"Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes." — Alexandre Dumas

The controls felt sluggish under the Doctor's hands, just the sort of thing that Nyssa used to put to rights when his back was turned. This time, however, irregular maintenance was not the problem. Nor was it simply a side effect of pushing through the complex layers of forcefields tangled around the Basilica. The TARDIS had penetrated far more challenging barriers. No, the ship must have sensed his mood. She was balking at what he intended to do.

"I know, old girl. I know." He patted the console. "I'll do everything I can to minimize damage to the timestream."

It was a question of scale. Small events might ebb and flow in Heisenbergian flux, unnoticed or forgotten. But fixed points in time were dangerous to tamper with. Not that monarchs were more significant than any other person on the cosmic scale, but the first ruling queen was a seismic change in a civilisation whose culture and religion were so keyed to male and female archetypes. If he interfered, it could have long-lasting repercussions. Therein lay the danger. A TARDIS that introduced a major temporal paradox risked being destroyed by Blinovitch feedback. Even if he could save Nyssa, he was putting his ship at risk.

Not to mention himself. Gallifrey would not look kindly on his rewriting the Celestenes' history books. The penalty for a second offense was bound to be more severe than forced regeneration. But that did not matter now.

"You do understand?" he said. "I can't let this be. Not this time."

There was cold expectancy in the TARDIS hum, but perhaps that was just his imagination. Sighing, he stepped outside.

"Lights." Synthetic candlelight flickered to life around him, illuminating a pleasant suite whose amenities held no attraction for him now. It was the very same room that he and Nyssa had shared on that last fateful night when they parted on decidedly awkward terms. The hangings, the lanterns, the bed, the wardrobe and other appointments were exactly as he remembered. He almost expected to see her mask still lying on the nightstand where he had left it. Only the flowers were gone, their vases and troughs yawning like empty gums.

Barely registering his surroundings, the Doctor strode outside to the balcony and bracing night air. There he surveyed the Basilica's vast complex of spires, palatial structures and connecting spans. Across a yawning gulf, the central palace loomed with luminous lines of gold, amber and blue flame, shining through the billows of fog like a paper origami lantern. A suitably elegant bower for Nyssa, or so he had believed. Now it was simply a prison to be infiltrated.

His eyes fell upon the tallest spire, a huge pylon looming up behind the great palace which housed the ballroom, banqueting hall, and other chambers of state. That tower, surely, housed the royal apartments where Nyssa had gone after leaving him. Any of those distant twinkling lights could be her room. Or none. There could be a women's wing somewhere, where pregnant women were obliged to lodge during confinement. She might even have returned to the Healing Hives of Hygieia, the source of her earlier transmission. Where had Nyssa's daughter been born? The historical records were maddeningly vague on that point.

Planning ahead, he assembled a quick mental map of the Basilica's overall layout before issuing a mental command: royal apartments. Nothing happened, of course. He reverted to the next closest location whose name he knew: Hall of Jupiter.

The ballroom was vast, cold and nearly deserted. The Doctor's materialisation attracted little attention from the few courtiers strolling across the slumbering floor at this late hour. Two couples were wandering aimlessly, hailing one another across the vast space and converging to talk in reverent whispers.

He thrust his hands in his pockets and ambled towards them, eavesdropping with hidden urgency.

"The Royal Midwife delivered all five brothers, you know. The heir couldn't be in better hands."

"Experienced, yes, but she's ancient— practically antediluvian. I hope Her Serene Grace hasn't dismissed all her maidservants, or she won't have anyone to lean on."

"Assuming Trakenites give birth upright."

"Hold your tongue! She's an offworlder, not an animal!"

The Dowager Queen's in no fit state to attend a birth, with her son's death."

The Doctor frowned. Had the Hierophant been assassinated after all? The Doctor harboured little sympathy for the young man, if he had taken advantage of Nyssa's lowered inhibitions during the Rite of Dionysos. Even so, his death would not make amends. Besides, security around her was liable to be even tighter.

"Excuse me," he said. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if someone might direct me to the royal apartments? The Queen requested a Trakenite physician, and, well… here I am. I came as quickly as I could."

One of the courtiers who had been ignoring him turned and stared, raised eyebrows accentuated by the stark white and gold facepaint he wore from cheekbones to scalp. "Oh, an offworlder, are you? That explains it."

"You can't come before royalty dressed like that, you know," said his companion, laughing. "Besides, you're late."

"They escorted Her Grace to the birthing chamber two hours ago," a young woman said.

The Doctor went cold. Two hours. He had to find her, and quickly. "Yes, which is why—"

"If you're Queen Minerva's physicker," said another girl, eyeing him skeptically, "the Warder ought to have made arrangements to receive you at the docking platform."

"Well, yes, but there's been a bit of a mix-up," the Doctor said, offering an apologetic smile. He couldn't afford to raise their suspicions, however desperate he was for information. "My shuttle was delayed. I didn't see anyone to report to, so I thought I'd better present myself to the Queen at once."

"I'm not surprised you've been left high and dry," said the first one. "The royal household's in mourning. Frankly, we're all stunned."

His friend nodded sorrowfully. "You'd think every one of the Celestial Spheres danced in retrograde."

"With all due respect to His Holiness, Dionysos has presided ever since his Coronation. Some of us are still waiting for Apollo. Who is not you, I deem." The wary young woman turned away with a dismissive sniff.

"Hush," the other girl said. "We cannot combat chaos by acting like barbarians. Please forgive her, stranger. She's exercised on behalf of our beloved prince and his consort. We durstn't take anyone near Her Divine Grace at such a time, not even if you were an emissary of the gods. Petition one of the guards. If you're expected, then surely they'll convey you to the royal apartments."

"Much obliged," he said, retreating with a bow. He scanned the room quickly, taking note of the guards standing by the exits at floor level. Two were staring at him from across the great hall, although they had not yet left their posts. Guards meant more delays. He forced himself to maintain a leisurely pace as he mounted the moon-bridge, turned right at the top and jogged along the mezzanine towards the exit.

Once again, chill air struck him with bracing clarity as he stepped out into the fog. His reconnoitre on the eve of the Coronation proved useful now. This bridge led away from the tower he was making for, but it joined a spire that served as a hub, sending spans out in all directions including his goal two levels up.

If only he could get there without being stopped. With his track record, he knew he was running on borrowed time. The bridge ahead offered no cover. The balusters and floor were translucent, and there were no convenient planters or pillars to hide behind. He started to make a dash for it, then turned back to study the monumental door he had just exited. It was framed by elaborate scrollwork forming an abstract archway.

If this rescue attempt was to succeed, he needed to steal a march on his worst adversary: bad luck. The way these affairs tended to go, the guards would be on his heels any minute.

Up, he commanded, picturing in his mind the upper rim of the arch. He had just time to correct the mental image with his back instead of his nose pressed against the side of the building. The transmat obeyed in a flash. Before he had time to second-guess himself, he was standing five metres up, spreadeagled above the doorway, heels caught on a narrow curved ledge that was little more than a lip on the wall.

Sure enough, a pair of guards rattled out of the door just below his feet seconds later. They looked about, but despite the Celestenes' vaunted mastery of the heavens, neither of them looked up. Nyssa would have appreciated the irony.

"Now, where's he got to?" one said. "Watch this end while I check the other side."

The Doctor closed his eyes and dropped into a light trance, the better to keep his limbs perfectly aligned. Equilibrium was a revered principle in Celestene philosophy, and he certainly needed all his powers of balance right now. It was difficult to hold still knowing that somewhere nearby, Nyssa was facing an ordeal for which her intelligence and technical skills were all but useless.

At last the guard came jogging back. At any moment, he might lift his eyes and notice the figure plastered above the portal like a beige gargoyle. So far, however, darkness was coming to the Doctor's aid. "No sign. Must've taken the sliding road down to the front gate. Best alert the doorkeepers."

"Aye, sir." The other guard touched the earpiece of his helm, murmured a few words and nodded. "They haven't seen anyone yet. And…" he paused, tilting his head. "That offworlder energy weapon has gone missing."

"What?!"

"No signs of a break-in, no transmat record of anyone entering the armoury, but the vault's empty."

"Do you mean to tell me we just let an armed offworlder go unchallenged?"

"Suppose it might be, sir."

The first guard swore. "The Warder's going to have our eyebrows when he hears of this. Change of plan. Return to the Hall of Jupiter. I'll stand watch at the Gnomon in case the stranger comes that way. He might be as harmless as her ladyship, but we'll take no chances. Detain him at once if you see him again."

"Aye, sir." The second guard turned back towards the ballroom, while his partner headed for the far end of the bridge.

Gnomon, the Doctor commanded. He rematerialised in a tall, pagoda-shaped chamber. A staircase twirled up the middle like the spindle of a whelk. He sprinted up the spiral at once. As he had guessed, this was the hub he had spotted from the other end of the bridge. The tall tower that might be Nyssa's prison lay off to his left. Two turns of the stair put him on the correct level. With any luck, the guard would plant himself by the transmat point down below.

Just as he was about to step onto the upper walkway, the sound of voices forced him to duck to one side of the opening and press himself flat in the shadows. Two servants were walking towards him. He could hear snatches of their conversation as they drew near.

"…themselves to blame if the birth goes badly. Who's going to fetch and carry, I ask you? Calliope can't do everything herself. And the Queen's offworlder blood and all! It's a wonder they ever conceived."

"Hygieia keep her from harm."

"Lucina, more like, but it comes to the same thing. But mark you, did you hear what Calliope said? Her mistress spends most nights in the king's chamber, even these past few weeks."

"'Tain't moderate, but there, he's a lusty lad, as is right and proper in a king."

The Doctor clenched his hands at his sides, waiting for them to pass on down the stair. Like most people, they did not look back at a doorway they had just passed through, a lesson he had taught several companions. Swiftly and silently, he darted out of his hiding place. The guard's voice drifted up from two levels below.

"Halt! Did you pass anyone just now?"

"No, sir, not a soul."

So far so good, but it looked as if his luck was about to run out. He supposed it was too much to hope that the tower's entrance would be unguarded, and indeed it was not. Nor could the transmat leapfrog him beyond the sentries he could see in the distance. He needed a specific location's name, or at least a precise mental image, to teleport past them.

There was nothing else for it. He stepped out boldly onto the bridge and set off, marching towards them with a brisk, purposeful stride.

Three of the six guards broke to intercept before he was halfway there. They drew their weapons as they closed on his position. Raising his empty hands, he halted and waited for them to surround him.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" he said, ignoring their swords. "I'm the Doctor. The Queen sent for me. Births, weddings, bat mitzvahs, quinceañeras, wouldn't miss them for the world. Balloon animals a specialty. So if you'll just send a message up to Her Majesty that I've arrived, I'll be happy to provide the necessary… ah." Two swords had come to rest with their points uncomfortably close to his hearts. Had someone had been briefing them in Gallifreyan physiology? "It's a bit chill out here, don't you think? I recall a warmer reception during my last visit."

"Offworlders are not authorised on this level!" their leader snapped. "Explain yourself immediately, or we'll demote you to a lower one!"

The Doctor followed his glance over the side of the bridge. The next level, he estimated, was about two thousand metres straight down. "We don't have time for this," he said, dropping his amiable patter. "Look. The Queen is my friend, and she's asked for my help. If she is safe, then I shan't trouble you any further. But if something has happened to her—" His deceptively mild tone hardened abruptly— "then you do not want to be the person who prevented me from coming to her aid. Do I make myself absolutely, perfectly clear?"

The man's expression faltered under the intensity of the Doctor's manner. "We should have been informed," he said, struggling to maintain control of the situation in front of his men. "Do you have any proof of what you say?"

"If you'll pass word to Sir Adyton," he said, praying it was still true, "he can vouch for me."

The guard behind him muttered something inaudible. There was consternation in the faces he could see.

"That's not possible at this time, sir."

"Then you had better make it possible very quickly, since the Queen's life is at stake," the Doctor said, beginning to lose his temper.

A shimmer behind him caused him to tense, but the sword-point pressing against his back eased off. The guards before him dipped their heads in a salute. "Sir!"

"Report!" The voice behind him was vaguely familiar.

"Captain, this offworlder claims to be—"

"Lord Doctor." The new arrival circled around to inspect him. The Doctor was relieved to recognise him as one of Adyton's subordinates. "He aided us in thwarting the Queen's kidnapper during the Coronation Feast."

Was that how they were spinning it? "Ah, Captain. I'm glad to see you. Nyssa sent me a distress call, which she's not in the habit of doing unless it's serious. I know her physiology. She may need medical care. Please, show me up to her at once."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," the captain said, nodding to his men to withdraw their weapons. "You must understand, these are extraordinary times. Quite aside from her divine labour, there was an attempt on the Queen's life not three hours since. His All-Holiness has commanded the royal apartments sealed off until further notice. Anyone violating that perimeter will be ejected from the Basilica, immediately and permanently."

"And fatally, I suppose?" the Doctor said. It was a long way down.

"Those are my orders, my lord. Now, I must ask you to allow us to search you for weapons. Remove your outer garment— slowly, if you please."

"Oh, for goodness' sake." Shrugging out of his coat, he took note of its heft and weight. He had not cleared out his pockets in some time. "If you can't take me to her, then I must see the Warder at once. He has some sense, anyway."

The man's mouth twisted sourly. "Sir Adyton, you say? That might be for the best. If you'll just hand that over, my lord."

"Oh, very well. Here."

He swung his coat in a wide arc like a matador's cape. The captain's reflexes were good, but he had not counted on the speed and centrifugal force of a cricket ball in a hip pocket. It clipped him in the jaw, and the coat-tails did a fair job of snarling the nearest guard's weapon. Which left two to contend with. The Doctor ducked the first sword-thrust, but the second flashed in his peripheral vision as he fixed his mind on a single word. Calliope.

He had a split second to ponder whether his gamble had been critical mistake. Did the Heavenly Gates recognise a person's name as coordinates? And if Calliope was within the royal apartments, would the lockdown codes prevent his reaching her? He felt a sharp lash of pain along his ribcage as the transmat seized him.

There was a scream as he fell to his knees in front of a woman carrying a large tray of linens and folded towels.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, scrambling to his feet and grimacing. The red stain on the inside of his elbow did not bode well for the sanctity of his jumper. "I'm the Doctor, and I've come to help."

"The… the Doctor?" Clutching her burden tighter, she stared at him, taking in the outlandish clothes, open face, and curious vegetable dangling from the lapel of the coat he was holding. Her eyes widened further at the blood-stained rent along one side of his jumper. "You're the one my mistress spoke of?"

"I am." He set a finger to his lips. "Please, don't call the guards. Hear me out. It's vitally important I reach her. I shouldn't even be here, but your history books say she doesn't survive the night." He saw the woman's blanch, and took heart that he had found an ally. "I may be able to do something to change that."

"You should have come sooner," she lamented, shaking her head. "Oh, sir, she wanted you here sooner."

The local gravity seemed to spike. "Don't tell me it's too late."

"No, sir. My lord. I mean… I don't know. But she's stopped talking about you, these past few moons. I think she's despaired of your coming. And now… if you're seen, we're both for it. No one's allowed up there."

He followed her involuntary glance towards the ceiling and began to breathe again. "Calliope," he said, "If you care for Nyssa as I think you may, you have to take me to her now. Whatever the consequences, we cannot let her die. Can we?"

The dire conviction in his words reached her, even if she could not know their import fully. "No, milord, of course not. This way. Hurry."

She shoved the linens into his arms, which served as an effective shield to hide his injury. It was superficial, but it was one more thing that might require tedious explanation. He was grateful that she seemed to accept it, and him, with no further questions.

This level was clearly "belowstairs," access chambers for the servants and staff to reach the royal apartments above. The decor would suit a luxury hotel on Earth, but he was not fooled: the artwork on the walls was generic, the furniture pleasant-looking but sparse, and storage cabinets and fixtures were visible rather than camouflaged. Calliope dashed through several rooms, not stopping to answer the hail of a pageboy, and bundled the Doctor through a heavy door into a spiral staircase hugging the inner wall of the tower's central pylon. There she made him halt to dress his wounds.

"There's no time," he insisted, desperate to reach the next floor.

"Then you should've steered better," she retorted. Evidently Nyssa had expressed her opinion of his piloting skills at some time, probably when her messages went unanswered. Yet for once he had landed exactly when he intended to: as close to the fixed point as possible, in order to make a precise surgical strike. "We'll never get past the doorkeepers with your dripping blood on the floor. You barely got past the Tower Guard, didn't you?"

"You have a point." He submitted impatiently while she tore linens into strips for a crude dressing to staunch the bleeding. There was nothing to be done about the jumper, but once she finished, he should be able to conceal the wound with his coat.

Working quickly, she told him in hurried whispers of the bombing at the Healing Hives of Hygieia and the shocking death of Auguste. Once, he would have found himself drawn into the local politics, just as he had on his previous visits. Now, he cared not a jot for any of it save the fact that, as he had suspected, the timing pointed to the Rite of Dionysos as the night of conception, assuming that Auguste's attempt on Nyssa's life tonight had induced labour a few weeks early. Between that and the difficulty of bringing a mixed-humanoid child to term without genetic tinkering, the danger to the mother was starkly clear.

Died in childbirth. Died in childbirth. The entry from the TARDIS databanks kept flashing before his eyes as Calliope led the way up three flights of stairs. It was a maddening reminder that there were some things beyond a doctor's ability to heal.

At last they reached an elaborate antechamber before a portal of opaque swirling mist. The way was barred by five armoured guards who drew swords and closed ranks as they approached.

"The Lord Doctor of Gallifrey, reporting to Her Serene Grace Nyssa Minerva as ordered," Calliope said, addressing the man with the red-lacquered helm.

"How do you do," the Doctor said, trying not to wince as he bowed behind the bundle of linens he was still carrying. "Her summons was quite urgent, so if you'll excuse me—"

"Stop!" said the chief guard. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Calliope? No one is allowed entry, certainly not…this… man!"

"Offworlders have male physickers," she said. "That's what 'Doctor' means. And my mistress did send for him. She told me so herself."

The man looked scandalised. "This is sacrilege! The priestesses of Hygieia—"

"I'm sure this is all very fascinating, but I don't have time for a religious debate," the Doctor said. "Nor, I am sure, does Nyssa. Good day!" Pushing forward, he succeeded in snaring three of five swords in the pile of towels as if it were an overlarge pincushion. He used the tray to parry the fourth, and the fifth man he simply bowled over. Fortunately, the barrier proved to be a privacy screen only and not a sealed forcefield. He dove through, ignoring the shouts that cut off the instant that he reached the other side.

Candlelight, soothing music, beautiful tapestries and hanging baskets of greenery formed a lavish cocoon for the proceedings. Comfortable furniture and spindle-shaped geometric sculptures provided rest for both body and mind. There was just one problem. The chamber was unoccupied. He spun around in consternation. Was it a blind alley? Had Celestene security intercepted Nyssa's transmissions and laid a trap for him? Before he had time to search the chamber for clues, two of the guards burst through the portal behind him. He kicked an ottoman at the feet of the nearest one, and suddenly he was again having to dodge a blade slicing uncomfortably near his face.

A muffled cry from somewhere close at hand focused his reflexes with sudden clarity. As an overhead swing brought a blade flashing down towards his scalp, he reached up and caught the guard's wrist, twisted and threw him to the ground. Fisticuffs had not been his forté for two regenerations, but a leaping kick was enough to knock the first man off-balance again as he sprang to his feet.

It was a temporary respite. The Doctor backpedalled, looking for something he could use to parry. Suddenly a third swordsman joined the fray, emerging out of a tapestry on the sidewall that was evidently an illusion. The newcomer's stylised headdress, gilded mask, doublet decked with enough taffeta and velvet to upholster several couches, cape and high heels provided more substantial cover than any furnishings. The Doctor was still tempted to knock him down.

"Doctor?" said the Hierophant. "In the nick of time— I should have guessed. Sergeant, halt! Cease fighting! This man has admittance; you do not!"

The Doctor would have liked to have given Achille a piece of his mind, but he had far more pressing business. That cry had told him where he was needed. Plunging through the illusory tapestry, he found himself in a dark chamber furnished even more ornately than the last, with columns of tinted water raining down on either side of a huge convex window open to the sky. Before it, facing moonlit clouds and bracketed by two women in priestess' robes, was a bent figure. In contrast to her attendants, her garb was simple: a soft green robe that fell around her in fluted folds, tracing body's curves. Her silhouette was changed, widened and rounded to accommodate the new life she was carrying, but that self-contained poise with which she held herself even under supreme duress was much the same.

His hearts caught. After all the rushing and fighting, he glimpsed a moment of profound stillness in the white knuckles of those small hands gripping the women's shoulders for support. All the mighty Powers in the universe paled beside this one: the power of one being to bring forth another life, formed of its own flesh and blood. For a moment, the thrum of the Basilica's Lattice washed over him again, a hushed and reverent expectancy brimming with joy and worry, shared among scattered minds that could not sleep for thoughts of what was happening here tonight. They loved her. Whatever this place had done to her with its callous, unthinking rituals, he could sense that much.

But all that love was mere abuse, if they had made her sacrifice her own body to play this part. Even now, the Dowager was stepping back from adjusting the mask Nyssa was still forced to wear, its feathers sticking to her perspiring cheeks. Masks, roles, ceremonies: he was sick of them. They had nothing to do with who she was, the friend he knew and cherished.

"Nyssa!" He crossed the room at a run.

The Dowager stepped forward to block his view. Nyssa released their shoulders, straightened and raised her head as she turned towards him. She was fighting to stand unassisted. "Let him approach," she said, voice faint.

"Doctor!" the Hierophant called after him. "Wait!"

"Not one instant longer," he said, closing the distance and thrusting himself between the older priestess and her charge. He slipped his palm under Nyssa's with gentle finesse, forced his thoughts past a flood of relief and fear and vindication, and sent the mental command: Home!

He had her. The transmat whisked them away.

Tapestries, window, waterfalls, and unkind strangers vanished, replaced by the wholesome sight of the TARDIS waiting for them.

"Everything's going to be all right," he said, slipping a supporting arm behind her. The lights in the guest suite had turned off again, forcing him to fumble for his key. "I'm taking you straight to a Trakenite colony on Serenity. They'll look after you."

"Transmat, Doctor?" she said through clenched teeth. "You'd risk…my son?"

"I'm so sorry," he said. "It's not medically advisable, but then, neither is leaving you here. How are you feeling?"

"Like… passing… a gravitic generator." She breathed out slowly and deliberately, starting to relax. The latest bout of contractions must have subsided.

"Can you walk? Just a few steps. Here." He pushed the door open. "Let's get you away before they trace my key."

"No, Doctor," she said. Planting her feet, she turned her head to meet his concerned gaze. The light streaming from the console room cast the shadows of the mask in stark relief. He blinked. That peculiar shade of grey-green matched her eyes, the voice was hers, but the line of the jaw was just a trifle too pronounced, obscured as it was beneath the fringe of damp feathers and a gauze veil that fell below her chin.

The person standing before him was a stranger.

"Who—?" he said, dumbfounded. "What have you done with Nyssa?"

The impostor tipped the mask back, revealing hazel eyes beneath. A familiar tenor rang out, exasperated, but with an edge of strained merriment. "Ah, Lord Doctor, your courage does you credit as her champion. Well met again. But I regret to inform you: I am not the damsel that you take me for."

"Good grief." He stared.

And stared again. Achille was clean-shaven now, apart from the ghost of a five o' clock shadow. His voice was perhaps a trifle higher than the Doctor remembered. Understanding broke upon him in a rush of scattered memories: the Celestenes' rigid division of the sexes, the boy's supposed "heart surgery" at the Healing Hives of Hygieia, the old king's reluctance to name him as heir, Auguste's scorn for a "sham princeling," and multiple assassination attempts in a culture where murder was anathema. All of which was rather beside the point. Achille might have good reason to disguise himself, but that left one Trakenite and three distress calls unaccounted for.

"Your Majesty. I do sincerely apologise for the interruption. I had no idea." The Doctor was momentarily at a loss. "But I must ask: where is she?"

"Safe." Achille's face contorted in another spasm of pain, and he hastily pulled the mask down again. A perfect facsimile of Nyssa's voice made the Doctor's skin crawl with wrongness. "She will remain so… only if you keep my secret."

The shimmer of the transmat curtailed further speech. All five guards whom the Doctor had eluded scant minutes ago appeared in a semicircle around the TARDIS doors. They fell upon him like hounds on a stag, wrenching him away and striking him to the floor as he stood digesting Achille's warning. He barely tried to fend them off.

"Don't hurt him." It was exactly how Nyssa would say it, and again he felt the tightness in his chest. Was she a party to this masquerade, wherever she was, or its hostage?

"Such are our orders, Your Grace," the sergeant said, glaring thunderously at the Doctor as if he would like to disobey. "Take him away."

Rough hands gripped him from all sides. Head throbbing from the blow that had dropped him, he opened his mouth to protest. A golden figure appeared in his peripheral vision just as the room faded from view.