Michelangelo looked haunted. His assistants had never seen him like this. All dressed in black he came bounding into his studio telling everyone to leave. He wouldn't hear of even his best friend's pleas for answers. He sent his nephew home to wait for him there, both knowing he was lying when he said he was coming soon.

He clutched his black clothes like a man in a blizzard would cover himself in a coat against the cold. His thinning hair was coal black, and his beard was wiry and frazzled. Clara panted, out of breath, not knowing what to say to the famous sculptor.

"Michelangelo, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but get yourself together. I need your help."

The studio stank of buckets of old paint and dried pig's skin. Every bit of wood was covered in colored spots.

Clara thought out loud. "It's got to be something to do with you. I mean, it all started here."

Blocks of marble stood unfinished in the hall, as if the statues were still waiting to be uncovered. Clara's mind was racing, seeing bits and pieces and trying to get it together, like the Doctor would. She had to think like the Doctor to get him back.

"It came alive, but it didn't start out that way. I mean, you made it come alive."

Michelangelo shook his head. "I am but the instrument. Nature cannot create such beauty. Only God can. I merely free the forms that are already there, hidden inside the stone, and I chip away the parts that don't belong."

"You already saw it, didn't you? You saw what the block was going to be. You saw it in your mind's eye." Clara turned to look straight at the divine painter. "Because that's what the Angel saw. The Angel was already there. In your eye. You poured everything into that sculpture. Your heart, your soul. You are connected. It's a part of you. You made the Angel and the Angel made you."

Clara smiled. "You're the key. We have to use that somehow. But how? 'Cause the Angel's not just heart and soul, it's got skin and hair too. It's got DNA. Which means there's something we're missing. The Doctor would say we're asking the wrong questions. So what's the right one? Think, Clara. Think."

Her pacing did not alleviate her worries. Michelangelo approached his work in progress to stare at his marble creations, half finished, the chisels still scattered on the floor where his assistants had dropped them.

"If only they could speak," Michelangelo said. "They could reveal their secrets to us."

Clara stopped, and looked. From the block of granite seemed to emerge a muscled king, deeply troubled and frowned, with a long flowing beard as Neptune.

"Mike, can I call you Mike? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. Could you step back a bit there?"

"Don't touch me. Who do you think you are?"

"I'm sorry, mister Grouchy. "

"You speak of monsters, while I speak of miracles."

"Okay fine, call it whatever you like, but could you do something for me for one second? Could you close your eyes?"

Clara fixed her gaze on Neptune and didn't let go.

"They can't move if you're looking at it," she said.

"You mean…"

"Possibly, yes. There's only one way to be sure."

Michelangelo swallowed.

"On the count of three," Clara said. "One."

Michelangelo touched the king's face, stroked the king's stone beard, and nothing happened.

"Two."

It was almost a father's touch.

"If I'm right, something's imbibing these statues with life force. It means this moment has been prepared for. It means we're not alone. Or, you know, we're just scared of a slab of stone right now. That's a possibility. Embarrassing, right?"

"Close your eyes, girl, and we shall see if your fears are justified."

"Sorry for boring you! Three!"

And they closed their eyes. The king moved.