Chapter LXII
Mira's POV
Everything was all right as long as she stayed busy. But whenever she was lying in the dark, trying to get some rest, there was nothing left to keep her thoughts from moving in directions she never wanted them to go again. She didn't want to lose it like she did all that time ago. She couldn't even say why she was so afraid of that. She was a different person today, not a teenager or in her twenties and more, and much more resourceful. There was no need to numb her feelings with drugs, no need to turn against herself in an desperate attempt to regain at least some control over her life. A life without any certainty, a life where everything seemed to slip out of her hands.
Sure about that?
She took a deep breath, trying to force her thoughts in a different direction. Yes she was sure about that. Pretty sure. She was over that self destructive behaviour for ages now, and at times even she herself couldn't understand any more why she had acted like she had done. At those times, when everything was nothing but distant memories from a time over a thousand years ago.
She could feel Martha sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed, and envied her for a moment. As messed up as her family was, at least she had one.
The Doctor seemed to be awake just like herself, but then again she had no idea how it felt when he was sleeping, how his breathing sounded then. Well, even if he had actually been asleep, now he was probably awake, for she inadvertently nudged him whilst trying to curl up on her side. The bed was just too narrow for three people.
Suddenly she had to think about the kiss again, and how safe she had felt sleeping in his arms in the Observatory.
Sleeping in his arms...
Oh, she shouldn't, she really, really shouldn't. But would it really be that bad? Didn't friends not sleep arm in arm every now and then? Would one more time really hurt?
Yes.
But it was night, it was dark, and Martha was lying next to them and she could always say in the morning she had been sleeping and not realised what she had done; that she had mistaken him for the pillow or something like that – even though at the same time she knew she most likely wouldn't be able to fool him like that.
In a sudden fit of courage she turned around and cuddled up on his side, her head resting on his chest. He stiffened and she could hear him stop breathing for a moment, then she felt how he lifted his head slightly.
Oh well. Not such a good idea then.
But before she could turn away again, she felt his arms around her and his fingers stroking gently over the skin on her forearms, giving her goose bumps and sending shivers down her spine.
Oh hell, it had been a bad idea, a very bad idea. But nothing in the universe would have made her turn away just now, as she was wrapped in his arms, hearing the beats of his hearts, and feeling his long, beautiful, soft fingers touching her bare skin like that.
...
She literally jumped as a scream cut through the air. Not a second later she was fully awake and out of bed, following the Doctor. Behind her she could hear Martha, who had been just a bit slower.
The Doctor seemed to know where the scream had came from, as he was heading straight for Shakespeare's room. Once they had reached it, Shakespeare just lifted his head from his desk as if being asleep just a moment ago.
Her eyes fell on the innkeeper., who was lying on the floor. She didn't need to check, it was as clear to her as it could be that the poor woman was dead.
"What? What was that?" Shakespeare murmured, but she ignored him and went straight to the open window. She could still feel a strange presence lingering in the room, now fading quickly.
She could hardly trust her eyes as she stuck her head out of the window. But the cool night air hitting her face proved that she wasn't dreaming.
"Did you see that?" she asked Martha, who was standing next to her, without turning her gaze away from the silhouette disappearing in the night.
"Yeah," Martha replied.
"What did you see?" the Doctor asked as he popped up between them, staring out as well now.
"A witch," Martha said.
"Flying away, on a broomstick," she added, still finding it hard to believe. What was that, some sort of hallucination? But Martha had seen it as well, so maybe more an image, projected into their minds? But she would have noticed that. But it couldn't be an actual witch, could it?
…
Later, after they had put poor Dolly's corpse on the bed in her room, where she would be prepared in the morning for her funeral, they were sitting with Shakespeare at his desk. The sun was about to rise and they were still wondering what had happened. The Doctor had said the woman's heart had simply gave up. But why?
"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey," Shakespeare sighed. "She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place when we all ran like rats. But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit."
It was clear that he had really liked her. In more than one way.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," the Doctor replied, his head in his hands.
He seemed to be genuinely clueless.
"I might use that," Shakespeare said, not forgetting his profession even when facing dead like that.
"You can't. It's someone else's."
"But the thing is," Martha said, ignoring all their reciting. "Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright, and they were both connected to you."
"You're accusing me?" Shakespeare asked astonished.
"No, but Mira and I saw a witch, big as you like, flying, cackling away, and you've written about witches."
"I have? When was that?"
"Not, not quite yet," the Doctor tried to stop Martha.
"I don't think that was a witch." Mira said eventually.
"Oh? How come? So, no magic after all?" the Doctor said, turning his head to her.
He had sounded quite seriously, but she could see by the slight smirk on his face. That, and the way his eyebrow was raised, told her he was teasing her, at least a little bit.
"Didn't say that. I just said it probably wasn't a witch. Well, at least not a hum-... Not a witch from here. Maybe just from a... far off land," she replied. "Most likely from a very, very far off land." Her gaze fell on his hands, and suddenly it hit her. Had he been able to hear her thoughts earlier on when she had lain in his arms?
Please not. Oh please not. Bloody telepathy.
She could feel her face turn red, and quickly turned her head away from him.
"Peter Streete spoke of witches," thankfully Shakespeare threw in right now. She couldn't help but to think that he knew exactly what she meant by 'far off land'.
"Who's Peter Streete?" Martha asked.
"Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."
"The architect. Hold on," the Doctor said and stopped, only to hit the table a moment later. "The architect!" he yelled and made her, Martha and Shakespeare jump, "The architect! The Globe! Come on!"
Martha's POV
Little later they were back in the Globe. She wondered for a moment if the Doctor would ever run out of energy, but she highly doubted it. The night had been a bit too short for her liking, even though she had slept – but not really well in that hard bed.
"The columns there, right?" the Doctor asked. "Fourteen sides. I've always wondered, but I never asked. Tell me, Will. Why fourteen sides?"
"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all," Shakespeare replied. "Said it carried the sound well."
"Fourteen. Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen," the Doctor continued, looking around.
"There's fourteen lines in a sonnet," she replied, looking around as well. The Doctor was strolling around the Globe, Shakespeare standing next to her and Mira a bit away – giving the strange impression as if listening to something only she could hear, her eyes closed. She was wearing her jacket again, but her hair was still in the loose braid she had had at night, making her appear much younger than yesterday. Most likely she was something between twenty-fife and twenty-eight, Martha decided. Not as young as she looked sometimes, but younger than the Doctor, who must be in his early thirties.
"So there is, "the Doctor replied and smiled at her. "Good point. Words and shapes following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets. Oh, my head. Tetradecagon. Think, think, think!" He strolled around now, hitting his head and ruffling his hair. "Words, letters, numbers, lines!"
"This is just a theatre," Shakespeare shrugged.
"Oh yeah, but a theatre's magic, isn't it?" the Doctor said, full of enthusiasm. "You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis a the right time," he continued, knocked on the stage and then swung around to them again. "Oh, you can make men weep, or cry with joy. Change them. You can change people's minds just with words in this place." His voice got quieter, as if something was dawning on him. "But if you exaggerate that..."
"It's like your police box. Small wooden box with all that power inside," she said, fully caught by his enthusiasm.
"Oh. Oh, Martha Jones, I like you," he said, making her heart jump.
"Seems we found our generator then, hm?" Mira asked, appearing next to Shakespeare.
Obviously she was done with whatever she had been doing.
"Yupp, seems so," the Doctor said. "Tell you what, though. Peter Streete would know for certain. Can I talk to him?"
"You won't get an answer," Shakespeare said, "A month after finishing this place, lost his mind."
"Why? What happened?" she asked.
"Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled."
"Where is he now?" the Doctor wanted to know.
"Bedlam," Shakespeare said as if that would need no further explanation.
"What's Bedlam?" she asked, suddenly realising what it meant to be from a different time. It was not only the obvious things that were different here, but also those small things, common knowledge, common vocabulary and all that stuff.
"Bethlem Hospital. The madhouse," Shakespeare replied seriously.
"We're going to go there. Right now. Come on," the Doctor said and was already on his way.
"Wait!" Shakespeare yelled, "I'm coming with you. I want to witness this at first hand."
He only stopped shortly to speak to two men who had just entered, "Ralph, the last scene as promised. Copy it, hand it round, learn it, speak it. Back before curtain up. And remember, kid, project. Eyes and teeth. You never know, the Queen might turn up. As if. She never does."
Not much later they were back out on the street.
"So, tell me of Freedonia, where women can be doctors, writers, actors," Shakespeare suddenly said to her with a flirty tone in his voice.
"This country's ruled by a woman," she replied, as flirty as him.
"Ah, she's royal. That's God's business. Though you are a royal beauty."
"Whoa, Nelly. I know for a fact you've got a wife in the country," she replied, slightly shocked.
Well, not really shocked, but what was she doing here? Flirting with Shakespeare, a man long dead, one of the biggest writers ever. She suddenly realised she would not give all that up easily. Him – the Doctor – this whole time travel thing, everything. She wanted stay for more than one trip, and she would find a way to convince him. And even though he seemed to have more eyes for Mira than for her, there was a chance that that would change over time. Maybe they just got separated, maybe he only needed a little more time.
"But Martha, this is Town," he replied with an irresistible smile.
But before she could answer, she heard the Doctor say, "Come on. We can all have a good flirt later."
"Is that a promise, Doctor?" Shakespeare asked, only halfway serious.
"Oh, fifty seven academics just punched the air. Now move!"
Doctor's POV
They had almost reached the hospital, as Mira suddenly stopped in her tracks. As he looked at her he saw that her brows were furrowed, almost as if she was having a headache.
Oh right.
He looked from her to the hospital and back at her. Well, probably not the best place to go for an empath, was it?
"You want to wait outside? No need for you to go in...," he said softly, ignoring the looks Martha and Shakespeare shot them.
"Nah, I'm fine. I'm coming with you," she said. "I just needed a moment to... sort it all. It's okay now."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
Soon later the Keeper led them through the corridors. It hadn't been to hard to convince him, he had just shown his psychic paper and demanded to speak to Peter Streete. He shot a quick look at his companions. Martha seemed genuinely shocked, which was no surprise. Shakespeare tried to hide his feelings, but he could tell that he didn't like it in here. Mira was staring straight ahead into space, but as far as he could tell she kept herself together quite well. He could think of quite a few non-empathic people who would have fled once they've heard the screams of the poor people locked up in here.
"Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits?" The Keeper asked. "I'd whip these madmen. They'll put on a good show for you. Mad dog in Bedlam."
"No, I don't!" he said determined. Humans. For a species so capable of compassion, they sometimes showed an irritating absence of exactly that skill.
"Well, wait here, my lords, while I make him decent for the ladies," he said and walked away.
"So this is what you call a hospital, yeah?" Martha addressed Shakespeare. "Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?"
"Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia."
"But you're clever. Do you honestly think this place is any good?"
"I've been mad. I've lost my mind," he replied, "Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."
"Mad in what way?" Martha asked in disbelieve.
"You had a son, hadn't you? And he died," Mira said, even though she obviously couldn't be sure it was the same here as in her universe.
"My only boy. The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there," Shakespeare replied with grief in his voice.
"I didn't know. I'm sorry," Martha said compassionate.
"It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be. Oh, that's quite good," Shakespeare said.
"You should write that down," he suggested. It was high time for Will to write Hamlet.
"Maybe not. A bit pretentious?" Shakespeare asked, just as the Keeper came back.
"This way, my lord!"
They followed him into a dirty cell. On a cot, with his back to them, was sitting a man, obviously Peter Streete.
"They can be dangerous, my lord. Don't know their own strength," the Keeper said.
"I think it helps if you don't whip them. Now get out!" he said, almost yelled, at the Keeper, who finally seemed to get it and left without another word.
Then he joined Mira who was already crouching in front of Peter, trying to catch is eyes, but without any success so far.
"Peter? Peter Streete?" he asked quietly.
"He's the same as he was. You'll get nothing out of him," Shakespeare, who was standing next to the door with Martha, said.
"Some sort of post-hypnotic block?" Mira said and continued as he nodded, "Bloody botchers, whoever's responsible for that."
"Peter?" he said again, this time touching Peter's shoulder.
Peter raised his had and stared at him. He could see the confusion and pain in his eyes, as well as fear. He must have been quite an intelligent man, before who ever was responsible for this had got hold of him.
He lifted his hands and put his fingers on Peter's temples. Immediately he could feel what he had seen in his eyes a moment ago. He also felt that Mira was right, someone actually had blocked his memories. Or maybe even deleted them, but not for good, which was somehow the same as simply blocking them. Anyway, he most likely could restore them, even though he doubted that poor Peter would ever be back to his old self again.
"Peter, I'm the Doctor," he said calmly. "Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back to when everything was fine and shining. Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A Winter's Tale. Let go. That's it." He could feel Peter's thoughts getting slightly clearer and some of the memories coming back, but, of course, still not very sorted. "That's it, just let go," he laid him down on his cod. "Tell me the story, Peter. Tell me about the witches."
"Witches spoke to Peter. In the night, they whispered. They whispered. Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls. Always fourteen. When the work was done they snapped poor Peter's wits," he said whilst waving with his hands through the air.
"Where did Peter see the witches? Where in the city? Peter, tell me. You've got to tell me where were they?" he urged, trying to get through to him. Maybe his condition would further improve over time, but he needed the answers right now.
"Doctor," Mira whispered, but he just shook his head at her. Not now.
"All Hallows Street," Peter said.
"Too many words," he suddenly heard a voice next to him, making him jump backwards.
"What the hell?" Martha asked.
He stared at the old woman who had suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Mira was still standing between him and her, but only shook of his hand as he tried to pull her away.
"Just one touch of the heart," the old hag said, and touched Peter's chest.
"No!" he yelled, suddenly knowing what she was doing.
"Witch! I'm seeing a witch!" Shakespeare stated. Well, another inspiration for him then.
"No need to yell like that," Mira said without taking her eyes from the old woman. "I doubt she's able to do more than lid a match stick right now. I have to say, impressive trick with that teleportation."
"That you tried to disturb? With little success, I might say."
"Well, at least you didn't manage to kill him," Mira replied, pointing at Peter who was lying unconscious on his cot.
"Only a matter of time 'till I'll regain my strength. Now, who would be next, hmm? Just one touch. Oh, oh, I'll stop your frantic hearts. Poor, fragile mortals."
Well, now he was getting what was happening. Mira had tried to warn him, and she had obviously tried to interfere with the teleportation of that creature somehow. Could she block teleportation as well? Well, she had said she could interfere with any psychic abilities. And now that he was concentrating on it, he could feel the psychic energy that filled the air. The energy of that 'witch' as well as Mira's. Why had he never fully noticed how strong she really was? Maybe because she had played it down, at least in his presence. But, unfortunately, the witch seemed to be stronger, and he wondered how much longer Mira would be able to stop her from killing someone.
"Let us out! Let us out!" Martha yelled.
"That's not going to work. The whole building's shouting that," he casually said to her whilst still thinking about a way to escape.
"Who will die first, hmm?"
"Well, if you're looking for volunteers...," he replied.
He had to play for time. It was all connected somehow, but he wasn't getting it yet.
"No! Don't!" he heard Martha begging.
"Doctor, can you stop her?" Shakespeare asked.
"No mortal has power over me," the witch declared.
He heard Mira laughing dryly. "Oh well, shit happens! I guess that's the day you'll finally meet your master!"
"Oh we'll see. I guess you're the first one I kill once I have my powers back. Once you're exhausted," the witch said to Mira, but he couldn't help to notice that she appeared to shrink under Mira's words. Shrink literally, if only a few millimetres.
Words! That's it!
"You should listen to her," he said to the witch. "Because there definitely is a power in words. If I can find the right one. If I can just know you."
"None on Earth has knowledge of us."
"Then it's a good thing I'm here. Now think, think, think. Humanoid female, uses shapes and words to channel energy. Ah! Fourteen! That's it! Fourteen!" he yelled and pointed at the creature. "The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration! Creature, I name you Carrionite!"
The creature screamed and finally vanished in a flash of light.
"You're alright?" he hurried over to Mira.
"Yeah. Great. Did you have to send her back before we had a chance to question her? Now we can go search for her."
"Question her? How much longer do you think you could have stopped her from killing someone?"
"Oh, well, some-"
"What did you do?" Martha interrupted them.
"I named her. The power of a name. That's old magic."
"But there's no such thing as magic," Martha said, now all confused.
"Well, it's just a different sort of science. You lot, you chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead."
"Use them for what?" Shakespeare wanted to know.
"The end of the world."
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