They are waiting in the cargo bay. Clara leaps up from her seat at Antares' side as they enter. "Doctor, what did you find−?"
He throws the bag down at Antares' feet, ignoring his companion, ignoring the intense relief he feels that she is still unharmed. Ignoring everything but the face of the man who has led them across worlds on this fool's errand.
"Open it." His tone brooks no disobedience. Like a man in a dream, Antares opens the bag.
An arm falls out onto the cargo bay floor.
"Doctor!" Clara yelps, "Is that−?"
"Her arm," confirms Antares quietly. He closes his eyes briefly, despairing. "Is she dead, then?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"What? I don't understand." Grief turning to anger; a man on the edge. He almost feels sorry for the Captain. Almost.
"The truth, Captain. About Alya."
He looks nonplussed. "She was kidnapped and those that knew her identity killed. I was sent to−"
"No," he snarls, advancing on him now, "The truth. Now. All of it." He isn't at all sure what he's going to do when the reaches the man.
Clara steps between them, frowning. "Doctor," she says, putting her hand out to stop him. "What did you find?"
"Alya isn't a Daughter of Serpentis," he replies, "She isn't even nobility. She's a slave girl, same as him. And she wasn't kidnapped. She escaped."
"What? No… she−she wouldn't have… She believed in our mission."
Clara's eyebrows shoot into her hairline. She turns to face the Captain now, too. "I'm sorry? Your mission?"
Antares takes his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. He seems unable to speak.
"I'm not going to ask again, Captain." Pin-drop silence descends, Antares still as a stone. The Doctor sighs deeply. "I know that she's your daughter."
He ignores the gasps from Clara and Elara. Antares slowly raises his head, a hunted look in his eyes. "How long have you known?"
"I had my suspicions when you showed her to us on the holo-emitter," he admits, "But when I saw the skin graft scar on that arm, I knew." In actuality, he intended to carry out a genetic scan with the sonic on Antares; to unequivocally confirm a match with the severed limb. The man's face, however, is now confirmation enough.
"Please," the Captain begs, "Is she dead?"
"I don't think so," he replies. "Now you answer my question. Let's start at the beginning. How did your daughter come to be posing as a ward of Scorpius?"
Antares holds his gaze for a long moment, and finds no mercy there. He sags a little. "In the beginning it was for her protection. The real Alya's, I mean. The Master knew my wife had just given birth; that the babies could be exchanged and no one but us know."
"So, the real Alya was raised a slave?" asks Clara.
"No," Antares laughs, bitterly. "We thought that we would switch her back, later on. She needed a noble's education. A minor cousin adopted her. They have no idea who she is; think she's the child of the Master and his favourite concubine. She has all she could want for and a place of honour in our House. They call her Lyella."
Clara frowns. "Then why didn't you make the switch back?"
"Because she was brilliant," he replies, a picture of misery, "My daughter. She was writing trade agreements for her tutors when she was tiny that put those of the House Council to shame. Nothing that the House could ask of her was beyond her. And Lyella… well…" He shrugs. "She struggles as a student. She has no interest in trade, no aptitude for negotiation. If she returned to Serpentis she would be easily manipulated. We couldn't rely on her to broker a true peace."
"So they kept your daughter." The Doctor closes his eyes for a second, pushing away the vague memories of a small hand held in his, so very, very long ago. Now is not the moment.
"Yes."
"Does she know?" Clara continues.
"Yes. We didn't tell her. Not at first. But she never quite believed the story about the skin graft on her arm being the result of a childhood burn."
"It's where you removed her tattoo," the Doctor supplies.
Antares nods. "I know you must think me a terrible father," he says, more to Clara than him, "But I was with her… every day. She knew that she was loved by her birth parents as much as her adopted ones. And she was happy. She wanted to help her people."
"No," says Elara, quietly, "No. You don't get to rationalise it that way."
"What?"
"She is a child. She's not capable of making decisions like that. She shouldn't have to. What's happened to your daughter is your fault, do you hear me? Your fault!"
Clara's frown deepens and she shoots him a loaded glance. He doesn't need to be a telepath to read the question in her eyes. What's happened?
He shakes his head slightly. Not now.
"Whether she agreed to it or not, something has changed," he says slowly, "Captain, I'm sorry. But your daughter wasn't kidnapped. She broke free."
"No," Antares shakes his head vehemently, "No, I can't believe that. Alya was gentle. Kind. She would never have killed anyone. Never. Whatever you've heard, whatever you've been told: it's a lie."
"Okay, okay. Maybe," the Doctor shoots back, "But maybe not. I need you to be honest with me. What could Alya be seeking out here?"
"I swear to you," Antares replies, close to tears now, "I have no idea."
"He's lying!" snaps Elara, frustrated beyond endurance.
"No." Clara, quiet; understanding. "No, he's telling the truth. Think about it. No one knew about that Gate on Hielo. Not even the Doctor. Whatever Alya's doing, willingly or not; he doesn't know what it is."
"What do you wish us to do now?" says the Pale Man. He has been quiet throughout the entire confrontation, face betraying nothing of his thoughts on this unexpected turn of events. His question, however, is addressed to the Doctor rather than Antares.
"We follow," he says, grimly. "But not blindly. Not this time. Multiple, I need you to start working on the Gate. It's out of power, just like the last one. As for the rest of us… Captain, do you have Alya's personal console? Any security footage from her disappearance?"
"Yes, but it's all been searched. You're not going to find any evidence there."
The Doctor sniffs, sceptical. "Let's find out."
The girl on the screen, Alya, opens the suitcase. It contains traded trinkets from a minor lord of the House given to her for valuation. They are of aesthetic rather than any real monetary value, pretty things. She lays them out professionally on the baize of the table; fetches labels and an elaborate pen with which to label them. This goes on for some time.
"What have you seen?" asks Clara, dropping into the chair next to him. She is clutching a mug of coffee, eyes ringed dark. They have been examining logs and video footage for the last fifteen hours, and even her concentration is beginning to wane. Elara is snoring lightly at another screen set up across the bay.
"Nothing," he replies, chin in hand.
"You've watched this one before, though. Half a dozen times."
Nothing much gets past Clara. He pauses the video at the appropriate moment. "Here."
Clara watches carefully. "She puts on the tiara. So? It's very pretty."
"You don't see anything else?"
She rewinds, watches again. "Maybe. When she puts it back on the table. There's something different in the way she holds herself, isn't there?"
"Yes."
"Could just be that she felt self-conscious after putting on the tiara, though."
"Yes."
She supresses a yawn. "How're the generators coming?"
"Slowly. I might go and lend Multiple another pair of hands."
"You don't think there's anything more to be gleaned from the logs?"
He shakes his head. "Much as it pains me to admit it, Antares might be right. There's nothing in these files to suggest anything other than the activities of a dutiful and talented daughter of the House."
She stands, putting what he assumes is meant to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. He stares pointedly at it, but she fails to take the hint and remove it. "I'm going to go and get some sleep while there's a chance. Afraid this primitive ape needs rest. We can't all be a superior species like you."
"Hmm."
"You'll figure it out. You always do." She pats his shoulder again for good measure and takes her leave, climbing up the stairs to their crew quarters on the Wray rather than going back to the TARDIS. He rubs his shoulder surreptitiously, and ponders why. Not until she is definitely out of sight does he relax back into the chair properly, head lolling, eyes closed.
He is beyond tired. Past exhausted. The time since he last slept properly can now be reckoned in months rather than weeks. Surely if he keeps his eyes closed and lets the darkness take him for a while he can sleep without dreaming…?
The drawings of the little children flutter, disturbed by a breath of air that carries the smell of hay. He turns.
This is a dream, he tells himself.
It doesn't matter. The crack yawns in front of him, widening. He will be able to step through in a moment. To go home at last.
The crack opens and he stumbles forward. Dark shapes approach from the other side; the Time Lords come to carry him back a hero.
And then he hears them, the shadows beyond. "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE THE DOCTOR!" He realises the truth, in that terrible moment; that none of it has mattered a damn. Gallifrey is lost and his people are slaves to the Daleks−
"Hey! Hey, Doctor!" He opens his eyes. Elara is standing over him, having apparently shaken him awake.
"What?" he demands.
"You were shouting," she says, looking troubled. "More than that. Screaming."
"Of course I wasn't. Don't be ridiculous," he snaps.
"Oh, right. Of course. I just woke myself up imagining you were yelling. Or I sleep walked over here to wake you, is that it?"
"Sounds like perfectly plausible explanations." The clock timer on the computer screen says he has been asleep for all of two minutes.
"Doctor…?"
"What?"
She licks her lips, suddenly nervous. "You were there, weren't you?"
He turns away from her, pretending to reload another security feed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Trenzalore."
She whispers the name, like it is a bad omen. He says nothing in reply, which is answer itself he supposes. He replays Alya's final moments in the Chapter House, eyes unseeing, the scar of the crack in the universe still seared into his vision.
"Do you know what he did to my dreams, Doctor?" she asks after a while.
"No," he says, still resolutely not looking at her. No need to ask who he is. "Took them away, I expect."
"Yes, exactly," she replies, "He took them away. When you strip out a person's ability to feel certain things, things like love or compassion, you take away their dreams. And leave them with just their nightmares."
His skin crawls at her words, perturbed in spite of himself. Love. Compassion. These were the things that cost him dear on Trenzalore. He has tried to put them at a distance in this new incarnation; favour logic and detachment in their place. He blinks. "No. That would drive anyone mad, after long enough. Too unstable for a soldier."
She nods. "You're right. Which is why they gave us these." From her belt she pulls out a little folding case, like a compact mirror. She opens it to reveal four little patches, a metallic component in their middle.
Curiosity has the better of him. "What are they?"
"Dreams, Doctor. Try one. I promise it will help."
His hand hovers over the open case for a moment. Then the radio crackles with the voice of Multiple and he pulls away.
"Doctor, do you read me? We have completed work on the generators. We're ready to open the Gate."
"Reading you loud and clear, Multiple. Do it."
Elara shakes her head, but closes the case and puts the mysterious patches away. "Are we going to go through?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Why? Do you want to stop?"
"No!"
"You empathise with Alya," he suggests, "You want to save her."
"And you want to solve the mystery," she fires back, "I saw the way you reacted when you realised Antares had kept something from you. You have to know."
"Yes," he agrees. "I do."
"Well then, you have your reasons and I have mine. There's no one on this ship that wants to stop now."
"Then I guess we're going," he says.