not convinced.

'Well, look, it sounds like a good idea on paper. But

when your life is one long "Kill the Doctor!", having

a spaceship that jumps a couple of hundred yards

to the left when you really need it is a bit of a pain.

So it's mostly switched off. But when we crashed we

overloaded the buffers on the warp transfer coil, which

would have switched it on. Good old Hostile Action

Displacement System. I've missed you like a hole in the

head.' The Doctor's arms were starting to windmill with

awkwardness.

'And where is the TARDIS now?' I demanded. The

only thing that could save Rory was missing, and the

Doctor just seemed mildly embarrassed.

'Um...' The Doctor looked like he'd happily answer

any other question. 'No sign of it yet. I think it's shifted

in time as well.'

'So it's of no help to us?'

'Not really - but it can't have gone far.' He held up - he

actually held up - two thumbs, as though this was good

news. 'The translation circuits are still working, which

means you haven't had to learn French in a hurry. And I

haven't had to learn English. That's something.'

'Wait... what?'

You know those toddlers you see being dragged

around supermarkets constantly asking 'Why are oranges

orange?' and 'Can I have a biscuit?' while their parents try

and get on with shopping... Sometimes, just sometimes,

I wonder if that's how the Doctor sees me. This was one

of those moments. There am I yelling 'Save Rory! We're

trapped in time!' And the Doctor's trying to read the

expiry date on a packet of digestives.

"That's really not important right now.' He seemed to

have read my mood. 'Thing is, either the TARDIS is about

to turn up, or The Familiar have got it.'

'So anyway, big picture - no drugs from the TARDIS.

The best hope for Rory is Dr Bloom.'

The Doctor looked a little more nervous. 'You see,

sometimes, you know when someone tells you something

that you're not actually, at surface value, going to

necessarily like, but, if you just think about it... well...'

I felt cold and scared. 'He's not on the beach, is he?'

The Doctor nodded glumly. 'I think he might be.'

I shoved him in the shoulder. 'Are you mad? Let's go

and rescue him!' Sometimes he needs a bit of a push, bless

him.

'No.'

'What?' My stomach lurched. Not my Rory. The

Doctor just didn't get it. Rory is too important.

He tried to explain. 'If he is out there, then the very

last place we can go is near him. We're too late. They're

reading him.'

'We've been on the beach loads.'

'But I was shielding you every time.' The Doctor had

adopted his 'being reasonable' tone. It was infuriating.

'Amy, if they've started reading him, I can't stop it.'

'What are they going to do to him? How can he help

them?' I swallowed, desperately. 'He's just Rory.'

The Doctor's hand stroked my chin. 'There is no Just

about Rory, Pond. Not any more. He's full of space and

time and the universe. He's knows about you, about me,

about the TARDIS. Think of everything he can tell them.'

I did.

I broke away from the Doctor, running towards the

door. I had to get down to the beach. I had to rescue my

husband. Now.

The Doctor grabbed my hair. For a moment I Was

pedalling like some cartoon character. Then I was howling

in pain.

'Sorry,' he said.

I started hitting him, shouting and screaming at him.

And he just carried on holding me. A tiny bit of my

brain registered that down the corridor Miss Elquitine

was playing her violin, that a storm was coming, that

the carpet really needed sweeping. But mostly I was just

furious with the Doctor.

He leaned forward, touching his forehead to mine.

'Think about it,' he said, his voice ever so gentle. 'Think

about everything you know. Everything I know... and

then about what Rory knows.'

I gulped. Really, awfully, terribly, I had a sudden

attack of hiccups. I was staring at the Doctor, murderously

angry with him. And hiccupping.

'He doesn't know as much as you, or me!' I shouted

in between gasps. "That's it. I'm going down there. I'm

offering myself to them instead. If you're too much of a

coward.'

The Doctor winced at that last word.

I hiccupped again.

'Amy Pond,' he said. 'Try holding your breath.'

'I will not hold my breath! This is important! Rory

is having his mind vacuumed and we're just standing

here—'

'Hiccupping.'

'Yes.'

We stood, glaring at each other. I hiccupped again.

'Seriously,' said the Doctor, patiently. 'I know it's not

the best time, but really, try holding your breath.'

I stood there. Hiccupping and scowling at him.

'Rory knows plenty... but not enough. He's like a

tasty little snack. He'll get them all excited about me,

which should, just should, stop them doing anything bad

to him.'

'Hiccup.' I stared at him.

'He'll be fine, seriously.' The Doctor smiled. 'They'll

cure him. They'll do everything they can to keep him

alive. Because as soon as they've read him, they'll realise

that the very last thing they want to do is to upset me.'

I nodded. And hiccupped again. He stroked my face.

His hands felt cold.

'I am so sorry, Amy Pond.' The Doctor's smile faded.

'It's just wrong. I know it is. But it's the best thing I

can think of. Really it is.' He grasped my shoulders.

'Sometimes, that's all I can manage. I am so sorry about

Rory. And I am sorry about this.

I have no idea where he got the ice cube from. But it

slid suddenly down the back of my neck. I gasped and

stopped hiccupping.

'There we are.' The Doctor tickled me under the chin.

'One problem solved. If only everything else was that

easy.'

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

All I am venturing to say is... surely a life of peace isn't

too much to ask, is it?

Nothing extraordinary - it's just that everything was

finally going to plan. The creature in The Sea assured

me that once it had read the mind of Mr Williams it

would have everything it needed. I had followed all of

its instructions. We had a bargain. I had given them my

patients and it had cured them.

There have been times when I have wondered if I

have really been doing the right thing. But luckily I have

Perdita, ever present Perdita, to come and squeeze my

hand and tell me it's for the greater good.

It hasn't always been easy. Sometimes someone has

come to the clinic, someone in desperate need of a cure,

and I have had them wheeled down to the beach just once,

only to receive a message - 'I'm afraid they have nothing

we want' And I have had to watch them die.

It wasn't like that to begin with. At the start, The Sea

wanted everyone. Everyone I could give it. Then it became

picky.

My brother is a terribly fussy eater - boneless fish,

only certain cuts of meat, and carrots and potatoes only.

Curiously, I've observed that picky fellows never have

a problem with puddings. Odd that The beach became

just the same - refusing simple people with just enough

money for the cure. It only wanted powerful people,

or army people, or government people. It couldn't get

enough of them.

I would ask, I would ask several times, 'Surely, you

have enough now? Can't you begin curing the others,

please?'

The answer would come back: 'Soon, soon, but first,

we must understand your world. We must have more.'

So I would bring more.

For the record, I must just point out that this goes

against my every principle as a medical man. People

must be cured, irrespective of who they are. But it's all

very well standing on a beach trying to deliver a lecture

on medical ethics. There's a story of a king who tried to

prove his power by ordering the tide not to come in. He

stood on the shore shouting until he drowned. It was a bit

like that. The Sea made it plainly apparent that it was not

to be ordered. It was quite nice about it, but very firm.

It was incredibly interested in Prince Boris. That's why

it assigned Kosov to follow him around personally. 'This

one is... this one is of much interest to us. He is lazy and

sleepy and yet... his family is so cruel. Underneath all

that indolence is a genius. A military genius. He will do

much. Much for us. We cannot wait until we have made

him better. Both in his body and in his mind.'

I obeyed them. What choice did I have?

Finally, just finally, I thought, I could sit down. Just sit

down in my chair for a few minutes and look at the fire

and think about everything. We were learning everything

we needed to from poor Mr Williams. We had Prince Boris

firmly under Kosov's control. We were at last winning.

We even had the Doctor running scared - he knew that if

he didn't help us, Mr Williams wouldn't be cured.

Surely everything was finally going to plan, wasn't it?

The matter of the gun and the warning from Prince Boris

worried me, but I dismissed them. Sometimes it was nice

to sit in front of the fire and admire your winning hand.

'Someone will try and kill your wife...'

The thought kept returning to me, even as I sat in front

of the fire. I could not enjoy even a moment's peace.

What Amy Remembered

We went to the lounge, which was almost empty. The

string quartet was now just the thinner Miss Elquitine,

playing the violin in between fits of coughing. Scattered

around the lounge were a few patients, pale as ghosts,

clutching their armchairs like they were using them to

grip on to life. In the corner an old lady with no teeth was

slurping a cup of broth as if it was her last meal.

'Not everyone gets cured, then?' I asked the Doctor.

He shrugged sadly. 'Only the important people.

Another reason I don't like what's going on here.'

'You're sure Rory is perfectly safe?'

'Oh yes.' The Doctor waved an arm around. 'He can't

tell them anything useful. Don't worry. Trust me. When

they realise there's nothing there, they'll let him go. It'll be

fine. Especially after I've done the next bit.' He rubbed his

hands together and then coughed loudly.

Miss Elquitine stopped playing her violin, and a hush

settled over the room.

'Ladies, Gentlemen, Boys and Girls,' began the Doctor.

'If I might have a word...'

It was kind of like when Hercule Poirot calls everyone

into a room to say who did it, although at first everyone

in the lounge looked totally uninterested. But the Doctor

spoke on. He explained a lot of things - about who he

was, about who they were, about why they were here.

About all sorts, really.

"The most important thing to know is that you all have

a dreadful, dreadful disease - and you came here looking

for a cure. Some of you are still waiting for that cure. The

bad news is that the cure won't work.'

At around about this point, some of the nurses sidled

into the room, their faces sharp and interested. The Doctor

spoke on. 'There is a time for everyone. And I'm afraid to

say, your time has come. You were all born too early. Dr

Bloom is a brilliant man, but his cure won't work. It can't

be allowed to.'

Helena Elquitine stood, with a little difficulty, her thin

frame shaking, and pointed her violin bow at the Doctor.

For a second, she looked about to speak, and then sat back

down.

A tall, pale-skinned man started shouting at the Doctor.

'What are you saying? That we're dying?' He laughed, a

wet and deep laugh. 'We've known that for years... but

some of us... some of us have started to hope... that

maybe one day we could be cured.'

The Doctor winced. 'I'm here to take that hope away,

sorry.'

That went down very badly. Jedward badly.

'Tough crowd,' I whispered to the Doctor.

He glared at me, furious. 'Not now, Amy.'

I winced. But he'd already turned back to them, walking

slowly around the room, like there was all the time in the

world, talking to each one, so kind and patient. Trying

to reason with them, to explain. To tell them all that they

were going to have to die. He did it very nicely, I'll say

that for him. Like he was coaxing and encouraging and

cajoling. But he was still spreading really very bad news.

As the Doctor talked, I noticed other patients slip in

to listen to him. Mr Nevil came in, followed stiffly by the

plump Elquitine sister. The Doctor started talking to a tiny,

frail old man who was shaking his head sadly. I pointed

out that we really should go, that we were running out

of time.

'So are these people, Amy,' said the Doctor,

straightening the old man's blanket. He patted the man

on the knee.

Olivia Elquitine stood at his side, shaking with fury.

'What if you're lying?' she hissed, jabbing him with a

plump finger.

The Doctor looked at her, so dreadfully still. You know

how it is when it's about to rain and there's just a fraction

of a second before the heavens open when the world

pauses and braces itself? That's how still the Doctor was.

'Olivia, you know I'm not lying. You know. I am sorry.'

He patted her on the shoulder.

Mr Nevil was next, the great brute of a man looking

scared. He was huge, old and large, but now he just

looked like a scared little boy. Olivia grasped his hand

protectively.

At that moment, Dr Bloom made his grand entrance

with his wife at his side. They looked magnificently cross.

Dr Bloom was in full sail, but Mrs Bloom got there first.

'My dear Doctor!' she shouted. 'What do you think

you're doing?' She flashed a smile around the entire

room. 'Oh dear, whatever next! You really mustn't be up

and about, must you now?' She took an arm, and tugged

it firmly. 'The poor man's had quite a nasty bump. We'd

better get you back to your room before you have Another

One.' She underlined the last two words very neatly. 'And

you, dear Madame Pond.' Her voice was as sugary as a

honey-coated knife. 'Madame Pond. Here you are, up

and around with that dreadful concussion of yours. Why,

I do despair. If we're not careful well find you both dead

in your beds tomorrow.'

That surprised me. A clear, actual threat from Mrs

Bloom. Sugar-coated, but still. I raised an eyebrow.

She acknowledged the challenge with a tiny, tight little

nod, as stiff as the ringlets in her hair. The nod, the smile

- it all said, 'Oh yes, I know your game, and I am telling

you right now that it stops.'

Olivia Elquitine stood up again. 'But Madame Bloom!

Dr Bloom! He's been saying such dreadful things.'

Now it was Dr Bloom's turn, all soothing warmth. 'I

am sure he has, my dear. This poor man is ever so ill!' He

chuckled, like he was reading a Christmas cracker. 'Why,

he even thinks he's a doctor!' More laughter. Which the

Doctor joined in with. Startlingly.

He slapped Dr Bloom on the back. 'Absolutely.

Hilarious. Naturally I came in here to tell all your patients

that they were going to die. Great joke. Lovely.'

The tiny old man looked up, eyes red and rheumy,

and blinked. 'Are we still getting rice pudding?' he asked

for no apparent reason. I was with him.

'Yes,' snapped the Doctor, angrily and coldly. 'There'll

be rice pudding for you, buns for everyone and plenty of

orange juice for the Silurians, too.'

Mrs Bloom tugged at his arm again, and found herself

holding the Doctor's jacket. He'd slipped free of it.

He strode into the centre of the room. 'Dr Bloom, you

are a brilliant, brilliant man, but you know that what

you're trying to do is wrong - it's a short-cut, and it's a

short-cut that isn't going to work. I'm going to give you a

tip - fresh air, rest, lots of hygiene. That's all on the right

lines. Stick with that. But stop, I absolutely beg you, stop

trying to use that thing on the beach to cure these people.

It's not going to work. It can't work.'

Dr Bloom smiled a slow 'got you' smile. 'If the cure is

so wrong,' he said, 'why have you let me use it on your

friend Mr Williams?'

'Ah.' The Doctor's manner fell. He was met by a storm

of muttering protest from the patients.

Mrs Bloom was at his side in an instant, wrapping

his jacket around his shoulders. 'See, Doctor, you've got

yourself all in a dreadful tizzy. We really should just pop

you back in bed. Come away now and stop making such

a dreadful scene...'

The Doctor's reply, when it came, was very quiet; as

soft as an old towel. 'I am letting you cure Rory because

he shouldn't be here. He definitely shouldn't be sick. And

because he's too important to Amy for me to let anything

happen to him.'

'Interesting,' said Mrs Bloom, her words all gooey

with caring. 'Can't you see what a muddle you're in? Tch!

Tch! What a pickle! Perhaps it'll all seem clearer when

you've had A Little Rest.' Clearly that was a signal - the

attendants moved closer, gathering in around the Doctor.

I wondered if they'd invented the padded cell yet.

'Oh, very good.' The Doctor frowned. 'You did it

deliberately, didn't you? You infected Rory so that... so

that...' He slumped, letting two attendants grab hold of

him. I felt someone else grab my arm. So that was it then,

rebellion over. Well, we've had better.

Dr Bloom started, frowning at the Doctor. 'I didn't!' he

protested, his voice troubled. 'Please, I really must assure

you.'

Eyeball-to-eyeball the Doctor replied, 'No, you didn't,

did you? So if you didn't, who did?'

A crackling silence settled between the two of them.

Dr Bloom faltered. 'I don't... I mean... I don't

know...'

The Doctor nodded. 'Something else is going on here,

Dr Bloom. You think you're at the centre of the web -

you're really a long way off. You're just a fly. So who is

the spider?'

Dr Bloom's wife squeezed his shoulder. 'My husband

is a very important man.'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' the Doctor looked bored. 'But...

someone else is running things, aren't they?'

Perdita stood very still.

So did the other patients in the room.

It was electrifyingly odd.

'Oh,' said the Doctor. "That's curious. It's been

listening.'

'What?'

The Doctor waved around the room. 'Look at them...

something has got into all their minds. Something very

vicious and nasty.'

The patients stood there. Silently. Awkwardly. Staring

at us.

'Er, Dr Bloom,' whispered the Doctor. 'I really, really

think you should listen to me when I say this... Something

is very badly wrong with your patients.'

'How so?' Dr Bloom looked baffled.

The patients all stepped forward. Shuffling closer. As

one, they raised their hands. BANG! The French windows

burst open and the storm started to pour in. The candles

blew out... but the room stayed lit - a strange green glow

was seeping up from the floor.

The Doctor looked at the Blooms and then at the

patients.

'Right,' he said. 'Interesting. Fifty-seven varieties of

interesting. Dr Bloom, you woke up something very alien

but mostly benevolent on that beach. You saw a way to

use it to cure people. Only something's taken control of

that creature, and instead of using it to take bad things

out of people... to cure them... only now, it's putting

things back into them.'

'Really?' asked Dr Bloom.

One of the Elquitine sisters twisted slowly towards

him, fog pouring from her mouth and clothes. The same

thing was happening across the room - skirts and jackets

billowing and leaking out a thick, green mist. It stank.

It was a terrible sight, so bad that it shook Mr Nevil

from his trance. 'Olivia!' he roared. 'What's happening to

her?' he demanded. 'Is this your doing, sir?'

'No,' the Doctor sounded alarmed. 'There is a strong

psychic link between the thing on the beach and the

patients. Someone has been using it to affect the patients

and the creature...'

Inside the mist, lightning crackled - it was like the

storm was in the room.

'That is very bad.' The Doctor shook his head, warding

us back. 'That psychic link needs severing... It's not going

to be pretty.'

Mr Nevil stood there, his hands shaking. 'I have a gun,

sir, I have a gun!' he yelled, pulling one out.

'Well, please don't shoot it at the weather,' snapped

the Doctor.

'Nonsense!' roared Nevil. 'I don't care about that.

I'm going to take down a couple of these leaky blighters.

Soon square them up sharpish.' He took aim. The Doctor

reached out to push away his hand, but instead the storm

acted - a bolt of lightning lashed out of the mist, striking

the gun and wrapping Nevil in St Elmo's Fire. He stood

there, jerking and yelling like an angry puppet toad and

then stopped.

The light around him faded - the room was dark now,

dark apart from the crackling green fog that was pouring

out of Mr Nevil's mouth.

'It's the storm,' I said. 'How are they doing that?'

'Tell you in a minute.' The Doctor grabbed my hand. 'I

need you all to get out of here.

The lounge was changed - the shutters were banging

wide open in the rain, and the fog was pouring in through

the windows - that same fog from the beach, curling up

around everyone's feet and lighting the room a pale green

glow.

Something pulled at my brain. I couldn't move. I looked

at the Doctor, desperately, but there was something...

something in my throat.

The Doctor seemed to realise. 'Please, hurry. It's me

they're after...' He turned and shouted to the storm.

'Yeah, go on, lovely juicy brain. Come and get it!'

I could move my feet a little. 'What are you doing?' I

demanded.

'Hopefully giving you all a bit of space. Rim!' The

Doctor stood there alone, confronted by the steadily

advancing patients. Fancy dress zombies shuffling closer

and closer towards him.

'Right,' I said. 'Come on.'

We made it to the door before the Doctor started to

out. Whatever he was doing, it hurt him.

Dr BIOOM'S Journal

How we made it out of the room, I do not know. But there

we were, in the corridor, nestled behind an aspidistra. Of

the Doctor and Amy Pond there was no sign. From the

lounge a rumble like thunder came. I could hear Perdita

sobbing.

'What is happening?' I wailed, but for once, my

marvellous wife had no answer.

'It's terrible, terrible,' she cried, clinging to me,

smelling like rose petals. It's like something is pressing

into my brain.'

She kissed me. 'Oh, Johann, I'm so scared.'

Someone will try to kill your wife. I banished the thought,

hurriedly. I gestured back to the lounge, my lounge, lit up

like burning phosphor. 'What is going on? The patients,

oh the patients...'

Perdita grabbed her head, shaking her ringlets free

until they hung loose around her face. I'd never seen her

hair like that. It looked... magnificent

'Something has gone terribly wrong,' she whispered.

'I can feel it Somehow... my head... The Sea... it is not

happy. Someone has woken up and is taking hold.

I held her dose to me. What were we going to do?

What Amy Remembered

There was uproar in the lounge as we ran out Absolute

uproar. Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening,

etc. I've never liked storms or thunder but there was

something worse about this. It seemed like the storm was

in the room.

The Doctor caught up with me, hands pressed to his

head. Well,' he groaned. 'That hurt.'

As we ran, he rattled on. 'Something is controlling

that entity in the sea. Something very bad. It needs to be

stopped. Right now we're in ALL SORTS of trouble. Say

something encouraging, Amy.'

I can't,' I said, struggling to keep up with him. 'But

what's it using to make the storm?'

The Doctor stopped running. He looked at me. His

face was really very pale indeed.

Amy,' he said. 'You remember I told you that Rory

was in no danger whatsoever and we weren't to worry

about him?'

I hate him when he says stuff like this. It's almost like

he's the anti-Santa. It's that dreadful, immediately sick in

the stomach, utterly sad and miserable feeling. The utter,

certain, kickingly dreadful knowledge that Things Are

Not Going To Get Better.

The problem is that I know exactly what to do in this

situation. You see, there's a drill:

1. I'll say, 'Right, then, let's go and rescue him.'

2. The Doctor will say, 'Ah yes, but...'

3. And then he'll list the fourteen things we have to do

before we rescue Rory

4. And why they're all more important than rescuing

Rory

5. The list normally includes wounded puppies

6. An exploding bus full of grannies

7. You know what I mean

8. So we'll go and do those instead

9. Cos they're all so important

10. And Rory has to come last.

I can already see the Doctor opening his mouth to

explain.

'Oh, skip the lecture,' I growled and, before he had a

chance, I ran off down to the beach. I was going to rescue

Rory.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Mother,

I got scared. For a while I was on my own in the clinic.

And it was all quiet. I went back to my room and wrote

letters and read a book. I kept out of trouble.

I looked down at the beach, but I could not see anything

- just a lot of mist.

Eventually I left a letter for you in the post tray.

I heard footsteps behind me.

It was the Elquitine sisters. Standing there. Blocking

me off. There was something NOT RIGHT about them.

They were not smiling, just standing there, blankly.

I talked to them, but they did not answer.

Their heads swung from side to side, like the puppies

when they're looking for something to hunt. Yes, that's it,

The sisters were hunting.

Mother, I was frightened.

But I did not want to go outside. And I did not want to

go towards them. I had to, but I did not want to.

I edged closer and closer, pressed up against the wall.

Their heads swung towards me, following my every

footstep. They smiled, a cruel empty smile.

I edged past them and away. I did not look back. I

knew they were watching me.

But THEY DIDN'T WANT ME. So that meant that I

could run and run and run and I would be fine.

Wherever I went, there were other patients. In the

corridors. Searching. Steadily searching. Moving ever so

slowly forward. Like hungry ghosts.

I decided to rush upstairs to my room.

One step. Two steps. I crept up the stairs, feeling the

wood creak beneath my feet. I tried to keep calm, to be

brave. No worse than sleeping through a thunderstorm.

No worse.

I reached the first landing and turned, and my legs

turned to liquid.

Standing at the top of the stairs was another patient,

the sad Austrian who couldn't play chess, his mouth set

in a toothless leer. Ever so quiet. Waiting.

I threw open the door to the cupboard under the stairs

and hid in there, quivering.

Suddenly.

Horribly.

I realised I was not alone in there. I could hear

breathing.

Then a terrible green glow lit up the cupboard under

the stairs. I was about to scream, and then something

stifled me. Oh it was HORRID!

Mother, they were the worst moments, truly. But don't

worry - see, I am writing this letter to you, so I must be

fine. The Doctor made it all right in the end.

Then a voice said, 'Shhhh.'

It was the Doctor. He was looking at me. The green

glow was the light from his sonic screwdriver. He looked

awkward.

'Hello,' he whispered.

'Hello, monsieur,' I whispered back.

'Sorry about that,' he said. 'I was hiding.'

'Me too.'

'I know.'

'Are there, by any chance, an awful lot of patients

roaming the corridors behaving most creepily?' he

asked.

'Yes.' I nodded solemnly.

'Oh well,' he said. 'All my fault. Something has got into

them. They're trying to find me. I gave them a tiny little

bit of my brain. Not much. A few memories, a colour I

never really cared for. Just enough to get away. The thing

in the sea... it is taking hold of them. Something else has

linked to it. Something powerful and dreadful that has

only now realised what it can do. The psychic link must

be broken. I think I know who it is, but... No.'

'What are you going to do about it, monsieur?' I asked

him.

He groaned. 'Why does it always have to be me?'

'Mr Rory is ill. You're the next best thing,' I said

simply.

'Thank you,' he muttered. He didn't sound very

pleased at that at all.

'I can go and get Mr Rory, if you want. Hell know

what to do. But he probably shouldn't be disturbed.'

'No...' the Doctor agreed with me. 'He's ill and...' He

sighed. 'The thing is... I could stop all of this so easily. I

just... It's not the right thing to do.'

'Then what is, monsieur?' I asked.

The Doctor smiled at that 'Well, Maria, I should like

you to be very brave and to go and find Prince Boris.

See if he can reason with Kosov... he's got a very strong

connection to that thing in the sea. Maybe it's Kosov who

is controlling it. Don't tell them where I am, but see if...

see if Prince Boris can influence Kosov somehow. Things

are very bad... but I think you can help me.'

He squeezed my hand.

'Don't worry, monsieur,' I assured him. 'Ill go.'

The Doctor smiled. "Thank you,' he said. 'You are very

brave.'

'What will you do?'

'I'm going to reason with Dr Bloom. Before it's too

late.'

Your ever loving

Maria

The Story of Rory

So there I am, talking to a fake alien version of my wife.

And the truth is, it's not so bad, actually.

Now, no, don't look at me like that. There are things

that you can write down that sometimes you can't say to

someone. No matter how much you love them. Because

you love them.

There was a time when Amy really liked going

clubbing. I've never been one of life's dancers - I can jig

around a beer bottle and that's pretty much it. But not

Amy - she's hands in the air, woo, for hours and hours

and hours. She even knows all the moves to Single Ladies.

And, of course, there aren't really clubs in Leadworth,

so someone has to be the designated driver. That'll be

me. Rory Williams. Standing by the coats in the corner,

swaying gently around an orange juice while Amy's out

there in the dry ice, laughing and dancing. She's having

a good time, so I stand there, pretending very hard, with

a desperate grin on my face. Because I love her. And if I

let on that I am bored out of my mind, then maybe shell

leave me. I don't want that to happen. So there's me, and

the coats, and the orange juice, hoping the wheels will

still be on the Subaru when we finally leave New York.

By which I mean New York the nightclub, so good they

named it just the once.

It's the same when we're travelling around the

universe, actually. Don't get me wrong - it's amazing, it

genuinely is. But there are times - just times, when you

think, 'I would quite like a say, if that's OK.' Nothing

grand. Just a choice of planet or something. Rather than

finding yourself in a nightclub on Space Florida, holding

the coats and yet another lukewarm orange juice, watching

the Doctor and Amy dance.

They've gone now. I'm abandoned. They're not coming

for me. They've probably forgotten about me already. Got

in the TARDIS ( what's that? Whispered a voice)... Yeah,

got in the TARDIS and gone. Gone off through time and

space ( time and space?). Leaving me behind on a beach,

talking with a version of my wife. And she is actually

listening to me.

'Right then,' I said. 'I don't suppose you'd mind telling

me what the plan is, would you?'

'Silly,' she said, tapping me lightly on the nose. 'The

Sea and I are going to make you all better.' She tipped

her head on one side and smiled. 'You do want that, don't

you?'

'Yes,' I said. Because I am scared. So scared of dying

here that I am letting this happen. 'But why - why are you

doing this to me?'

She shrugged. 'It's what we do, lover boy. We are very

good at it.'

'But...?'I prod.

'Clever thing,' she laughed. 'Well, we can only do it by

reading your mind fully. We haven't been able to do that

yet. It takes time. Even this version of me is just skimmed

from your surface memories.'

'My brain?' I said. 'But why would you want to read

my brain? I'm nothing special.'

Amy paused, and ruffled my hair. 'Of course you're

not, durr.' She blew a raspberry. It's oddly chilling. 'The

mind we really want to read is the Doctor's. But we haven't

been able to get into it, yet. So you'll just have to do.'

Story of my life, I think, as the mist wraps itself around

me.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Mother,

It is no longer like a fairy tale. I am scared and lonely

and I wish that you would come for me. It's been a terrible

day. But the Doctor sent me to see Prince Boris. I hoped

that maybe he would say something nice, or give me a

candy, or play a card game with me. Instead, he looked

ever so sad. He was out of bed for once, standing at the

window, not saying anything, so I went and I tugged at

his sleeve.

He smiled down at me, but it was ever such a tiny

smile. He lifted me up and hugged me, his great big beard

scratching at my cheek until I laughed.

'It tickles! It TICKLES!' I protested.

He put me down and patted me gently on the head.

'You're going to have to be ever so brave, little Maria,' he

said. 'We all are.'

'Does that mean that you will play cards with me?' I

asked.

He gave a weary nod, and we went to the card table.

He shuffled expertly, talking of the many games of chance

that he had played and won. He promised to teach me the

fine game of poker. It sounded most interesting. I knew

there were other things I must do, but I do like games.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Kosov walked

in. When I saw him I shrieked and dived under the bed.

Kosov was after me at once, his giant arms stretching

under the bed frame. 'Come here, come here you little

wretch!' he bellowed, but I was far too quick for him,

wriggling out and darting into a corner. Kosov clambered

to his feet and lumbered over to me. I cried out.

'Oh, what is the meaning of this?' Prince Boris managed

to sound bored at the same time as commanding.

'Oh monsieur!' I protested. 'He will kill me, truly he

will KILL me!'

Kosov made a rumbling noise, an ugly smile on his face.

'The child does not understand. She needs treatment.'

'I do not!' I protested hotly. 'I am fine. Oh, Prince Boris,

you know you must not trust your servant. You know he

is working with Dr Bloom. You know it!'

Prince Boris sadly tied and retied his fine red dressing

gown, leaned back against the wall and looked between

us. 'What a mess,' he chuckled, but there didn't seem

to be anything funny. 'You two are both so noisy!' He

yawned. 'I am such a lazy man, and yet no one will leave

me alone.' He glared at me, like an ogre in a play. 'Maria,

if I wished for children I would have got married, but all

the women I met were artful shrews who liked diamonds

and dresses a shade too much.'

'What about Madame Amy?'

'Ha!' laughed Prince Boris, 'Well see how she treats

Monsieur Rory.' He turned to Kosov. 'And you, my

man... you...'

'Keep back, Prince!' I urged. 'Keep back!'

Prince Boris smiled a tiny little smile, and advanced

to Kosov. The giant of a man stood there. Prince Boris

walked around him, tiny little steps, still tugging at the

cord of his dressing gown. 'Are you really here to kill me,

Kosov?'

There was a terrible silence for a second. Then Kosov

bowed. 'I am here to serve you, Your Highness. Your

health is my top concern.'

'Indeed.' Boris fiddled with the sash on his dressing

gown cord. 'Indeed. And how old are you?'

Kosov blinked. 'I am 35, sir.'

'I see. And if you are 35, how old were you when you

taught me to ride as a little boy?'

Kosov faltered. 'It was so long ago, Your Highness.'

Prince Boris nodded. 'We are now the same age,

Kosov. Yet, you taught me to ride when I was 4 years old.

Explain that.'

Kosov just stood there. Eventually he said, 'But Your

Highness, there must be some mistake...'

Prince Boris shook his head, all the light gone from his

face. 'There is not. And never, ever contradict me. How

old are you?'

Kosov took a trembling step towards the Prince. 'Please,

sir, don't do this' he cried, reaching out a trembling hand,

imploringly. The giant begging from the prince.

But Prince Boris had folded his arms. Suddenly, for

the first time, I realised what he was like when he was

really a prince, rather than a bored man in pyjamas. His

face was no longer light, or gay or charming. It was grim

and sharp like the executioner's axe.

'So, Kosov, tell me - are the Doctor and Madame Pond

in danger?'

Kosov stood there, sad but insolent.

'What is Dr Bloom planning?'

Again, Kosov shook his head.

'Very well. What are you?'

Kosov did not move.

'Ah.' Prince Boris let the word hang in the air. 'You

know what, Kosov, my dear chap? I rather fancy going

home. I miss it all. Even in winter. There's nothing quite

like coming in from a cold horse ride through the forests

to a roaring fire and a boiling dish of tea. I rather think I

shall send for my things and go home. I am cured.'

Kosov made a noise, like something broke inside him.

He breathed out, raggedly, like an injured dog.

'But I shall go home alone, I rather fancy. Perhaps via

Paris. Yes, a few days there. And quite a lot of late nights.

Just the ticket after all Dr Bloom's thin soup. When I get

back to the estate, perhaps I shall send for you.'

Kosov shook his head, the sweat running from his

brow - if it was sweat?

'Or maybe,' continued Prince Boris, 'I shall simply

saddle up my horse and go out, riding, riding, riding,

every day through the frost. How marvellous would that

be!'

Finally, Kosov spoke, his voice twisted. 'Your Highness,

I beg of you...'

Prince Boris shrugged and laughed, 'Oh Kosov, dear

Kosov, you're not real. Go away and haunt some other

fellow. You're nothing but a Golem.'

Kosov took another step forward. 'Please... you

must believe... please, you have to... It's for your own

good...'

Now it was Prince Boris who shook his head, his eyes

cold and blue. 'No, Kosov. No. If you were the real Kosov,

then I wouldn't even doubt why you were doing this. He

loved me like a son, and I adored him. I used to dream

about working in the stables with him - oh, what stupid

childish dreams. I'm sure it was a hard enough life. But

Kosov was a great man. You, sir, are not Kosov. So I have

to ask the questions I ask every man who approaches me

with a deal that's too good to be true: why are you here,

and what is in it for you?'

Kosov's mouth hung open. A little, wet clicking noise

came out of it.

'No answer?' said Prince Boris, almost sadly. 'I just

wish... Ah well. You may go.' He turned his back on

Kosov and stared out of the window. 'I have no more

need of you.'

I crouched in my corner, watching.

For a while, Kosov just stood there. I thought he might

cry, or walk away, or do any one of a number of things.

But he just staggered. A false step. His balance shifting,

almost as though... no, half of him sank to the ground.

And his face! His face was like ice, running and melting

and falling apart. Even his clothes dripped like hot wax.

I watched for as long as I could. But as the strange

thing shattered, it made a dreadful gurgling noise. Like

it was crying.

That wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was that

Prince Boris laughed.

That was when I ran away.

Your ever loving

Maria

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

Perdita sank against the wall. She looked dreadful.

'It's Kosov,' she croaked. 'Something has gone terribly

wrong.'

'What?' I asked her.

She slid down, her head falling forward, her features

hidden beneath that spilling tangle of hair. She moaned.

'It's too late... Go to him, Johann, please.

I rushed up to Prince Boris's rooms, and found the

Prince dressing himself. He was tying a cravat, perfectly,

and didn't glance round from the mirror.

'Ah, Dr Bloom,' he purred, even managing something

sarcastic in the click of his heels.

I stared at the thing on the floor. It looked... well, like

a foggy lump of glowing clay, only matted with a lot of

wet hair. Sometimes the clinic cat will vomit up a half-

digested rat on the study carpet. It was just like that, only

bigger. There was a dreadful smell coming from it. It was

still moving, slightly, damply. It was horribly familiar.

'Was that Kosov?' I gasped.

Prince Boris winked at me. 'Poor Dr Bloom, you've

gone quite green. I thought you medical men had better

stomachs.'

'What have you done with him?'

'I've killed him.' Prince Boris actually rolled his eyes.

He flopped back on the bed. 'He'd cured me, so I had

no more need of him. I simply wished him away.' He

groaned theatrically. 'Oh to be able to do that with all

the peasants back home.' He jumped up and rubbed his

hands. 'Oh, I feel marvellous. I'm quite grateful to you,

really I am. And so terribly, terribly sorry about the mess

on your carpet.'

I tried not to look... What was this man?

He clasped his hands behind his back. 'Ah, now for

the creature on the beach. What a marvellous thing it is!

I cannot wait to meet it,' he announced. 'Many years ago

my father sent me on a... diplomatic mission. It was slow,

painful work. I applied myself rigorously to it for two

whole days and then the third I stayed in bed.' He affected

a yawn. 'I can sense that whatever that creature is... it is a

marvel but it is used to being dealt with gently. You are a

kind and patient man.' Boris shrugged, and tugged away

at his loathsome beard. 'I am not.'

He let it hang there in the air. It was a threat. A definite

threat.

He smiled suddenly, and tapped me on the chin, the

kind of gesture you'd make to a pet. 'I owe it all to you,

dear Johann.'

I flinched at the familiarity.

'I am a changed man! A changed man! I feel marvellous!

For the first time in my life I have the energy to be

exactly who I have always wanted to be.' He clapped me

insolently on the shoulder. 'Now then, I think I should see

whatever it is you're keeping on the beach.' There was a

nasty glint in his eye. 'I think it's about time I showed it

who really is boss.'

With that he sailed from the room.

As he left, he called over his shoulder: 'Don't forget

my gift to you, Dr Bloom. It's very important.'

The Story of Rory

Funny how you forget things. Such as whether or not the

thing that looks exactly like your wife is actually your

wife or not.

'Amy,' I said to her, completely forgetting that this

wasn't Amy at all. 'I don't feel too well.'

The thing that looked just like her made a shushing

motion and laid her fingertip on my lip. 'Don't you worry

about a thing, my lovely Rory boy,' she whispered to me.

'We're nearly over and done with. You're just about cured.

I'll even kiss it better.' And she smiled, a lovely smile that

lit the entire beach a brilliant green.

Despite the gathering storm and the rain, a warm

glow spread through me, like a cup of hot chocolate on a

crazy cold day. I gave an experimental cough. No rattle.

Nothing bad. Just a cough. And my head was clearing of

fog. I felt amazing.

I turned around to the other patients, sat dozing next

to me on the beach. 'Do you hear that?' I cried, 'I'm cured!

I'm cured!'

A couple of them nodded, but they didn't really stir.

Amy tutted. 'Poor dears, it's taking a lot more to cure

them. You know how it is.'

'Er... Why is that?'

'Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you, now

you're all better.' Amy smirked. 'You... Well, you only

had it a little. A tiny weeny little bit. Just enough...'

The lovely warm glow went. 'Just enough to make me

trust you.'

Amy nodded. 'Sorry, hon.'

'But that's... Dr Bloom wouldn't...'

Amy stroked my hair, 'He had no idea.'

'So whose idea was it?'

And that's when a rather fussy, amazingly dressed

figure glided out of the mist. It was Prince Boris, no longer

in pyjamas but in a full Prisoner of Zenda military outfit. He

strode towards me and bowed, clicking his heels. 'It was

my idea,' he said, his voice warm and fruity. 'I suggested

to Kosov that he give it to you.'

He turned sharply to Amy. 'Have you learned

everything you need from him?'

She nodded, dully. There was something odd about

the way she looked at him, fearful. 'We have learned a lot.

He has been beyond this world. He has travelled through

time.'

Prince Boris laughed. 'How utterly wonderful!' He

looked at me with something like sneering respect. 'How

novel! The Doctor mentioned something in small talk, but

I am fascinated to know exactly how?'

'Not telling,' I said.

'In a blue box called TARDIS,' said Amy dully. 'He has

no idea how it works. The only person who knows is the

Doctor.'

'Ohhhhh,' said Boris, laughing again. 'How interesting.

How very interesting. What about the girl?'

Amy shrugged. 'She is very important to this man. He

worries she loves the Doctor.'

'Oi!' I cried. 'It's more complicated than that.'

Amy turned back to me and winked. 'No it isn't,

babes.'

Prince Boris smirked. 'So you are jealous of your

wife?'

I tried very, very hard to be brave. 'Well, who isn't?'

'Interesting,' sighed Prince Boris.

He grabbed hold of the thing that looked like Amy

and kissed her, long and slow, watching me all the time.

I hated him.

'Fun! Of course, if your wife cared for you at all, she

would be here. But where is she?' He looked up and

down the beach, like a pantomime villain, and then

shrugged. 'Oh dear, my friend Rory, I don't think you're

very important at all. Your companions have abandoned

you...'

Tell me about it, I thought, miserable.

'They have abandoned you to me.' He grasped hold of

the fake Amy, and twirled her around, laughing as they

danced. 'I tell you, Mr Williams, these creatures have

made me amazing! And they do respond ever so well to

a strong mind. I'm just off to have a word with them. Tell

them who is boss. Goodness me - what a waste I've made

of my life. I'm making up for lost time!'

'What?' I narrowed my eyes at him. 'I thought you

were nice!'

Prince Boris tutted and clucked his tongue at me,

like an old lady in a sweet shop. 'No, not nice. Merely

incredibly polite. Anyway, if you will excuse me...'

He made to go away, but Amy stopped him, resting a

hand fondly on his shoulder.

'Yes.' He was irritated. 'What is it?'

'Now we have cured Mr Williams, can I release him

and return to The Sea?'

Prince Boris shook his head. 'No, drain him dry.'

And with that he walked off into the mist.

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

A fine, dreadful pickle, made all the easier by just how

wonderful Perdita is to me. She squeezed my hand by the

aspidistra. 'It will all be all right, my darling,' she said.

Sometimes her good mood infuriates me. I gestured to

the corridor. 'How can it be? Prince Boris has taken over!

He's ruined everything. The man's mad. I thought I just

had to deal with the Doctor, but now this! I mean, look at

it - my patients! The clinic is a shambles!'

Perdita looked at me. 'I know, my dear.'

'But what are we going to do?'

She considered this. 'I know someone who can help.

But you won't like it at all, I'm afraid.'

Which is how we ended up outside the door of my

own study, knocking on it. Infernal, infuriating cheek! But

Perdita nodded, encouragingly, giving me the strength

to carry on. I knocked and I waited. It was like waiting

to see Herr Gustaffson back at the medical academy in

Switzerland. I felt suddenly like a young man again, full

of ideas and nerves and...

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Oh Mother!

I'm so scared - this place is so dreadful! I simply can't

stay here any longer. It's just utterly, utterly terrifying.

First there's the storm and the mist - they're both filling

up the corridors. Then there's the other patients. They're

all behaving really oddly.

Finally there's Prince Boris, who is suddenly being

REALLY NASTY.

He's like... Oh, you remember how Aunt Claudette

was always ever so nice, and ever so lovely until Uncle

Jean died and left her very rich and then she became

impossible and cruel and had all of his dogs put down?

It's like that, like he's suddenly got the chance to show off

just how nasty he can be. I really don't like it. He's jolly

unpleasant.

I ran back to the Doctor who was still in the cupboard

under the stairs, cradling his head.

'Monsieur Doctor,' I said to him. 'How are you? I have

something to tell you!'

He shook his head sadly, 'Not now, Maria.'

I stopped.

He paused. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry. That was rude, wasn't

it? I don't mean to be. It's just so much is happening and

I've got everything wrong and I've lost Amy and my head

hurts and I am pleased to see that you're not affected.

That's one less thing to worry about. Actually, is it? If you

don't mind, I'll just think about that...'

I burst into tears. It normally helps with grown-ups.

'Right,' he said. 'Sorry again. It's all a bit much, isn't it?

Let's go and hide somewhere else. Somewhere with toast

would be nice.'

We ended up in Dr Bloom's study, sitting in front of

the fire.

'Thinky thinky think,' shouted the Doctor. He'd found

a jar of biscuits and we were sharing them. They were

ginger, and I didn't much like them, but I didn't want to

say that to the Doctor as he looked ever so preoccupied

and cross. I was bursting to tell him about Kosov, but the

Doctor held up a hand. 'Now then, now then. Maria, I

suppose the building isn't on fire, is it?'

I shook my head, solemnly.

'Ah well. That's one thing not to worry about. OK,

then. Right.' He bit off half of a biscuit, chewed it a bit and

then spat it out. 'How many of these have I eaten?'

'Four, monsieur.'

'Oh dear. I hate ginger biscuits. Eurch.' He screwed

his face up. 'So, then, this is the problem. Dr Bloom's

accidentally built a giant battle computer on the beach

and I think someone has realised this, but who? Who? -

No, don't interrupt, that's a biggie. Then there's all those

people who have been cured who really shouldn't be.

Then there's all of the knowledge that Dr Bloom has. Then

there's Amy in danger. Or Rory who's in just as much

trouble. Then there's the fact that the one machine that

could stop all this is missing. It's a lot of problems, and I

don't know where to start, and the taste of ginger really

lingers, doesn't it?'

See, Mother, this is what the Doctor is like. I worry

about having him to stay. I'm sure he'd write things on

the tablecloth. And probably upset a few of the servants.

But I do like him. Can we invite him, perhaps?

'Have I left anything out?' he asked me.

I shrugged. 'I'm a bit confused.'

'Me too,' he admitted. 'So what bit should we do

something about first?'

I thought about this, swinging my legs a bit under the

chair. 'Your friends, monsieur,' I said solemnly. 'They are

important to you.'

'Well then, maybe. But what about Europe?'

I shrugged. He took the last biscuit, chewed it,

grimaced, and finally swallowed. 'Fine then.'

There was a knock at the door.

'WHAT NOW?' snapped the Doctor.

I jabbed him with my elbow. 'I'm fairly sure that's

rude,' I admonished him.

'Whatever,' he tutted. 'Sorry! Come in!'

The door opened, and Dr Bloom walked in with his

wife.

'If I could perhaps have a word?' he asked.

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

'Come in!' The Doctor sounded impatient and actually

cross at being disturbed.

'I do hope I'm not intruding,' I said, managing, I

hoped, not to sound sarcastic.

The Doctor actually waved an arm around airily. 'Oh,

not at all, not at all.' He handed me a tin. 'Biscuit?' he

said.

The tin, I noticed, was empty. Perdita had made me

those biscuits.

'Um,' he said, snatching the tin back. 'They're all gone.

Don't worry, though, they were rubbish.' He pulled a

face.

How dare he, how dare he.

Perdita placed a soothing hand on my shoulder.

'It's not going very well, is it, Dr Bloom - I did warn

you.' The Doctor waved a finger at me like a patronising

teacher.

I held my breath. Perdita stepped in. 'My husband is

as alarmed by this turn of events as you are. Which is why

we came to see you.'

'And you found me very quickly. Very quickly.' The

Doctor glared at dear Perdita. 'I did wonder. Oh yes.

Where are the rest of the patients?'

I shrugged. 'Roaming the grounds, perhaps. Or down

on the beach. In this weather. It's not ideal. And Prince

Boris-'

'Never mind,' snapped the Doctor. 'There's something

you should know, Dr Bloom. There is a way of weakening

the creature's psychic connection over the clinic, but I just

don't want to use it. It's more important that I find out

who is behind all this.'

I tried to tell him again, but that was, of course, when

the French windows opened. And there was Prince Boris,

striding in. It was quite an entrance. He was smiling and

even swaggering a little.

'Doctor, you cannot be allowed to stop Dr Bloom's

work. I forbid it.' He stopped, as though swallowing

something. 'We can't have you standing in the way of

progress, dear sir.'

The Doctor boggled at Boris. 'Prince Boris... are you...

feeling all right?'

Boris paused for a second, his confidence fading. 'I... I

don't know.' He pressed a hand to his temple. 'Something

is pressing down on my head. My mind... Oh, Doctor.' He

stretched out his hands, pleading. 'It hurts. Please... can

you stop it? I'm not myself! I can't control my thoughts!'

He staggered back against the wall.

'It's the psychic link,' said the Doctor grimly. 'I've got

to stop whoever is controlling it.'

Boris looked up, his teeth gritted. 'I know. Please...

stop it!'

The Doctor turned to me. His face looked so sad. I felt

Perdita grip my hand.

'Dr Bloom...' he began, and then stopped.

'Do it!' urged Prince Boris. 'For pity's sake.' He gasped

and stared at me. 'Damn you, Bloom, what about your

wife?'

'Not Perdita!' I said. 'Not my dear wife. She wouldn't

harm a hair on anyone's head. She is my rock.'

And then the Doctor did something dreadful.

I cannot believe what happened.

'Dr Bloom,' he began. 'I'm sorry, but how long have

you known your wife?'

What a stupid question. I told him he was being an

idiot.

'No, but really...?' The Doctor stared at me. 'Think

about it. When did you first meet?'

I stared back at him.

Perdita squeezed my hand. 'Tell him, my dear.'

I stood there. Rooted to the spot. Feeling sick. I looked

at Perdita. At her grip on my hand. At her smile.

'I... Does it matter?'

'Yes,' said the Doctor. 'It matters very much. I have to

try and weaken the psychic grip of The Sea. I have to. And

I have to do something. Tell me, Dr Bloom. When did you

first meet your wife?'

I licked my lips and frowned. 'I can't remember.' I

turned to Perdita. 'When did I meet you, dearest?'

She looked back at me and smiled. 'Whenever you say

I met you, dearest.'

I staggered. My knees went. My stomach heaved. And

yet I just carried on gripping her hand.

'No, Perdita, my love, when did we meet?'

She carried on looking at me, as calm as a lake.

Oh please, oh please, oh please, no.

'Whenever you say, dear,' she repeated. 'You always

know what's best.'

I tried to look away from her, but I couldn't. I wanted

to look the Doctor in the face and scream at him. But I

kept looking at Perdita, at my rock, my guide, my best

friend. 'Doctor,' I said.

'I know.' His voice was a whisper. 'Don't say it.'

'But...' I stroked Perdita's face, so warm and tender.

'My Perdita... my dearest Perdita.

'Dr Bloom, I am sorry.' It sounded almost like the

Doctor was crying. I couldn't see. I didn't want to see.

'Your wife is a Familiar. She was never real. The Sea gave

her to you. She's been guiding you, making you do what

it wants all along. I am so sorry.'

Your wife is a Familiar.

Your wife is not real

The Sea gave her to you.

I had a sudden memory. Of standing on the beach

and suddenly feeling a hand in my hair. Moving ever so

gently down and stroking my shoulder. A gentle warm

laugh on a cold day. And there she was. Standing there.

My wife.

Perdita tilted her head to one side. 'Dearest, what is

he saying?'

'He's saying... he's saying... he's saying that you're

not real.'

Perdita dismissed it with a laugh. 'But what does the

Doctor know? He's half the man you are. You always

know what's right. You always do.'

'No,' I said. 'Just this once... the Doctor is right.'

I squeezed her hand. And I shut my eyes. I'd seen what

had happened to Kosov. I knew what was coming.

'I love you,' I said.

'I love you,' Perdita said back to me. And for the first

time, the only time, I noticed how flat her voice was.

And then it started. A dreadful wet noise, like ice

melting and falling from a roof.

When I opened my eyes, she had gone.

The Story of Rory

'I feel dreadful,' I said.

Things to bear in mind - as I've said, I'm a really bad

dancer. But there I was, dancing. On a beach. With Amy.

In the rain. Without a butler holding an umbrella over us.

All around, the rest of the patients were dancing. It was

slow. Ever so slow.

They had come down from the chateau, all of them,

walking in a slow shuffle, the mist rolling around them,

pouring out of their sleeves. Maria had told me she called

them the Dead, and they looked like the Dead now -

strange, lifeless things dancing.

Some of them were crying. Mr Nevil waltzed past,

holding grimly onto Olivia Elquitine, while a dog

bounded around at their feet. 'My darling, I'm so tired,'

he sobbed to her. 'So tired.' She clung to him, holding him

up - who would have thought that it was her who had

more strength?

'I know, my dear,' said Olivia, gently. 'But it's the dog,

it won't let us stop.'

'I am so sorry,' sighed Mr Nevil. 'That's Stoker. Old

fellow made me so happy. But not now... I don't need

him, now that I've got you.' He squeezed her hand tighter

and they danced on.

I looked at Amy, at the thing that was somehow Amy,

as it dragged me on and on. 'Why are you doing this?'

She smiled at me, just a little. 'You're needed for fuel.

All the patients are. For sustenance. For the storm.'

'Righto,' I said. I could feel my legs starting to buckle.

'Surely we can't do this for much longer?'

Amy tugged me further and further on. 'Until you

drop,' she said.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Mother,

I don't like the Doctor any more. He made Madame

Bloom go away.

I feel bad now for never liking her. I really do. But I

can't unwish all the bad things I've thought about her

now. Or can I, Mother, because I'd really like to?

I saw Dr Bloom's face then. How much he loved her.

How he couldn't bear to look at that thing on the carpet,

that bubbling thing that still had her hair.

I was very angry with the Doctor. I was furious with

Prince Boris for making him do it. But I was so cross with

the Doctor. I screamed at him.

He just nodded, ever so sad.

'I am sorry,' he said to the room. 'I am really, really

sorry. But... Dr Bloom... Johann... it had to be done.'

He had the air of someone who was hoping that what

he'd said was just true.

'The creature in the sea, it was feeding off of you. I had

to break that link. Now it's just a creature. All by itself.'

I wanted to tell him that he was wrong. But he wasn't

listening. He was just staring at Dr Bloom.

'Open your eyes,' said the Doctor, gently, pleadingly.

'Please. Look at me and tell me you know that.'

There was silence in the air. I realised the Doctor

wanted Dr Bloom to tell him that everything was all right.

That he'd wished his wife away and that... that he forgave

him. I wondered then... what kind of man was he? What

did he think people were really like?

Dr Bloom shook his head. 'Has she gone?' he asked,

his eyes screwed shut.

The Doctor grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair,

and threw it over the thing on the carpet. I tried not to hear

the wet noise it made. 'More... more or less,' he said.

The Doctor rested a hand on Dr Bloom's shoulder.

'Johann, please... I had to. The psychic link. It's broken

now.'

Which is when Prince Boris cleared his throat. 'Actually,

no. You see, Doctor, I think you'll find it's just cleared the

way for my link to the creature.'

'What?' The Doctor turned, gawping at him.

Prince Boris nodded. 'I took over from Dr Bloom some

time ago, but he and his wife were resisting my influence.

Now he isn't linked to it any more. I have you to thank

for that.'

The Doctor just stood there.

I tugged his sleeve. 'Monsieur,' I said. 'I've been trying

to tell you!'

'Ah,' the Doctor nodded. 'Always listen to children.

Sorry, Maria. I'm sorry I didn't have time for you. So...

Boris. Are you evil?'

'Not at all, my dear sir,' chuckled Boris.

'You just chuckled,' groaned the Doctor. 'Chuckling's

a dead giveaway in my books. Along with putting your

hands on your hips and snogging another man's wife.'

He stuck his hands in his pockets. 'So...' he said. 'Let me

get this right. I've just made a dreadful, terrible mistake,

haven't I?'

Prince Boris laughed. 'Absolutely. Don't worry about

it. We all make mistakes.'

The Doctor turned to Dr Bloom and sighed. 'I am so

sorry.' He shook his head. 'Boris. What a shame. I liked

you.'

Boris marched over, and patted the Doctor on the

hair. 'And I liked you too, Doctor. But this... this is all

such a splendid opportunity. You really must agree. It's

brilliant.'

'Is it?' said the Doctor.

'Oh not this, this little clinic full of sad little people.

But no, it's the thing down on the beach. It's really ever so

marvellous. It's like a library - it's absorbed the minds of

everyone here. It really is the most intelligent thing in the

world. And I'm linked to it. To think I've wasted so much

of my life. But luckily, when they created dear Kosov to

cure me, I became linked to it. I could see into it. I could

guide it. I could reach an arrangement with it.'

'What?' said the Doctor. 'You're what's been guiding

The Familiar all along?'

'Well, not exactly all along. But... I've had a helping

hand. I've shaped a few decisions. And now it's ready. It

really is. It knows everything - who to trust in government,

who is strong, who is feeble-minded, which are the really

great armies, the natural leaders, and the weaknesses of

every single country in Europe. Down there on the beach

is a giant brain ready for war. And it's going to tell me

everything I need to do in order to become the most

powerful man in the world.'

'Oh,' said the Doctor.

The door opened. And the two Elquitine sisters

shuffled in, their eyes blank.

'Aha! My army!' laughed Boris, 'Now then. It's time

for you to go to The Sea, Doctor. The creature would very

much like to meet you at last.'

The Story of Rory

I am so weak.

The hospital once organised a Fun Run. There is, trust

me, no such thing. I remember a miserable day running

round and round Leadworth in the rain. Amy said she'd

turn up and cheer me on, but she'd overslept. So her dad

met me at the finishing line with a Tupperware box full of

corned beef sandwiches and a mug of tea.

'Two hours of running, eh?' he said, sipping from his

little plastic cup. 'How much did you make?'

'It's not the amount you raise, it's the taking part,' I

explained, sensing I was on weak ground already. That's

the thing about Amy's dad.

'Well, I'm sure that's a lot of consolation to the kids

waiting for that new incubator.'

'Twelve pounds and thirteen pence,' I muttered

miserably.

We sat there for a moment, chewing on sandwiches.

There was a lot of chutney. Amy's dad likes chutney.

'I see,' he said, and handed me a twenty pound note.

'Come on, let's go and see if Princess Amy has woken up

yet.'

I looked at fake Amy. Her perpetual smile and her frozen

gaze. 'Please,' I said, shuffling. 'Please can we stop?'

'No,' she said. 'We've got to carry on dancing. We've

got to. Not much longer now. Come on, babes.' And she

dragged me round. I trod on her toes. I'd been doing that

quite a lot, to be truthful. At first by accident, and then a

bit maliciously. She never complained. She wasn't Amy.

The real Amy had long ago abandoned me... Dancing to

death...

She dragged me on, round and round that beach. Some

of the other patients had already given up. Mr Nevil lay

there, rain spattering over him, his dog tugging at his

collar, trying to get him up again.

The storm crashed around us.

A hand tapped Amy on the shoulder.

'Hi,' said a voice. 'Can I cut in?'

It was Amy. Real Amy. Standing there. She hadn't

forgotten me! She'd come to rescue me! She looked

murderous.

Fake Amy smiled back at her, empty as ever.

'Well,' said Real Amy. 'Aren't you going to tell Rory

he's a rubbish dancer? I know I would.'

'I love him,' said Fake Amy.

Real Amy rolled her eyes. 'Which of us do you prefer,

husband dearest?' Her face narrowed dangerously. 'Think

very carefully about your answer.'

'Well...' I began. 'She is very nice to me.'

'Rory Williams,' Real Amy thundered. 'You don't like

nice.'

'It's a change.'

'I love you,' cooed Fake Amy. 'You dance so much

better than the Doctor.'

'Silly.' Real Amy nudged her in the ribs. 'Hippos dance

better than the Doctor.' She turned back to me. 'Rory,

listen. Very quickly. You have to say it out loud. I know

you're thinking it.... but you have to say it.'

'What?'

Amy tapped her duplicate again. 'Say it. Go on. About

her.'

'That she's not real?'

'Perfect.' Amy laughed. 'Say it again, like you mean

it.'

'Don't listen to her, my love!' Fake Amy looked at me,

startled, then fell down, vanishing into the mist.

'Result!' Amy giggled, hugging me.

I held on to her. She smelt as wonderful as ever. I'd

missed her so much.

'I am so tired,' I said, and fell asleep.

Dr Bloom's Journal

7th December 1783

Fool! Fool! Fool!

This journal is the story of my life's work. Although

now that my life is over, it seems strange that my work

will continue.

It seems stupid to admit that I had no idea that so much

of my life was a lie. Who was Perdita? Was she ever real?

I have a vague memory - a memory of once talking to a

charming woman as we shared a table by Lake Geneva, of

sharing a sticky gateau. Was my wife based on that? Half

a memory of a charming afternoon? Did The Sea give me

what I was missing - a companion, a help-meet... purely

altruistically, for the best of reasons, or to drive forward

its own plans?

Have I really been curing people? Or have I been

bringing it a constant supply of victims? What have I

done?

And that's as close as I, the great Doctor Johann Bloom

can get to analysis at the moment. For, at the moment, I

am simply a man staring in horror at a bundle covered in

a blanket and grieving for it. Grieving for my wife. She

was real to me. The most wonderful person I ever knew

has been taken away from me...

I worked with her for so long. Making this clinic a

truly amazing place. Doing what I thought was really

wonderful work. Sharing every day with her. Delighting

when I made her laugh. Marvelling at how, no matter

what the setback, she always knew just what to say. I

loved her. I loved her so much. Yet it was all a lie.

And now I know what to do about it

What Amy Remembered

To be frank, that was easier than I thought it would be. I'd

got Rory back and dispatched a sinister alien duplicate.

I was glad the mist rolled over her quite quickly - I got

a glimpse of what was happening to her, and it wasn't

pretty.

I grabbed Rory. The poor lamb was pretty much dead

on his feet He looked awful. I dragged him up the beach

and onto a sand dime. The storm was all around us - it

was really pretty incredible. Land, sea and sky had joined

in one big soggy grey mush. Fog, rain, whirling sand you

name it, it was all around us. Wet and choking.

The sea itself was glowing, glowing a bright green that

spread into the mist and the rain.

It looked really bad. And in the middle of it all, madly,

absurdly, were all these dancing figures in ball gowns

and wigs and suits, staggering through the storm like

tired clockwork.

I slapped Rory. He opened an eye. 'Amy.' He grinned,

and closed the eye again.

'Lover boy!' I snapped. 'Come on. We've got to stop

the people on the beach from dancing.'

'Really?' he muttered. 'But why... I'm so tired...'

'Because what's happened to you is happening to

them. They're being drained. They're making the storm.'

'Right...' Rory frowned. He stood up and wobbled

about a bit. He focused on the beach. 'Blimey.' Then he

looked at me. 'Amy, you look great'

'Thanks, husband.' I nudged him. 'Now come on.'

'Just a second,' he held up a hand. 'Tell me again what

you think of my dancing?'

'You are a terrible dancer,' I told him.

Ron' nodded. 'Just checking,' he said, a little sadly,

bless him. 'Not an alien, then. Let's go stop this.'

It took a while. We dragged people slowly away from

their dancers, putting them down in deckchairs. Some of

them looked in pretty rough shape. And some of them

weren't happy to go.

A little old lady was dancing with a baby. She wouldn't

let go of it She kept crying over and over again.

'Oh, my dears, look at little baby dance! Look at how

happy he is! Mummy's ever so tired but she's going to

keep on dancing because it makes my little boy laugh- Yes

she is, yes she is!'

But we did it, eventually.

Old Mr Nevil, sitting on a deckchair, opened an eye.

'Where did Stoker go?' he muttered. 'That was a lovely

dog, you know. Ever so kind natured. Really listened.

Where's Olivia gone? Have you seen her?' He slipped off

into a deep sleep and started snoring.

Rory's voice called me down to the sea. The baby was

grabbing at him. It was floating in mid air, its tiny hands

like claws, scratching at his eyes. I ran to him, trying to

swat away the child.

'Help!' he cried.

I waded in, and it all went horribly wrong. The baby's

tiny little pudgy hands started digging into my cheeks,

its face hissing at me as it pulled at my skin. All the while

its mother was yelling at me, hitting me, crying, 'It's my

baby! Don't hurt my baby!'

The mist rose up around us and for an instant there

was just the strange awful baby, with its little wavy hair

and shining eyes and grabby hands. One of them clamped

over my nose and mouth, pushing down, stifling me.

'You're not real! You're not real!' I tried to shout, but

the creature just shook its head. I felt the blood pounding

in my brain and stars began to dance in front of my eyes.

I was being suffocated by a flying baby. I stumbled back,

my feet splashing in the waves. The baby leered at me,

and pressed down harder. I threw my hands up and fell

backwards.

In the distance, over the pounding in my ears, I could

hear Rory shouting. 'Amy! Amy!' he cried. 'Keep away

from the waves...'

The sea shockingly cold and a livid green, like the

brightest pea soup you could ever imagine. And from

it hands started to emerge, tugging and pulling at me.

I couldn't fight any more, I just couldn't. I needed to

breathe, I needed to stand up. I needed...

The baby shifted its entire weight onto my face, forcing

my head under the water. My lungs, desperate for air,

sucked in great gulps of freezing saltwater and I started to

choke. And choked again, and flailed a bit and went under

a second time, those weird hands forcing me down.

A hand grabbed me, pulling me up. Rory.

'Am I glad to see you...' I said.

A cry from the shore alerted me. Standing there was

Rory. Also.

Right.

Fake Rory.

That was quick.

'Are you all right?' asked the Rory holding my hand.

OK. Ten points.

I turned to the Rory on shore. 'What about you,

anything to say for yourself?'

'I'm real!' followed by 'Blimey!'

'Yeah, yeah, anything else?'

'Well, at least it's not created a duplicate of the

Doctor.'

Hmm. Jealous. Twenty points. And also, a really good

point. Sometimes you need a giant alien water brain to

tell you what your priorities are.

I turned to the Rory holding my hand. 'So, what have

you got to say for yourself, Rory?'

Value Rory looked confused. 'I don't mind about the

Doctor, not at all,' he said simply.

'That does it,' I sighed, shoved away the fake, and

strode out of the water towards my husband. 'Right

then.'

We stood on the sand, surrounded by that glowing

mist tugging at our heads.

'What a complete mess,' I said.

Rory nodded.

'How are we doing?'

'We've rescued three dancers.'

'Out of...?'

'Um, a dozen or so. I didn't really count.'

'Grand.' I stared at the empty deckchairs flapping in

the wind. 'Storm's still pretty strong, though.'

'Yes.'

'We have to see this as good news. Somehow. The

Doctor will get here soon. The Doctor will get here soon.'

'Did somebody call?' That was the Doctor's voice,

coming to us out of the storm.

We ran towards him, calling his name over and over.

There he was. 'Doctor!' I cried out. 'You're OK.'

'Ah,' he said. "That's a bit of a yes and no.'

The mist cleared around him slightly.

He was held in place by the Elquitine sisters.

'Um,' said the Doctor. 'Meet my guards. For little old

dears they're doing rather well.'

The mist cleared some more. Standing a way behind

was Prince Boris. Laughing.

'What's happening?' I demanded.

'Ah, Amy,' sighed the Doctor. 'Some days are good

days. This is a bad day. Frankly, it's all gone a bit Pete

Tang.'

The two ladies dragged the Doctor forward.

'I really wouldn't try and fight them off,' the Doctor

warned. "They're under direct psychic control, I'm afraid.

If I get out of this alive I'm going to be bruised till Shrove

Tuesday. These two ladies have got a vice-like grip. Well

done, girls. I bet you have no problem opening jars.'

They pulled him closer to the water's edge.

'What's happening?' Rory asked.

'Oh,' sighed the Doctor. "They're going to try and feed

me to The Sea. Bad idea, very bad idea.'

They dragged him closer.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

7th December 1783

Dear Mother,

I ran down to the beach. It was so cold and so quiet.

Everyone stood there, like they were waiting for a game

to start - all those grown-ups, all staring at each other;

There were the dancers, all of them frozen still in a

circle around the Doctor, who was barely standing, held

in place by the Elquitine sisters.

Standing over the crowd was Prince Boris, smiling,

waiting, daring someone to say something. He looked

so happy, which worried me. I did not care for him any

more.

No one seemed to notice me. Apart from Amy who

was mouthing, 'Get back, kid'. But I stood where I was. I

wanted to watch.

Amy was holding up Rory, who looked pretty bad.

Poor monsieur, he looked so tired.

The sea washed in and out around them, glowing

and whispering. I could start to hear words in the ocean,

muttering and hissing, 'Feed us, give us' over and over.

It made me shudder, and I worried, Mother - I

worried about all those times you came down here. What

happened to you?

What happened NEXT was interesting. In the short

time I've known the Doctor, I've seen him do many things.

But I've never seen him plead.

He sank to his knees in front of Prince Boris. 'Please,' he

begged. 'You mustn't let The Sea scan me. You can't...'

Prince Boris smiled. 'The Sea wants to know very much

what's in your head, Doctor. I must admit I'm curious...

Already it is reaching out to you...'

The Doctor winced, sharply, like he had a terrible

toothache.

Prince Boris's smile grew wide with surprise. 'Why...

you have travelled so far... met such amazing people...

and a box... such a magical box!' He clapped his hands

together. 'These are just the things it can sense by tugging

at the very frayed edges of your mind.' He leaned closer

to the Doctor, his beard almost scratching the Doctor's

nose. 'It wants to know more. It wants to know what's in

the depths of your brain. I would let it devour you.'

Quietly, in a whisper that somehow carried across the

beach, the Doctor said one word. 'Don't.'

Prince Boris laughed. 'You're a brilliantly funny man.

You have a great sense of humour! I like that. I like that

very much.'

Suddenly, seemingly without making an effort beyond

a shrug, the Doctor was free, standing up. The Elquitine

sisters stood back, baffled. Although Prince Boris was a

little taller than the Doctor, somehow he stood eye-to-eye

with him.

'Don't,' repeated the Doctor, his voice loud and firm.

It wasn't a shout but it echoed off the rocks in a way that

made me feel so happy. The Doctor was here. Everything

would be all right. I noticed Amy and Rory hold hands. It

was going to be fine.

The mists parted, drawing back from him, revealing

the beach, the patients, Prince Boris looking troubled,

and...

Oh, Mother, Dr Bloom was running across the beach.

He stopped and stood there, panting heavily. He was

crying, crying ever so much. To my amazement I realised

he was holding a GUN.

'You!' he shouted, his hand shaking so much the gun

rattled. 'You killed my wife!'

He pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot filling the

beach.

The Doctor fell down, an 'Oh' of surprise perfectly

matched by the bullet hole in his forehead.

The Doctor's Last Thoughts

Q: What was the last thing to go through the Doctor's head?

What Amy Remembered

I saw the Doctor die.

It was one of those dreadful moments. I once saw a

dog crossing the road, not looking where it was going, not

seeing a speeding white van. I can remember everything

about that - the sign on the van, the happy look on the dog's

face, the way it trotted over the road, tongue lolling out

between two rows of sharp teeth and red gums, the people

on the other side of the street, a special offer in the corner

shop, a pram with three shopping bags looped round the

handles, a man tying his shoelaces, half a headline from

the folded paper on the van's dashboard...

You get the picture. Anyway. The Doctor was dead. As

simple as that.

I saw it happen, and it was like my childhood died too.

All those hopes and adventures and ideas, all dropped

to the ground with him. It was the Doctor and someone

had just shot him. Not a clone, a duplicate, a copy or an

imitation. Not a glancing blow, not a flesh wound, not a

blank or a near-miss but an unquestionably deadly shot.

Dr Bloom had just had the most amazing bit of beginner's

luck. Funny how you think stuff like that.

My first impulse was to ask the Doctor what he thought

of it all, as he'd be bound to have something funny to say.

Something really funny and Doctory. Funny and Doctory

and really reassuring. Instead, he said nothing. He just

lay in a little dead heap on the wet sand. Because he was

dead. My raggedy Doctor.

My second impulse was to turn to Rory, whose hand I

was gripping ever so tightly.

'Do something!' I yelled.

The Story of Rory

The Doctor was dead.

Amy started shouting. I don't think she even realised

she was doing it. You know when they show on the news

those women who have just lost their entire families under

a mudslide? It was that kind of noise. Just grief without

words because there were just no words that suited.

It wasn't even the kind of noise that did anything. I'd

like to say the noise shattered glass or something. But it

didn't. It was just loud and horrible.

She gripped my hand, really, really tightly, crushing

it. I let her. It was all I could do. I just stared at the Doctor

lying on the shore, the waves edging towards him. He'd

been so tall a second ago. Now he was tiny, like he wasn't

real. Rain was already soaking his clothes.

Over Amy's screaming, I could hear a strange little

clickety-clickety noise, over and over. It was Dr Bloom's

hand shaking so much the gun rattled. His face... he

looked as though he didn't know what he'd done. He was

just shocked. He looked so unhappy, I wanted to run to

him. Only I couldn't. Because I was holding Amy, and I

would never let her go.

Funny that. The most amazing person in the universe

drops dead in front of you and I wanted to go and hug the

man who'd done it because he looked so sad.

The gun fell out of his hands and onto the beach with a

wet slap. Dr Bloom looked up at Prince Boris. 'There,' he

cried. 'Are you happy now?'

Prince Boris waggled a hand equivocally. 'So-So,' he

rumbled. 'The Sea very much wanted the Doctor's brain.

I just found him rather annoying.'

'He killed my wife,' murmured Bloom, his voice

simple. 'You told me he would. I wasn't able to prevent it.

I had to do something.'

'I know,' Prince Boris sounded bored. 'You were

supposed to shoot him earlier. It's a bit late now.'

'Yes,' said Dr Bloom miserably. 'Yes.'

The Doctor just lay there on the beach. The initial shock

was fading, and I was starting to realise a few troubling

things. Funny how selfish you really are. If the Doctor

was dead, that meant we were stranded here. Living out

the rest of our lives in the past. With no decent plumbing

and terrible food and... oh yeah, the French Revolution

just about to start. What would we do? How would we

make a living? What if the TARDIS turned up - could we

get back into it? Would Amy be able to fly it? How would

we get back to Leadworth? Was that even where Amy

would want to go?

Her pressure on my hand grew. 'Do something,' she

cried.

Which was, in the circumstances, the least helpful

thing she could have said. I mean, what? But my medical

training kicked in. I went to his body, rolling it over. It was

amazing how neat that little bullet hole was, how pale the

Doctor's face was. Strange - I've never seen his face at rest

before. Even when he's thinking hard, or staring at you,

his face is moving, alive. But this wasn't. It was dead.

I felt his heart. And then his other one. The other

annoying, impossibly wrong one. Nothing. There was no

point to any of this. Gunshot to the head.

I even found myself giving him artificial respiration.

Funny that - kissing the Doctor. Really, you know, should

have been Amy. Kissing him goodbye. But maybe, just

maybe - I mean, he was an alien. Maybe he didn't keep

his brain in his head. Maybe that was where he kept an

appendix or something else a bit useless. Maybe he was

fine. Just needed a bit of TLC, bringing back to life.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I felt Amy's hand on me. Gentler this time. Just resting

on my shoulder. She was crying.

'Rory,' she sniffed. 'It's OK. You can stop.'

But I didn't. Not for a bit.

Eventually, I stood up, letting Amy wrap her arms

around me. We looked at the Doctor's body.

'Bet this isn't what he had in mind,' I said.

Amy sniffed, almost laughing.

Prince Boris was still standing there, gently amused by

the whole thing. Wasn't it Russians who made bears fight

each other? Have I got that one wrong?

That look on his face - bored triumph. That was what

did it.

I decided - This wasn't the end.

I'd had the Doctor in my head. I knew what heroes

did. It was time to be one.

What Amy Remembered

I love Rory Williams.

He stood up to The Sea. He picked up the Doctor by

the shoulders and he turned to The Sea and he shouted,

'Heal him! Go on! Heal him!'

Rory started hauling the Doctor into the surf, the

waves dragging around him. I ran to him and we both

held the Doctor up while The Sea surged around us, the

water green and greedy. Lights boiled under the surface.

We kept the Doctor there, limp in our arms, feeling the

fog press in, The Sea tug and drag at him.

'Heal him!' Rory yelled again, and this time I joined

in.

'Go on! He's what you've been after all this time! Do it!'

I waited a second and then added, a bit lamely, 'Please.'

I hoped it was going to be all right. I really hoped it

was going to be all right.

Remember that dog that got run over? I can still see

the van driver cradling it and saying the same thing over

and over, really desperately hoping that it was all going

to be OK.

Now here's Amy Pond, standing in the freezing ocean,

holding the dead body of her imaginary friend, and

shouting at the sea to make him better.

Yeah. If only my therapists could see me now.

That was it for a bit. I could sense that Prince Boris and

Dr Bloom were watching us. Prince Boris was probably

amused - you know, in that 'English people are sooo

funny' way of his. Dr Bloom looked like the lights were

off and no one was home any more.

Then The Sea... it surged up around the Doctor. Rory

and I fell back, or were pushed back - I'm not really sure.

But we fell against the shore, winded and soaked.

Rory helped me up and we both stood there, shaking

with shock and cold. There was no sign of the Doctor. Just

thick fog everywhere.

Then the fog cleared slightly, and showed us that The

Sea looked wrong, somehow. It was a livid green - the

shade of green you dye your hair when you're 14 years

old and a bit rebellious. It lit up the sky the same sickly

colour. And it was boiling and thrashing like a kettle full

of angry squid.

Then The Sea parted, splitting down the middle and

rushing away, leaving the Doctor's huddled body lying

on a pile of rocks, surrounded by a thick wall of churning

water that hissed and spat.

Amazingly, the little figure stood up. The Doctor was

alive.

I held on to Rory, ever so tightly. My hero.

The Doctor ignored the giant, impossible water feature

in front of him and turned around. He waved absently at

Prince Boris and Dr Bloom - it was the kind of wave that

said 'I'll deal with you in a minute'. Instead he faced Rory

and me.

'Hello!' he said.

'Hello,' we said back. Bit lame. Couldn't think of

anything else to say.

'Rory Williams.' The Doctor stuck his hands in his

pockets, pulled out a fish, frowned at it, and threw it

away. 'Rory, Rory, Rory - was it your idea to get The Sea

to cure me?'

'Yes,' said Rory, smiling.

'That was brilliant.' The Doctor beamed, then his face

fell, '-ly awful.'

'What?'

'The one thing I have been trying very hard not to do

was to let The Sea scan me.'

'I didn't have any choice!' protested Rory. 'You were

dead! I wasn't giving up on you! I wasn't letting them

win!'

'Never mind,' sighed the Doctor. Truthfully, I thought

he was being a tad ungrateful. 'Now... Just run.'

One of the things you learn very quickly around the

Doctor is never to question him when he says that word.

You just run. It's almost like breathing.

As we started running, something really, really terrible

happened to The Sea.

The Doctor was just standing there. He was screaming

at the top of his voice. He was arguing with The Sea. 'I am

sorry!' he was yelling. 'I've been trying very hard to stop

this happening.'

The Sea made a noise.

It was as if water could scream.

The Doctor's voice got even louder. 'Your Familiars

work by reading people's minds and becoming what

they miss the most. You do all that and you take on all

their pain, everything they've done, and you give them

back something they've lost. Which is why I knew I could

never let you anywhere near me. I've tried so hard.'

The Sea screamed again, bulging and tearing itself

around him.

'I've lived so long. I've lost so much.' The Doctor

reached out a hand, beseeching the shuddering waves.

'I'm the very worst thing you could possibly have

scanned.'

A wind howled, knocking us all flat, blasting sand into

our eyes. I tried to keep watching - through the storm I

could just see The Sea twisting and turning, reaching out

and forming itself into something... almost unnameably

horrible. A giant towering creature - tentacles, and

claws and teeth and metal and hundreds of mouths. All

screaming. The creature still changing and shifting and

howling reared up, blocking out the sky, tearing the wind

from the air. It was bubbling and thrashing and expanding

and dissolving - in places there were what looked like

struggling limbs and howling faces, in others it appeared

to be sprouting shiny silver towers, and shapes I just

couldn't describe - just a giant nightmarish confusion

that was growing bigger and bigger and more and more

agonised.

Over its cries, I could hear the Doctor shouting at the

top of his lungs: 'I'm the Last of the Time Lords.' His voice

dropped grimly. 'Unexpected Item in the Bagging Area.'

Then the beach exploded.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

8th December 1783

Dear Mother,

I woke up from a long sleep. The Doctor was building

a sandcastle. He saw me looking at him and he smiled.

'Hello Maria,' he said. 'Everyone else is still asleep. It's

been a long night.'

I stood up and realised my dress was covered in

sand. I brushed it off me and looked about. The beach

was covered with sleeping bodies. Amy and Rory were

holding each other, the patients lay dotted about in

clumps. It was a beautiful clear morning. The first I can

remember in ever so long. The sea stretched out for miles

to a clear blue horizon. Gulls bobbed lazily on the surface

of the water.

I went over to help the Doctor with his sandcastle, but

he held up a stern finger. 'Now then, Maria, these things

have to be done properly...' he explained. I looked. It

was a marvellous castle with battlements and turrets and

windows.

Sadly, I said, 'Monsieur, it is finished, is it not?'

He shook his head. 'What good is a castle without

people?'

So we built some people out of sand.

He made a princess which looked a little bit like me. I

tried making some soldiers, but they were very lumpy. I

got better. 'What about the other people on the beach?'

The Doctor looked up and down the beach. 'They're

sleeping off a vast psychic trauma, so best not to be moved.

But they'll be fine. I've checked. I popped back inside and

borrowed the odd blanket. After all they've been through,

it seemed a shame to let them catch cold.' He sighed and

patted down a brave knight on a horse.

We carried on making sand people. 'There. All lovely

and perfect.' He paused. 'What are those, Maria?'

I pointed to my forces. 'This is the invading army that's

attacking the castle. You've got to have them.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Yes, I guess you must.'

He looked so sad that I said, 'Monsieur, I can just get

rid of them if you want. They're only sand.'

He shook his head, and seemed so old and tired. 'No

Maria, you're right.'

We sat in silence for a bit.

'What about Amy and Rory?' I asked.

The Doctor smiled. 'They're too old for sandcastles.'

'What's the point of this castle?' I asked. 'Won't the sea

wash it away?'

The Doctor frowned. 'Just the kind of thing Amy

would say,' he sighed. 'Maybe you're getting too old for

sandcastles too.' He tapped me on the nose and smiled

sadly.

I shook my head. He was a funny man.

He started to dig a moat. 'You make a good enough

moat, it holds the sea off for a little while longer. It's not

great, but it's the best I can manage.' He leaned back on

his heels. 'Sometimes that's the most you can hope for.'

'What happened to everyone?' I asked him.

'Oh,' he looked as though he wished I hadn't asked

him. 'Ah. Well. The sea was host to a rare and beautiful

creature. It was trying its best. But it wasn't well. It was

wounded. It was reaching out, trying to find a mind to

control it - that's what it's used to. First it found Dr Bloom,

but he wasn't strong enough. And then it found Prince

Boris. It made him... well, it made him everything he'd

never got around to being. It cured his illness, but also

his laziness. Which sounds silly. But really all that was

stopping him from being very unpleasant was thinking

there wasn't much point in bothering. You people are

strange and silly.'

(Yes, Mother, he really did say 'you people', which was

ever such an odd thing to say when you think about it.)

'As soon as I arrived, I could sense that creature poking

around in my head - and I knew what it was and that it

mustn't be allowed to read my mind. It really mustn't.

The things I've lost, the things I've seen... trying to make

those tore it apart. It was such a lovely, noble, gentle

creature, really. I tried to save it.' He let out a long breath,

almost a wail. 'I didn't do very well.' He peered out to the

sea, to the tiniest, faintest green shimmer on the surface.

'There's only perhaps the ghost of it left.'

I patted him on the arm. 'You tried, monsieur.'

He took my hand and squeezed it. 'Thank you.'

With a loud skitter of sand, Amy came running up,

spraying sand into the moat as she thudded to a halt.

'Oi!' she cried out to the Doctor. 'Making sandcastles?

What are you, five?'

Extract from a Letter from Prince Boris

... and so ended, my dear Andrei, your brother's plan to

take over the world!

Up until today, I thought it was only you and dear

Mother who knew me for what I really was (although she

always took my side, bless her). But then, I realised the

Doctor knew me.

I woke up in bed, and he was sitting there, reading a

paper.

I nodded to him.

'Hello!' he said. 'No, no, don't try and get up - I'm

afraid you were closest to the psychic blast. Probably sent

your spinal column jangling like a wind chime.'

I was rueful. 'I imagine this means I won't avoid the

lecture.'

To my surprise he shrugged. 'Do you really want one?

You know, I've spent hundreds of years arguing with

people like you. Do you know, in all that time, not one

of you lot has ever changed your mind? It's like arguing

with the internet.' He grinned. 'Don't worry, I'm not

wasting either of our breaths.'

I laughed with him until his smile faded.

'So,' he said, 'in case you were wondering, let me see

- the poor creature you were trying to exploit is gone.

As is your mental link to the patients. Nothing left. It's a

terrible, terrible waste. H a p p y ? '

' N o t really, b u t it was w o r t h a try,' I said, straightening

out the b e d s p r e a d .

'Really?' he leapt to his feet. 'Honestly? That's it.'

'These things are always w o r t h a try.' I waggled a

h a n d . 'You never k n o w . '

' N a h , ' he said. T r o u b l e is, I always do know. I always

win. A n d no, it doesn't get boring.'

'This is starting to s o u n d perilously like a lecture, my

dear Doctor,' I p u t in, yawning.

He n o d d e d . 'I just w a n t e d to k n o w . . . have you always

b e e n like this? Always? Really?'

I s p r e a d out my h a n d s . 'For my sins.'

' N o w you're just being charming,' The Doctor started

pacing angrily. 'I mean, w h a t did you really imagine

w o u l d h a p p e n ? That you'd rule the world? Because I

tell y o u this, f r o m here on in there's a lot of that going

a r o u n d . It s u d d e n l y gets fashionable. Few years from

n o w a F r e n c h m a n will try it. I kid y o u not.'

We b o t h l a u g h e d at this.

I t u g g e d at the c o u n t e r p a n e again. 'I'll tell you the

truth, Doctor. I've always been this w a y . . . but there just

d i d n ' t seem that m u c h point. You know, w h a t ' s the point

w h e n y o u ' r e going to d r o p d e a d any day? A n d then, all

of a s u d d e n , w h e n I started to feel better, w h e n I realised

h o w p o w e r f u l the creature was, a n d w h a t I could do with

it...'

'I k n o w , ' the Doctor agreed w i t h me. He told me how,

if he h a d the p o w e r , he'd use it to destroy whole worlds

a n d n o t give it a second thought. Well, that's not quite

w h a t he said, b u t those w e r e pretty m u c h his sentiments.

'I a d m i r e y o u , ' said the Doctor. 'No, no, I really do.

T o b e g i v e n a s e c o n d c h a n c e , a n d t o s o u t t e r l y , t o t a l l y ,

a w f u l l y m i s s t h e p o i n t . '

' T h a t ' s w h e r e y o u ' r e w r o n g , ' I a r g u e d . ' Y o u m i s s e d

t h e p o i n t . I t o o k t h e r i s k . I t ' s w h a t m a k e s m e t h e g r e a t

m a n , a n d y o u t h e t i n y o n e . '

T h e D o c t o r s h r u g g e d . ' W e l l , I l i k e b e i n g t i n y . '

H e s t a r e d a t m e t h e n . H i s e y e s n o t e v e n b l i n k i n g .

A l m o s t a s t h o u g h t h e y d i d n ' t n e e d t o .

' W e l l , ' h e s a i d . ' A s y o u s a i d , y o u t o o k a r i s k . '

' A n d l o o k h o w I l o s t , ' I s i g h e d . ' W i t h a b i t of l u c k , I

c o u l d h a v e l i v e d f o r e v e r . '

' I n s t e a d o f w h i c h . . . ' T h e D o c t o r p u l l e d a f a c e .

' I t ' s all r i g h t , ' I s a i d . ' I k n o w . T h e c u r e i s f a d i n g . '

' W h a t w i l l y o u d o n o w ? ' h e a s k e d .

' O h , m a k e t h e m o s t o f t h e t i m e I h a v e l e f t . H o p e f u l l y

f i n i s h r e a d i n g a f e w b o o k s . '

' B e t t e r m a k e t h e m s h o r t o n e s . ' H e n o d d e d . ' W e l l , I

h a v e t o g o a n d s o r t o u t t h e m e s s . B u t I t h o u g h t I'd m a k e

s u r e t h a t y o u w e r e all r i g h t . '

' G e n e r o u s i n v i c t o r y ? ' I a s k e d .

' N o t e x a c t l y , ' h e s a i d . ' I t ' s j u s t s u c h a s h a m e . A s I s a i d ,

I r e a l l y l i k e d y o u . '

W e b o t h l a u g h e d a g a i n a t t h a t . T h e n m y l a u g h t u r n e d

i n t o a c o u g h . T h e c o u g h i n g l a s t e d a v e r y l o n g t i m e .

W h e n I f i n i s h e d c o u g h i n g a n d l o o k e d u p , t h e D o c t o r

h a d g o n e . . .

What Amy Remembered

This is the story of how it ended. The sun, such as it was,

made its appearance through the glass roof of the porch.

It was a cold wintry light. A grimly silent gathering of

patients sat around while the Elquitine sisters played a

mournful requiem.

The Doctor came in, trying to ignore the accusing

glances from everyone. He joined Rory and me at a table

away from the fire. He didn't say anything.

'So,' Rory asked eventually, 'everything's all tidied

away, then, is it?'

The Doctor grimaced. 'History is back on track. Messy

and not enough of a happy ending for anyone, really.'

I jerked a hand at the patients. I tried not to meet Olivia

Elquitine's accusing glare. 'How will they be?'

'Well, actually... as good as possible,' said the Doctor.

He was putting a brave face on it. 'Some will stay cured...

and some will not. Depends on what it was trying to

mend, what it had to work with. Ill be fine, so will Rory.

And those who've left the clinic... but those still being

cured?' He sighed. 'Well, they'll have to trust Dr Bloom.

Fresh air, hygiene, countryside... it's all very forward

thinking. It's probably adding years to their lives - and

it's all Dr Bloom's work. So I'm not going to interfere -

this is history playing out as it should do.'

'Really?'

'Really,' said the Doctor, not meeting our eyes. 'Well'

he muttered, 'kind of.' He realised we were staring at him.

'What am I supposed to do, go around bumping them all

off?'

'Good luck,' said Rory. 'The Elquitine sisters would

take you down.'

The Doctor nodded at that. 'Try and think of it not so

much as a happy ending as a less sad one.'

I looked at his face, so pulled down and tired. 'Prince

Boris?' I asked.

The Doctor puffed out some air and looked down to

the sea. 'A very charming man. I should be more careful of

very charming men.' He tugged a smile from his lips. 'At

least I don't have that problem with you, Rory.'

'Oi,' said Rory.

'What are we doing about the TARDIS?'

'Oh, it'll turn up. Like a late train it's probably just

around the corner.'

'You hope.' I grinned at him.

'Well, otherwise we could get jobs here.'

We stared at him.

'Just not in France. Not for a while. No.'

He leaned back in his chair. For once it didn't topple

over. 'Result,' he said.

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

9th December 1783

Dear Mother,

So the Doctor made all the monsters go away. Can I

come home now? I miss you so much. I have decided that

we should call the puppies Rory and Amy.

Your ever loving

Maria

A Letter from Mr Nevil

St Christophe

9th December 1783

Dear Octavius,

Well, there's good news and there's bad news, you

dear old fraud.

The bad news is that the cure is fading. The good news

is that I'm not coming home. So you won't have to face

my wrath and the horse-whipping you soundly deserve.

No, I shall see my days out here at St Christophe - the

air is good and I have made friends. I think, you know,

I have found peace and companionship here - although

perhaps I shall not go for many walks along the beach.

It's a good winter - the climate is chilly but not too

cold, although it looks as though there may be snow

falling on the sea. The foreign girl is talking to me again

and the sawbones who runs this place is a good enough

soul, I suppose. Deserves a chance. Who knows, I may see

out the spring...

Your faithful servant,

Henry Nevil

Dr Bloom's Journal

9th December 1783

There was a knock at the door. The Doctor brought in a

tea tray.

'Good morning, Dr Bloom,' he said.

I didn't answer, just stared out at the shore.

Eventually he spoke again. 'I am sorry about your

wife.'

'And I am sorry I shot you.'

'Well, there we are.' The Doctor settled the tray down

with a bang. 'All friends, then. Let's call it quits.'

This was the man who'd killed my wife. And he was

sitting opposite me, smiling. I had killed him. I had made

the decision. I'd pulled the trigger. I had decided to live

with the consequences, and yet here he was.

The Doctor handed me something. It wasn't tea.

'You're in shock,' he said gently. 'I think it's brandy or

sherry. Try it. It's nice. Well, it's brown.'

I tried to sip from the glass, but my hands were

shaking. I put the glass down.

The Doctor was crouching in front of my chair, staring

into my face. He wasn't blinking at all. 'I am so sorry.

Look, I could say, "Prince Boris made me do it." He

manipulated us all. A brilliant strategist. But I thought I

was doing the right thing. In a way...'

'She was my wife.'

The Doctor shook his head, and repeated his lies.

That she wasn't. That she'd been in my life for a matter of

months, an invention, a fiction. Something to control me,

to make me trust the creature on the beach. All lies. I had

known Perdita for... I had known Perdita... Perdita, the

only woman who had ever trusted, believed or liked me.

And she wasn't real.

'Take your time,' said the Doctor.

I realised the sun was setting. It does that ever so

quickly in winter.

'I know what you must think of me,' he said, his

voice so slow. It was like a voice designed for laughing

that didn't get to do it often. 'I'm going to tell you a story

about a man who travels, and everywhere he goes, he

makes everyone's lives better. I'm not that man. That

man doesn't exist. I wish he did.' He smiled. 'I'd believe

in him.'

He tapped me on the knee.

'I just try my best. I really do. Just like you - you are

brilliant, you're doing wonderful things. It's people like

you who will wipe out a terrible, terrible disease - but

you're not the man to do it. Doesn't mean you shouldn't

try. It will take time. A hundred years from now, places

like this will be everywhere, and people will really

understand the disease - but it takes a man like you to

make that happen, to really sit down and have a think

rather than telling people that they're vampires, or should

drink tar or...' He stopped.

'I was so close,' I said. I noticed there wasn't any

expression in my voice. Just hope.

'I know,' he said. 'But you weren't, really. You'd

just g o n e racing d o w n a really fun-looking blind alley.

H a p p e n s to us all. You t h o u g h t y o u w e r e curing a plague,

b u t y o u w e r e accidentally u n l e a s h i n g s o m e t h i n g m u c h

w o r s e on t h e w o r l d . . . a n d for the best, the very best of

r e a s o n s . ' H e s i g h e d . ' I h a t e d a y s like this.'

' C o u l d s h e h a v e lived?7

T h e D o c t o r s h o o k ' h i s h e a d . 'You w e r e p o w e r i n g her.

She w a s p o w e r i n g y o u . '

' A n d m y p a t i e n t s ? '

H e s t o o d a n d s t a r e d o u t o f the w i n d o w . 'Weather's

n o t t o o b a d for w i n t e r , really, is it? Q u i t e mild, all things

c o n s i d e r e d . '

I k n e w t h e n t h a t w a s t h e b e s t a n s w e r I'd get f r o m this

s t r a n g e m a n .

H e s t a r t e d a b s e n t l y f i d d l i n g w i t h m y desk, tidying it.

H e s t o p p e d s u d d e n l y , h o l d i n g u p a sheet o f p a p e r .

' W h a t ' s this?' h e a s k e d .

' W h a t it l o o k s like,' I said.

He p i c k e d up s h e e t after sheet of p a p e r , all f r o m a

n e a t l y f o l d e d pile.

A pile of letters.

' M a r i a ? ' h e s m i l e d , flicking t h r o u g h t h e m . 'She's b e e n

w r i t i n g all t h i s d o w n ? O h , bless her. She's got a lovely

t u r n o f p h r a s e f o r a n 11-year-old.' H e leafed o n t h r o u g h

t h e pile. ' A l t h o u g h t h a t ' s n o t h o w t h a t h a p p e n e d . . . a n d

n o , s h e ' s w r o n g , b o w ties a r e cool.' H e p a u s e d , a n d tutted

a t m e . 'You s h o u l d n ' t r e a d o t h e r p e o p l e ' s letters, t h o u g h , '

h e a d m o n i s h e d , b e f o r e c a r r y i n g o n r e a d i n g .

' I h a v e n ' t b e e n , ' I g r o a n e d . ' I d o n ' t r e a d t h e m a n y

m o r e . '

' T h e n w h y h a v e y o u b e e n k e e p i n g h e r letters?' H e w a s

cross. ' S u r e l y y o u p o s t t h e s e o n t o h e r m o t h e r ? '

I s h o o k m y h e a d . ' N o , I a m a f r a i d w e d o n o t . '

T h e Doctor s t o p p e d , h i s h a n d s h a k i n g i n m i d air.

' W h y not?'

I chose m y w o r d s carefully, like p i c k i n g m y w a y a l o n g

a n icy p a t h . ' T h e c h i l d ' s m o t h e r d o e s n o t w i s h a n y f u r t h e r

contact w i t h her.'

'She's a b a n d o n e d h e r ? ' T h e D o c t o r w a s o u t r a g e d . 'Just

b e c a u s e s h e ' s ill, h e r o w n m o t h e r ' s d i s o w n e d h e r ? T h a t ' s

i n h u m a n . She's a patient, n o t an o r p h a n . '

' S h e ' s n o t t h e patient, Doctor.' I p a u s e d . ' H e r m o t h e r

was.'

T h e D o c t o r s t o p p e d . H e p i c k e d u p a letter a n d s c a n n e d

t h r o u g h it, r e a d i n g t h e w o r d s o v e r a n d over. 'I am feeling

better now... why am I here... when will I see you again ?'

I r e m e m b e r e d t h a t last d a y , t h e m o t h e r , p a c k e d a n d

crying, w a i t i n g for t h e carriage, a n d M a r i a s k i p p i n g

about, all excited a b o u t g o i n g b a c k to Paris.

H e r m o t h e r l o o k e d a t m e , a g o n i s e d . I s t e p p e d f o r w a r d .

'Maria, m y d e a r , I a m just t h e tiniest bit w o r r i e d a b o u t

y o u r t e m p e r a t u r e . ' I laid a h a n d on t h e c h i l d ' s f o r e h e a d .

'Yes. It's a little h i g h . I ' m so sorry, b u t I c a n n o t , I j u s t

c a n n o t a l l o w y o u t o travel w i t h y o u r m o t h e r . For y o u r

o w n g o o d . N o t just yet.'

'But M o t h e r ! ' p r o t e s t e d M a r i a , n o t s e e i n g t h e l o o k o n

h e r m o t h e r ' s face.

M a r i a s t a r t e d t o cry. M y d e a r P e r d i t a h u r r i e d f o r w a r d .

' N o w , n o w , M a r i a , ' s h e said. ' W e ' r e all w o r r i e d a b o u t

y o u - t h e filthy air of P a r i s . . . It's no g o o d , y o u k n o w . It

just w o n ' t d o . I really m u s t insist. J u s t f o r a little w h i l e ,

u n t i l y o u a r e Q u i t e Right.' M a r i a l o o k e d u p a t h e r a n d , I

g e n u i n e l y t h i n k , s t a r t e d t o h a t e h e r t h e r e a n d t h e n .

' M a d a m e B l o o m i s right,' M a r i a ' s m o t h e r s a i d t o m e ,

h e r e y e s s h i n i n g w i t h tears. ' P e r h a p s y o u m i g h t stay on.'

She p a u s e d , h e r face s h o w i n g t h a t she w a s i n t w o m i n d s .

'I s u p p o s e . . . I s u p p o s e s h e m u s t , m u s t n ' t she, Dr Bloom?'

She faltered, i n d e c i s i o n clear on h e r face.

My P e r d i t a s i m p l y n o d d e d , g r i p p i n g h o l d of the girl

b y t h e s h o u l d e r s a s M a r i a ' s m o t h e r climbed into that

c a r r i a g e a n d d r o v e a w a y .

M a r i a ' s last w o r d s t o h e r were, ' I m a y w r i t e t o you,

M o t h e r , m a y n ' t I?'

All this I r e m e m b e r e d w i t h s a d n e s s .

' H e r m o t h e r w a s o n e o f m y earliest patients, Doctor.

W h e n s h e g o t w e l l . . . s h e left M a r i a b e h i n d . I t w a s almost

like s h e g o t w e l l s o a s t o get a w a y f r o m her, f r o m the p a i n

o f s e e i n g h e r a g a i n . I t w a s t o o m u c h for h e r . '

T h e D o c t o r ' s voice w a s h o l l o w a n d s o sad. ' M a r i a h a s

n o i d e a , d o e s she?'

' T h e p o o r w o m a n fell ill s o o n after losing h e r d a u g h t e r .

T h e Sea w a s a b l e t o r e a d h e r ever s o well. I t gave h e r back

h e r d a u g h t e r . W h o h e a l e d her.'

T h e D o c t o r sat d o w n o n a chair, staring a t m e . H o l d i n g

t h a t last letter.

' I ' m s o r r y , D o c t o r . M a r i a is just a c r e a t u r e of The Sea.

S h e ' s n o t real.'

A Letter from Maria

St Christophe

10th December 1783

Dear Mother,

It's quiet around here, except for the coughing. I'm so

lonely - now that the Doctor and Amy and Rory are going

away. Can I come home now? I miss you so much. I don't

want to be here alone.

Your ever loving

Maria

Epilogue: The Story of Rory

You know what? The Doctor doesn't always get it right,

and he doesn't save everyone. Sometimes it's like Amy's

blind to that. She can see him, shining like the angel on a

Christmas tree - she just doesn't see how hard his eyes

sometimes are, and how he sometimes keeps on laughing

when the joke's stopped being funny.

That last morning, Amy came running up from the

beach to say that the TARDIS had reappeared from

wherever it went to. The Doctor rushed down there

immediately, obviously. He tried to act like he was all

nonchalant and didn't care, but really he was off like a

shot. I suppose it's his home and his oldest friend. When

Amy and I are long gone, hell still have his magic blue

Narnia cupboard.

I stayed, for one last breakfast. I'd like to say it was for

the food, but really it was to say goodbye to all the people

the Doctor's forgotten about. The Elquitine sisters came

to my table. Olivia was wheezing away. Her sister was so

weary and looked like a bony broom.

Mr Nevil hovered nearby. I'd noticed he couldn't

leave Olivia alone. Kind of sweet - the old tartar was

mellowing. He looked like he wanted to intercede, but

Olivia warded him off with a stern glance. What she had

to say was family business.

T h e y sat at my table w i t h difficulty. ' Y o u n g m a n , I

h e a r y o u ' r e l e a v i n g u s ? '

I n o d d e d .

'Well, t h e n , ' s h e said, f o l d i n g h e r h a n d s tightly. ' M y

sister h a s s o m e t h i n g t o say. S o m e t h i n g for t h e D o c t o r .

C a n y o u p a s s i t o n ? '

I n o d d e d again. I realised I'd n e v e r h e a r d H e l e n a

speak.

' S h e ' s b e e n s a v i n g h e r b r e a t h u p for h i m , ' s a i d Olivia,

p r o u d l y . ' B u t I s u s p e c t h e ' s n o t c o m i n g b a c k , is h e ? '

I realised t h e t r u t h of it as s o o n as s h e s a i d it. ' N o , ' I

replied.

She n o d d e d tightly.

T h e t h i n sister r e a c h e d f o r w a r d , g r a b b i n g m y h a n d i n

h e r b o n y claw. 'Tell h i m . . . Tell h i m . . . I h a t e h i m , ' s h e said,

a n d l e a n e d back, p a n t i n g a n d e x h a u s t e d f r o m t h e effort.

' G o e s for m e , too,' s a i d Olivia, r e a c h i n g f o r a p a s t r y .

I h e a d e d d o w n t o t h e b e a c h , w h e r e M a r i a a n d A m y

w e r e r u n n i n g a r o u n d o n t h e s a n d . A m y b r o k e a w a y a n d

g r a b b e d m e i n a h u g . ' T h a t ' s m y R o r y b o y ! ' s h e s a i d ,

g i v i n g me a s q u e e z e .

'It really is f r e e z i n g d o w n h e r e , ' I s a i d .

' A n d t h a t ' s m y R o r y b o y c o m p l a i n i n g , ' s a i d A m y ,

n u d g i n g M a r i a , w h o l a u g h e d .

M a r i a l o o k e d a t t h e TARDIS. C l e a r l y t h e D o c t o r w a s

inside. 'Is t h a t really y o u r c a r r i a g e ? ' S h e a s k e d . 'It i s n o t

v e r y g o o d , m o n s i e u r . I t h a s n o w h e e l s . '

'It d o e s n ' t n e e d t h e m , ' l a u g h e d A m y . ' I t ' s a n E n g l i s h

carriage. T h e y d o n ' t h a v e w h e e l s . '

' D o e s M o n s i e u r R o r y p u s h it?'

' W h e n n e c e s s a r y , ' l a u g h e d A m y .

We fell silent. We w e r e clearly all waiting for the Doctor

to c o m e o u t of t h e box. A bit a w k w a r d , like waiting for a

b u s t h a t ' s just a bit d e l a y e d .

I n s t e a d t h e D o c t o r stuck his h e a d a r o u n d the back of

t h e TARDIS. H e w a s g r i n n i n g .

' M a r i a ! ' he said. ' I ' v e a s u r p r i s e for you!'

M a r i a l o o k e d a t h i m , d o u b t f u l l y . A n English

s u r p r i s e ? '

T h e D o c t o r s h o o k his h e a d . ' N o , no, no. W h y w o u l d I

g i v e y o u o n e of those? It'd be r u b b i s h . This is a fine a n d

lovely Paris s u r p r i s e . '

T h e D o c t o r s t e p p e d f o r w a r d , b r i n g i n g w i t h h i m a n

e l e g a n t w o m a n in a cloak.

M a r i a g a s p e d a n d r a n f o r w a r d . 'Mother!' she cried,

c l i n g i n g t o t h e w o m a n ' s skirts.

T h e w o m a n r e a c h e d d o w n , a n d kissed h e r d a u g h t e r .

' O h m y d e a r love,' s h e said. ' I h a v e m i s s e d y o u . You look

w o n d e r f u l l y well.'

'I k n o w ! I h a v e e v e r so m a n y t h i n g s to tell you! Isn't

t h e D o c t o r t h e m o s t a m a z i n g m a n ! H e ' s ever s o clever -

h e h a s s u c h a b r a i n ! '

M a r i a ' s m o t h e r l o o k e d a t t h e Doctor, a n d for a m o m e n t

h e r f a c e w a s cold a n d b l a n k , a s t h o u g h s h e d i d n ' t like h i m

m u c h . ' I n d e e d , ' w a s all s h e said, t h o u g h .

' C a n w e g o b a c k t o Paris?' a s k e d Maria.

H e r m o t h e r s h o o k h e r h e a d . ' N o , i n d e e d , I r a t h e r think

we shall t r a v e l f o r a bit. See a f e w countries.' She b o w e d

stiffly to u s . ' C o m e a l o n g , ' s h e said w i t h a smile for her

d a u g h t e r . 'St C h r i s t o p h e ' s this w a y - I h a v e a fancy to

h i r e a c a r r i a g e . '

' D i d y o u n o t b r i n g o n e w i t h y o u ? '

M a r i a ' s m o t h e r s m i l e d tightly. ' N o , I ' m a f r a i d I h a v e

b e e n w a l k i n g a l o n g t h e sea f r o n t w i t h t h e Doctor. H e h a s

b e e n e x p l a i n i n g m a n y t h i n g s to me.'

W i t h that, s h e t o o k M a r i a ' s h a n d a n d w a l k e d a w a y .

A n d i f h e r m o t h e r ' s feet d i d n ' t q u i t e r e a c h t h e g r o u n d ,

Maria d i d n ' t s e e m to notice at all.

T h e D o c t o r o p e n e d t h e d o o r of t h e TARDIS. 'As I said,

only a g h o s t of it r e m a i n e d . Just e n o u g h for o n e m o r e

Familiar. A m a r v e l l o u s c r e a t u r e . It n e e d e d s o m e t h i n g to

d o i n life.' H e u s h e r e d u s in. ' S o m e o n e t o love.'

A m y r a n t o t h e console. W e w a t c h e d h e r go. T h e

D o c t o r t u r n e d t o m e , s t u d y i n g m y face.

' H o w a r e y o u , R o r y ? ' h e a s k e d .

I l o o k e d o v e r at A m y b e f o r e I a n s w e r e d h i m . 'It's b e e n

o d d b e i n g y o u . '

'Isn't it?' T h e D o c t o r ' s s m i l e d i d n ' t q u i t e r e a c h h i s

eyes.

' H o w d o y o u c o p e ? '

'Ah...' T h e D o c t o r p i c k e d a w a y at a s c r a p of loose p a i n t

on t h e d o o r . 'Well, I just g e t as close as I c a n to a h a p p y

e n d i n g , t h e n I s h u t t h e d o o r b e h i n d m e a n d m o v e o n . '

I n o d d e d .

W e s h u t t h e d o o r b e h i n d u s a n d m o v e d o n .