The TARDIS library was (if you'll pardon the pun) a study in contrasts. It contained a wealth of knowledge in many forms. Besides books with actual paper pages, there were parchment scrolls, cartridges, diskettes, tapes, and items for which Clara didn't even have a name. The seating was gloriously over-stuffed amethyst plush, and the lighting what she could only describe as space age, providing just the right luminosity for whatever surface one happened to be reading from at the moment.
Although she still appeared to hold a mechanical sort of grudge against Clara at other times, the TARDIS evidently approved of reading, always doing well in the way of comfy seating and glare free illumination, as well as a selection of interesting titles always conveniently within reach. At the moment, however, Clara wasn't reading, so much as staring off into middle distance, contemplating Emma's enigmatic words.
The warning not to trust the Doctor was rather too little and far too late…after all, she was traveling with him in a ship that maneuvered through space and time with absolutely no way to get home on her own. Besides, for all that he could be rather flighty and had a small boy's appreciation of danger, she never doubted that he'd find a way out of whatever mess he got them into.
And then there was that comment about 'a sliver of ice in his heart.' She wondered what Emma could have meant. Despite the utter craziness of their adventures, Clara simply could not bring herself to believe that the Doctor actually intended her any harm. Danger was simply a byproduct of his adventures. Although part of her wished that he would pay just a tiny bit of heed to the consequences of things before jumping in, Clara was beginning to realize that that was just a part of who he was, and that boyish charm was oddly attractive.
She shook her head, trying to clear her jumbled thoughts, and looked down at the book she'd chosen. Comfort reading; a lovely antique edition of "A Christmas Carol." She smiled as she fingered the binding and opened the book, knowing that losing herself in a timeless, familiar tale was just what she needed right now. Clara turned the pages carefully, respecting the fragile paper.
A photograph was carefully tucked in amongst the pages. It was a modern, color photo of a young woman. Clara's first, superficial, impression was that she was just a little too blonde, and that that was alot of eye makeup, but there was just something about that smile on the girl's face, and the warmth in her brown eyes. She recalled, wistfully, seeing that look on other girls' faces, and in her own mother's eyes when she'd smiled at Clara's dad. The girl in the photo had very clearly adored the person who'd taken it.
Perhaps that's what Emma had meant…she'd said herself that sometimes she got her signals crossed. Perhaps she what she sensed wasn't ill intent in the Doctor's heart, but rather that his heart - hearts, Clara corrected herself - had been broken.
Clara heard footsteps in the corridor. Feeling suddenly shy of her discovery, she quickly shut the book and set it back on the table, hastily grabbing a paperbacked Agatha Christie novel instead..
"There you are, Clara," the Doctor greeted her. "Everything all right?"
She nodded. "Mm-hm. Just catching up with some old friends."
"I know the feeling," he replied, glancing fondly around the room before focusing on the book in her hand. "Oh…Agatha! Lovely woman. Met her once."
"Did you really?"
"Really really." His eyes lit on the copy of "A Christmas Carol" and picked it up, just a little too casually. "Just what I was looking for. Good old Charlie. Met him once, too. In Cardiff, of all places."
"Tell me?" Clara asked.
The Doctor smiled a sad little smile. "Perhaps some other time. I think we've both had enough ghosts for one night."