Jenny hates that bloody book.
She hates the way River carries it everywhere. She hates the slim, girlish handwriting that's nothing like River's normal, workaday scrawl. And she hates the neat rows of her father's faces, cut out from security camera footage or newspapers, stolen from scrapbooks or hacked from UNIT security satellites.
She hates it because she knows that her father doesn't carry his with him like a talisman. Knows, in fact, that it's currently decorating the top of a fish tank in the boot cupboard next to the Zero Room, and that he probably hasn't even realized he's taken it out of his bigger-on-the-inside pockets.
She hates the blank pages at the end of River's that don't tell the story in the beginning of her father's, yet. She hates that she knows the story by heart, the shadows and the library and the way she feels like she's falling apart every time she thinks about it.
Jenny is like her father in a lot of ways. She's clever, she's resourceful, and she's awfully good at running. She's got a sonic screwdriver and she knows just the right way to flash the psychic paper and a grin to get what she wants. She is the same, exactly the same, in the desperation with which she loves, and she has watched her father break (was breaking, is breaking, will always, always be breaking) apart from his own loss, and she can feel it coming for her, hovering dark and deadly on the horizon.
She is also a Time Lady, she thinks, as she rips the book from River's hands and tosses it forcefully into a corner, lips finding lips and fingers burying themselves in a curly mane of hair.
And time can bloody well be rewritten.