Chapter 2: Tea and Twitches

Martin's house was nothing to look at. Granted, in the flickering torchlight Rory could barely see the front door, a slab of pitted and stained wood. It was unmistakably a hermit's abode. Martin sauntered up and pulled the latch on the door. Rory caught the sound of cogs turning, as if the old door had some secret inner locking mechanism. Then Martin pulled it open with only the softest of creaks.

"Wow," was all Rory could say.

Adorning the walls, the ceiling, and everything in between was an incredible collection of mirrors, ranging from the size of Rory's fist to ones that reached from the dirt floor to the wooden rafters.

"Just step through my workshop and I'll make us some tea," Martin was saying. "I still have some well-water left over from dinner."

The thought of drinking 16th-century unfiltered groundwater didn't sit particularly well with Rory, but he stayed silent.

"Is this all your creation, Martin?" asked the Doctor, eyeing his reflection in the nearest mirror.

"It's all very hush-hush," said Martin, rummaging through a cupboard. "Hah!" he cried victoriously, holding up a packet. "I knew I had tea leaves here somewhere. Anyway, I've been experimenting with glassmaking techniques to create reflective surfaces. My projects, as you can see, have been quite successful. The technique, though, is costly and difficult."

"Hmm," said the Doctor, now adjusting his bow tie. "The Venetians developed a method for manufacturing mirrors around this time. You're obviously not from Venice, though."

"Those blasted Venetians," stormed Martin, brandishing a spoon, "keep their trade secrets locked up tighter than a treasure vault. Nobody should have a monopoly on knowledge. I did manage to discover their process for coating the glass, though. You can see the results." He waved the spoon in the general direction of the mirrors.

"So," said the Doctor, "that's why an intellectual such as yourself is pursing your work, isolated, in the middle of a forest. You don't want to be found out."

Martin looked uncomfortable. "Those Italians. I'm not exactly on their good side, and they're powerful. I had to run." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not working for them, are you? You're dressed so outlandishly…"

Rory sniggered. "Who, the Doctor? He always dresses like that."

But Martin was staring at Rory's shirt. Rory looked down awkwardly to check what he was wearing.

"It's plaid," protest Rory. "It's not weird. It's just a plaid shirt. Perfectly normal. Not like tweed and bow ties."

"Normal?" asked Martin, passing around steaming teacups. "I've never seen clothing like yours before. Where are you from, exactly?"

"It's more a question of when than where, actually," interjected the Doctor. "But rest assured that we're not working for anyone, let alone the Venetians. Load of Saturnyne fish-people." The Doctor shivered. "Anyway, what were you doing out in the forest at"—he consulted his watch—"4:13 in the morning?"

Martin sipped at his tea. "I found something a few days ago, while I was fetching water, poking out of the soil. At first I thought it was a rock outcrop, but after excavating it some more, I uncovered an arm. A stone arm. Then, when I returned to the area yesterday, it was gone, so I went back an hour ago to investigate. I dug a hole five feet deep and found that the soil had been disturbed, and whatever had been buried there had been dug out."

"Or pulled itself out," muttered the Doctor, draining his teacup in one heroic gulp.

"Doctor?" asked Rory. Amy had told him the story of the Byzantium, and what had stowed away within it. "You don't think it's an Angel, do you?"

Martin's hands were twitching so badly that the tea sloshed out of his cup. He set it down upon the counter before any more damage occurred. "You mean…you might know what is happening?"

"Maybe," said the Doctor, "but I'll need to look for myself. Can we see the site?"

"Of course," answered Martin, the glint of adventure in his eyes. "Follow me!"

Twelve Minutes Later

"I don't see anything," said the Doctor, brandishing his electric torch.

"'Course you can't," said Rory, "Everything's so dark!"

"No, come here, look!" The Doctor examined the ground. There's not a mark in the dirt. Nothing, 'cept our own footprints."

Martin furrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment. "But the hole was here! The arm was here, where I dug the hole. The spade was stuck upright in the ground right there." He pointed to a patch of soil nearby.

A whirry-whistly sound echoed around the trees as the Doctor examined the dirt with his sonic screwdriver.

"Sorry," he said, stowing the screwdriver back in his jacket. "There's no trace of any hole whatsoever." The Doctor stood and looked deep into Martin's eyes. "You, on the other hand, have a trace of something else. Those mirrors…what were they backed with?"

Martin looked bewildered. "They had a coating of quicksilver to create the reflective surface. Why?"

"Quicksilver. It's mercury," the Doctor explained to Rory. "And it has a nasty effect on humans. You've been having hand twitches lately?" the Doctor asked Martin, who nodded. "That's one of the early symptoms."

"Doctor, mercury also causes hallucinations," interjected Rory. "I learned that in medical school."

"Exactly, Pond," said the Doctor. "I'm sorry, Martin, but I think you were imagining things. There was no hole, no arm, no spade—just a fevered imagination. Quite excusable, of course, since you've had significant mercury buildup in your bloodstream. I might have a treatment back in my TAR—well, back in my box."

Martin looked dumbfounded. "You mean to say…the process, the mirror experiments…they poisoned me, made me have visions?"

The Doctor nodded. "I'm sorry."

As the Doctor launched into a detailed explanation of mercury toxicity in humans, Rory surveyed the ground once more. It looked perfectly norm—wait. A glint. Rory brought his torch closer.

"Doctor, look," said Rory. "It's a spade."

Author's Note: TBC!