What A Fool Believes

by E.A. Week

River Song summons the Eleventh Doctor to the beautiful planet Vareda to celebrate the excavation of an ancient temple. A gruesome attack on the Doctor leads River to believe that someone on Vareda would do anything to keep her discovery buried forever.

3. Chapter 3

Title: What a Fool Believes

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: eaweek at hotmail-dot-com

Summary: River Song summons the Eleventh Doctor to the beautiful planet Vareda to celebrate the excavation of an ancient temple. A gruesome attack on the Doctor leads River to believe that someone on Vareda would do anything to keep her discovery buried forever.

Category: Doctor Who. Eleven/ River; Amy/Rory.

Distribution: Feel free to link to this story from another web page, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Send me an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest!

The story title is shamelessly stolen from the Doobie Brothers.

Datclaimer: This story is rated M for sex, language, and mild gore.

Continuity (PLEASE read this): This story occurs at some nebulous point after season five, but somewhat outside the continuity of season six, though I touch on some of the same themes and borrow a couple of general ideas. Think of it as a tiny little "bubble" universe, connected to the "main" universe of the sixth season, or a slightly alternate timeline.

Chapter Two

Museums had always bored Amy half to death; the only ones she really liked were those full of colorful artwork. The Royal Museum of Vareda, attached to the palace, was even more tedious because nothing in it held any significance to her, just a collection of artifacts from the planet's history, a cultural past that Amy didn't share.

Rory showed more interest, especially of the things River had found at the dig, and he questioned her about the state of the Moschatans' technology. In between yawns, Amy learned that the Moschatans had discovered the uses of fire and had invented the wheel; they'd hunted with bow and arrow and spear-thrower. At the time of the Mollisian conquest—River didn't mince words—they'd progressed from flint to metal. River showed off collections of axe-heads and arrow-tips, and Amy stumbled along, trying to look like she cared. By the time they reached a case full of hunting knives—River called them "almost a hybrid of a Nepalese kukri and a Latin American machete"—Amy gave up all efforts at pretending.

"I'm really tired," she said.

With a sympathetic smile, River said, "I sometimes forget most people don't care about ancient artifacts."

Rory said, "I think they're incredible." He was rubbing his forehead, as if trying to remember something. "I think I might've once had a knife like that. Or maybe it was a sword."

"This can wait for another time," River said. "Let's get back to the Grand Foyer and see if Lady Bianca has our rooms ready. Amy looks like she could use a nap."

Amy didn't miss the pointed look River gave the Doctor as she spoke, nor did she miss the flush of color that crept up the Doctor's face, and the studious way he looked at everything except River.

(ii)

Amy turned this way and that before the full-length mirror. She bounced up and down, then leaned forward, then straightened up again and began strutting back and forth.

From the other side of the room, River's voice floated over. "Are you quite enjoying yourself?" she teased.

"Hmm," said Amy leaning forward again. "Look at those. Who needs a Wonderbra?"

"I take it you've never worn a corset before."

Amy ran her hands down the smooth stays. "I can see why women liked these things," she said. It looked as though every bit of soft tissue on her ribcage had been pushed up into those two delectable half-moon curves. Amy had never looked so voluptuous in her life. "It's kind of uncomfortable, but in a really kinky way."

River laughed, "Just be glad you don't have to wear one all day, every day." Like Amy, she wore a corset over a thin silk shift, and she'd been sitting while a maid piled her hair into a dramatic upsweep, fastening the curls with jeweled clips. Amy's hair was already done, a latticework of criss-crossing auburn braids and twists in a high beehive, a few curly wisps left to float about her face.

Another two maids entered the room, each one carrying an armful of shimmering silk.

"Which one is mine?" Amy yelped, bolting over to inspect the two gowns.

"The purple and red," River smiled. "Do you like it?"

The maid held up the gown, and Amy stood there, stunned speechless.

"They're on loan, so don't get too attached to it," River cautioned.

Amy extended a shy finger and traced the deep red frills and ruffles on the fitted, elbow-length sleeves of the dress. From each elbow, a wide bell of ivory lace fell to the wrist. The drawn-back overskirt of deep plum-colored silk revealed a petticoat in the same red as the ruffles on the sleeves. More ivory lace and gold accents on the neckline, bodice, and skirt set off the darker colors, the whole thing a fairy-tale concoction of feminine sartorial pleasure.

"Who made these?" Amy asked when she found her voice.

"The queen's seamstress," River said. "I gave her your measurements."

Amy tore her eyes away from her own costume and admired River's. The design was similar—a gown with the skirt open in front—only River's was more tailored, the over-skirt like a peacock's train flowing down in back, revealing quite a lot of the dove grey bodice and petticoat beneath. The fabric of the gown was in vertical stripes, dove grey and midnight blue, the sleeves more fitted, less fussy, trimmed with only a bit of delicate lace. Now Amy saw why River had chosen dark blue gemstones for her hairclips and jewelry: rings, bracelets, earrings, and a choker with a pendant that drew the eye to River's generous cleavage.

"Are those real sapphires?" asked Amy.

"No, they're a type of quartz crystal that can only be found on Vareda," River said. "They come in all different colors."

Amy touched her necklace and earrings. "Like these?" River had given Amy a set that looked like amethyst, accented with tiny chips of ruby.

"Crystal, all of it," River said.

"Is it valuable?" asked Amy, alarmed. She didn't want to be responsible for losing any of the queen's jewelry collection.

"Not really," River laughed. "The most valuable crystal on Vareda is completely clear. The stones are used to conduct energy from the solar collection stations. For jewelry, though, they'd be about as interesting as glass."

The maid with Amy's dress beckoned to her, smiling. "Would you like to try it on?"

Amy bounced over behind the folding screen, quivering with suppressed excitement. She could hardly believe that she, ordinary Amy Pond from Leadworth, would be wearing that gown tonight, a dress that would not have looked out of place on Marie Antoinette.

Just wait 'till Rory sees me, Amy thought as the maid laced her into the frock and fastened a series of hook-and-eye closures. And he thinks the policewoman's outfit is dishy!

(iii)

Rory sat in an anteroom adjacent to where he and the Doctor had been instructed to change. The Time Lord had still been behind a folding screen, muttering to himself, when Rory had finished.

With nothing else to do, Rory studied the room. Like almost everything else they'd seen of Vareda, the emphasis was on a kind of luxurious practicality. Water flowed through a small marble fountain in one corner, trickling into an oval basin. The walls had been papered with a pale fabric that looked like damask and which reflected the colors of the many flowers that had been arranged in bowls and vases throughout the room. The ceiling was high, the windows tall and uncovered, allowing plenty of daylight. The temperature was perfect, neither too warm nor too cool, the air neither too humid nor too dry. The furniture was plush, soft, comfortable to both the legs and back. The light fixtures were all of painted glass, the colors in harmony with the massed flowers. Rory couldn't see any light switches. Did the lights come on automatically when the sun set?

The Doctor emerged from the inner room, walking with a jerky, awkward lope.

"You've got the breeches on backwards," Rory said.

The Doctor glanced down, a look of comprehension crossing his face. "That explains things, then."

"You want the opening in front… for obvious reasons," Rory added.

"Oh. Right! Just a mo." The Doctor darted back into the room. Rory shook his head: how could the Doctor possess such extraordinary intelligence and yet be so clueless about something so basic?

The Time Lord re-emerged, looking happier and more comfortable. Rory got to his feet.

"Well, you're right at home," the Doctor observed, casting a disgruntled look at his companion.

"Two centuries' worth of experience," Rory reminded him. "I was happy to see the end of breeches and hose, trust me. Not to mention these things." He shifted one foot forward: the shoe was black leather, ornamented with a shiny silver buckle. The Doctor's were identical.

The Time Lord paused before a nearby mirror, adjusting his cravat. "Is this thoroughly idiotic?"

The unexpected admission of doubt touched Rory. He knew for a fact the Doctor didn't like to appear anything less than fully in command of every situation. Rory found it almost distressing to see him otherwise.

"No more idiotic than every other bloke'll be tonight," he said. "It's just not a look that lends itself to dignity."

"The things I do for that woman," the Doctor said under his breath. Queen Lavinia had chosen the theme for the party, but River had selected the clothes for herself and her friends. The archeologist seemed to have enjoyed playing dress-up doll with the Doctor.

"I'm glad we're millions of light years from Leadworth," Rory said. "If the blokes at the pub saw me like this, I'd never live it down." Mainly, he was relieved to see the pull River exerted over the Doctor. Even though he and Amy were married, Rory couldn't help worrying about Amy's interest in her childhood friend. But whatever Amy might still feel, the Doctor preferred the attentions of the older woman, for which Rory was deeply grateful.

The Doctor drew back his shoulders and took one last look in the mirror. Summoning his courage, he said, "Let's go meet the ladies. Come along, Mr. Pond." He strode from the room as manfully as possible, but managed only to look like a martyr on the way to his execution.

(iv)

When Rory first saw Amy, his jaw dropped, then he realized he was standing with his mouth open, and he quickly snapped it shut. For a moment, he hadn't recognized her, a vision of almost otherworldly loveliness. Then his vision shifted, and he saw the familiar, beloved face, the abundant crimson hair.

Amy smiled widely and bobbed an untutored curtsey.

"Lord Williams?" she said, fluttering a lacy fan.

"Uh," Rory managed.

"What do you think?" Amy demanded, twirling. The skirt of the dress, purple over red, flared out above her damask shoes.

"That—is—incredible," Rory said. He now understood why River had chosen red for him, red with purple and gold accents. The heavy cuffs of Rory's jacket were purple, his waistcoat was purple, but everything else was red—Roman red, surely not a coincidence. His ruffled shirt and hose were the same soft ivory as the lace on Amy's gown. Rory glanced at River, who stood with an enormous smile on her face. He'd always thought of her primarily as an archeologist and adventurer; he'd never have imagined she possessed such artistic sense as well.

Like Amy's and Rory's, River's and the Doctor's clothes were inverse images of each other: River's gown dove grey with dark blue accents; the Doctor in dark blue, his shirt and hose in dove grey. His gaze was fixed on River, his besotted expression making him appear impossibly young.

River then demonstrated everything there was to know of allure: she curtsied to the Doctor, fluid and graceful, her eyes flirtatious, gaze never leaving the Doctor's face. The Doctor in his turn made an elegant bow from the waist.

"Professor Song," he said, offering River his arm.

"Doctor," she smiled, slipping one silk-encased arm through the Doctor's elbow.

From deep within the palace came the musical sound of ringing bells.

"That's the summons to dinner," River said. She and the Doctor led the way. Amy took Rory's arm, and they followed along behind the older couple.

(v)

When all the guests had assembled at their tables, the queen and her son made their entrance. They were both small people, Amy saw, the queen a rather stout woman of perhaps fifty-five or sixty. Iron grey curls were piled up on her head, and she wore a silver diadem set with a glittering crystal. Her gown was deep green, trimmed in gold. Queen Lavinia had a good-natured face, her coloring very pretty, and her subjects seemed at ease in her presence.

Her son, Prince Lambert, was as beautiful a young man as Amy had ever seen. Dark blond curls framed a face that made the word 'angelic' seem anodyne and inadequate. Prince Lambert had a complexion as smooth and golden as a peach, and when he passed close enough, Amy saw the green of his eyes. His lips were very full, almost girlish, curling up into a dimpled smile. He was slim and elegantly muscular, carrying himself with a dancer's grace. He wore the same eighteenth century garb as the other men, white trimmed with gold—not a combination many men could have carried without looking ridiculous, but Prince Lambert managed it with effortless panache.

Everyone remained standing until the queen and the prince had taken their places at the head table. The only other people sitting with the royal pair were Lady Bianca, her daughter Iris, and Dr. Griffith from the hospital. Amy almost hadn't recognized Lady Bianca, because she'd covered her cropped hair with a tall wig of white curls. Iris wore a gown of bronze, an unusual color that worked with her rich hair and honey-brown eyes. Dr. Griffith had chosen a suit in burgundy and charcoal, the trim cut of the clothes flattering his height and broad shoulders.

At some unspoken cue, the masses of guests turned to their right and raised their cups of wine, as if in salute to an unseen entity. Amy and Rory followed suit, and after that odd toast, the queen bade everyone welcome.

"My good friends, it's Midsummer's Eve!" she called out in a clear, strong voice. "Tonight, Prince Lambert comes of age, and tomorrow we open the last Altar of the Sun—the past and the future come together." She clapped her hands twice and said, "Let us then celebrate!"

From a balcony overhead, music began playing. The guests sat, and servants appeared out of nowhere with dishes on silver trays. A happy buzz of conversation rose above the crowds.

Amy and River, like the other women, were obliged to sit very straight in their tall-backed chairs: corsets didn't allow slouching. Amy preened with a sense of importance; their table was on the lowest level, one of maybe a dozen tables on the floor with the queen's. Amy peered about with interest; she noticed at another table Professor tarq-Volsica from the dig. Here and there she saw other people with those three spots over their eyebrows; otherwise the Moschatans couldn't be distinguished from the Mollisians.

From the lowest level, the floors rose up in asymmetrical layers, connected by graceful flights of steps, so that the cavernous space felt like giant symphony hall, with the queen's table in the orchestra pit. Amy saw that the room had been arranged in such a way that Queen Lavinia would have a clear view of everything going on around her.

When a waiter had left the first course and departed, Amy murmured to River, "What was that weird salute thing?"

"It's a tribute to Earth," River explained. "The ancestral home of the Mollisians. They've never forgotten that Earth is where they came from."

"So, why'd we all turn right?"

"At this time of year and at this time of day, that's approximately the direction Earth would be—it changes as the planet moves, obviously."

The first course was some type of fruit, cut into tiny pieces, and glazed over with a hard crust of sugar, almost like crème brûlée.

"Dessert first," Rory commented.

Each place had been set with a dozen utensils. Rory and Amy followed River's and the Doctor's lead, selecting their smallest two-pronged fork to break the sugary crust and eat the bits of fruit one piece at a time. The flavor reminded Amy of mangoes.

"Pace yourselves," River cautioned. "It's a full Mollisian banquet—twenty courses."

Rory asked, "Why's that lot—" he shrugged subtly toward Queen Lavinia's table—"sitting with Their Highnesses?"

River said, "Lady Bianca is the queen's chief steward, a position that's been passed down through the Escalus family, from mother to daughter, since the planet was colonized. She has a lot of influence in her own right—both with Queen Lavinia and with the people. Dr. Griffith is there because he and Iris are lovers. He's also the Chief Officer of the hospital—some people gossip he only got the position because of Iris."

"Did he?" asked Amy.

River smiled, "Gossips usually don't check their dates. He started working at Royal Hospital, and that was how he met Iris—not the other way around."

"Does she work there, too?" asked Rory.

"She's the Director of Security," River said. "She won't take over as steward until her mother dies or is too old to keep working. Right now, Iris is on a leave from her job because her daughter's so sick."

"So, stewards have normal jobs before they become stewards?" Amy asked.

"Oh, yes," River said. "They typically become stewards in middle age. Lady Bianca was Director of the Archives in the Royal Museum until her own mother died. The Escalus women earn the title 'Lady' when they enter the queen's service."

Amy said, "So what happens if Miranda… if she can't be cured? Does Iris have other kids who could inherit the steward's job?"

"No, Miranda's the only one," said River.

"That's really sad," Amy said.

"What happens to the position, then?" asked Rory.

"It would go to one of Lady Bianca's second or third cousins, the descendants of her grandmother's sister." A waiter came by to clear the fruit dishes and set out small plates of something that looked like caramelized figs. River waited until the servant had departed before she said, "It's a blow to the family to know the line of stewards will probably end with Iris."

Rory had started to pick up one of the figs with his fingers, but he stopped short at a warning look from River. She used a single-pronged skewer to show him how to spear the dried fruit and lift it to the mouth.

"Never eat with your hands," she said. "It's considered incredibly gauche, especially in the royal banquet hall."

"What are these?" asked Rory, after he'd carefully chewed and swallowed one of the things. "They're not bad."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Sure," said Rory.

"They're a type of newt."

Amy gagged and almost spit hers out. "Eew," she said, gulping down a mouthful of wine. "Warn me next time!"

Rory reached for another one. At Amy's look, he said, "We used to eat mice in Rome."

"When we go back to Leadworth, you are not choosing the menu, okay?"

Rory gave her an adoring expression with big calf eyes. "Okay.

(vi)

Hector gauged the mood of the party carefully. He wanted to wait until Professor Song's guests had consumed enough food and wine to relax them, but he didn't want to wait so long that they would be tired and irritable—or eager to get away and pursue more personal pleasures.

The relationship among the archeologist's three guests puzzled him. The young human couple were obviously lovers, if not married, based on their posture, their behavior with each other, and their facial expressions. Professor Song's relationship with the Time Lord was more difficult to gauge. Hector could detect intimacy between them, a sense of familiarity, and they'd bantered and flirted all throughout dinner. But Hector also sensed caution, wariness, and most of it was on the Time Lord's part; he seemed to have his guard up. Lovers or not, the relationship between the two struck Hector as complicated.

Following the extensive feast, the guests had a quarter-hour to themselves, which most used to visit bathrooms or walk off their heavy meals in the cool evening air. In the throng, Hector lost sight of the Time Lord. Patience, he chided himself, and accompanied Iris and Lady Bianca to the ballroom.

Hector hadn't had occasion to be in the royal ballroom for over a year; at the last two grand functions, he'd been too absorbed with Miranda's treatment to leave the hospital. Now he marveled anew at the gleaming blond parquet of the floor, the tall windows that opened out onto the palace gardens and patios, the multitude of tiny crystal light fixtures. One end of the ballroom opened right out into a sheltered grotto, water flowing down an artificial stone fall and into basins that were illuminated from within, causing the entire grotto to be filled with shimmering blue-green ripples. Varedans loved to decorate with light and water.

In keeping with the Year of the Palamon, saplings of the tree had been placed in pots around the perimeter of the ballroom; they'd been raised in a hothouse and forced into early flower, so that each young tree bore clusters of white and gold blossoms, the heady fragrance perfuming the air. After this party, Prince Lambert would decide where he wanted the saplings planted, and they'd grow as the rest of the city's trees grew, limbs pruned until that glorious leafy canopy spread its shade over everything around it.

At dinner, an octet of musicians playing stringed and wood-wind instruments had provided accompaniment. Now, a full orchestra tuned up in a recessed balcony overlooking the ballroom. Hector strode around the room, hands clasped behind his back, nodding and smiling at people he knew. He marveled, not for the first time, at how very fortunate he'd been to be born on Vareda, to live on possibly the most prosperous and civilized planet in the cosmos. Centuries of enlightened leadership and forward-thinking social policies had made Vareda the envy of many other worlds. Vareda had avoided armed conflict and environmental degradation, marshalling its resources with uncommon prudence and wisdom. As a result, the people enjoyed an unparalleled standard of living, devoting their energies to medicine, to technological innovation, to learning and the arts. The great libraries and museums of Vareda had achieved an extraordinary level of renown.

Hector often traveled off-world as a consultant to leaders of other planets, to help them resolve their problems, and it never failed to dismay him that otherwise intelligent beings could be so foolish: waging petty internecine warfare among themselves; fouling the very environments they needed for food, air, and water; breeding until their planets' resources reached the breaking point; allowing greed, strife, and corruption to run rampant. Not that Vareda's history was completely unstained: the massacre of the Moschatans by the colonizing Mollisians remained a dark, shameful chapter in the planet's history. But even there, the Mollisians had made amends as best they could. Hector's great wish was for the two peoples of his world to think of themselves neither as Mollisians nor as Moschatans, but only as Varedans, one people united beneath the palamon tree.

"Have you spoken to him yet?" Iris returned to Hector's side, slipping her arm through his elbow. Despite the toll that the years of anxiety and stress had taken on her, she had never seemed so lovely. Hector marveled at her warm eyes, the red-brown gloss of her hair, the way the bronze of her dress brought out the ivory of her skin. How he longed to see her wide mouth open into its dazzling smile, to hear again the sound of her rollicking, exuberant laughter.

"Not yet," Hector said. "I don't want to approach him until the time feels right."

"Don't wait too long," Iris entreated him.

"No, but I don't want to catch him off-guard, either, and have him refuse us because he's feeling irritated and put-upon."

Iris nodded, but Hector could sense her impatience, her frantic urgency. Her full lips tightened into a hard line, and Hector's heart sank. Miranda was declining—they both knew it. Their sole hope lay in the hands of that unknown stranger.

(vii)

"A waltz," said Rory. "Millions of light years from earth, thousands of years into the future, and they're playing a waltz."

"The refugees from Europe took their music right along with them," the Doctor said.

Dozens of couples had shifted onto the dance floor, drawn into the irresistible rhythm of a spirited three-step. Rory found himself unconsciously tapping one foot; he tried to stop, but his leg seemed to have developed a will of its own. He peered through the crowds, looking for Amy.

"Where are they?" he grumbled. "How long does it take two women to visit the loo?"

"In those skirts? No telling," the Doctor said.

"And this from a bloke who couldn't figure out which way to wear his trousers," Rory snorted.

The Doctor didn't respond, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. Rory saw that it was River, gliding across the parquet, Amy trailing along behind her.

"Shall we?" River offered an arm to the Doctor.

"My pleasure," he said, putting a hand on her waist and one on her shoulder. They twirled off into the crowd. Rory frowned, folding his arms; he still remembered how the Doctor had looked dancing at his and Amy's wedding reception. "Drunken giraffe," Amy had said at the time, but clearly the Doctor had learned how to waltz somewhere. He might not be an image of grace, but out there on the floor with River in his arms, he appeared relaxed and assured.

"Oi, do I get a dance?"

"Sorry, sorry," Rory said, taking Amy's hand. They'd taken a couple of dance classes prior to their wedding, little more than a crash-course, but they'd mastered the basics of a decent waltz. Muscle memory came back, reminding Rory that he and Amy hadn't actually been married for very long. How long had it been—two weeks, three? A month? The Doctor had promised to return them to Leadworth at a time when nobody would notice how long they'd been gone, but Rory nevertheless worried how they would be able to resume their interrupted lives after so much gallivanting through time and space. Still, how could he refuse Amy's wishes, and how could he deny himself the adventure of a lifetime?

As they circled around the vast dance floor, Amy said, "So, d'you think they're shagging yet?"

"The Doctor's sex life is something I try not to think about," Rory answered.

"Does he even have one? I mean, he's a bloke, isn't he?"

"Not even going there," Rory said.

"It must be so weird for River, every time she sees him, not knowing where they are," Amy said. "Have they worked out some kind of code? You know, a wink means they've snogged, two winks means they've groped a bit, three winks means—"

"Amy," Rory laughed, "leave that to them, okay?" He leaned in to kiss her. "Tonight's just me and you, and a fabulous bed in a royal palace, and we're not paying a single pence for any of it."

"Hmm," said Amy. "And you haven't even seen what's under this dress."

Eyes agleam, Rory said, "Eighteenth century… I'm thinking Marguerite and the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Amy's brow creased. "Who and who?"

Laughing, Rory kissed her again. "Someone slept through English class."

"It was boring."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel's a dashing hero in the guise of a slow-witted Englishman, and Marguerite's his daring French wife."

"So, what do they do?" asked Amy. "Have adventures and shag a lot?"

"Rescue people form the guillotine," Rory told her.

"Do I need a French accent?" Amy winked.

"Only if you want," Rory said. Amy did a surprisingly good French accent, even if it was mainly an impersonation of their primary school French teacher. Rory thought of the time Amy had burst in on him, wearing her French maid's outfit, and had tickled him witless with her feather duster before making love to him on the narrow bed in his childhood room. The hilarious and maddening thing was that they'd had to be as quiet as possible: Rory's parents had been at home, watching a football match on the telly downstairs. Amy had gotten into the house unnoticed by picking the lock on the basement door.

Now that he thought about it, Rory reflected, Amy would make an excellent Marguerite.

(viii)

"They're so adorable," River smiled. "There's nothing like dewy young love, is there?"

"I wouldn't know," the Doctor huffed.

"Of course you would," River teased. "You weren't born old and grumpy, as much as you'd like everyone to think that."

The tempo of the waltz had slowed, and their bodies—or their clothes, anyway, kept brushing together, a slithery tango of silk against silk.

The Doctor had grown aware of a slight fullness beneath his cheekbones, almost like sinus pressure, but far more pleasurable. He could stop it, if he wished; he had complete control over his biological functions—though he wished he had a better grip on his pain reflexes—but he chose instead to let it continue.

River changed the topic. "Do you know what happens here? Volcano Day? It's less than forty-eight hours away now."

His head shook. "I know what happens, but not why."

"I thought if anyone knew, it'd be you."

"Vareda's always been too dull to bother with," the Doctor said. "I wouldn't have come here, except for you."

"We haven't had time to synch up diaries yet," River said. "Or aren't you bothering with a diary yet?"

He didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a no," she said. "So, it's still early days for you, then."

"Early enough," he said.

"Early enough for what?"

"To not know if I trust you."

River kept her face impassive. "That's your call, sweetie."

"What you said at the temple today—" The Doctor touched his face. "Nobody knows about that. I never told anyone. The only other people who'd know…" He didn't finish. In her mind, River finished the sentence for him: only another Time Lord. His gaze searched River's face. Over the years, she'd learned to shield her mind, at least enough to keep him from seeing right through her. People like Amy and Rory, of course, he could read as though they were made of glass.

River had to give the Doctor a lot of credit—he'd never used his telepathic skills against her, never taken anything from her she wasn't willing to give. River knew he would in time come to trust her, but that would take years—centuries—in his own timestream. Centuries, and at least three regenerations that River was aware of. When River had first met him, over two decades earlier, he had already trusted her without question, which had baffled her at the time. He'd been in and out of her life since then, but it was only recently that River had begun to encounter him when he barely knew her. Now the tables were turned: she expected him to trust her, and he didn't. These times were the most frustrating, and River had to be careful, lest she reveal too much to him. There were events he'd find distressing, but he had to live through them, things had to unfold a certain way, or else entire timelines, lives, and critical events would irrevocably be altered—and not for the better.

But what she hated most was the lack of emotional intimacy, the knowledge that he had his barriers up so far that he was measuring every word he said to her. Well, with luck, tonight would remedy some of that.

The orchestra brought the waltz to a close, and everyone applauded. With a flourish of horns, the next number began.

"Oh, the Blue Danube," River said. "My favorite."

"Incredible," the Doctor said, pulling her into the dance. "All those centuries and light years from where it began, and here it is, the same old waltz, perfectly replicated, note for note."

"Are you complaining?"

The Doctor beamed at her, and River's skin broke out in gooseflesh. "Never."

(ix)

About ninety minutes after the dancing had begun, Professor Song slipped away from her partner and sashayed in the direction of the women's bathroom. The Time Lord wandered into the stony grotto, vanishing among the blue-green shadows. Hector saw his chance. He leaned down to kiss Iris.

"Wish me luck," he said.

"Good luck," she said fervently, squeezing his hand. "I'll be with Mother."

Hector wove his way through the crowd to the edges of the dance floor and circled a young palamon tree. Inside the grotto was cool, humid, mossy. A pebbled pathway took him around to the back of the waterfall, into one of Queen Lavinia's many secluded gardens. Overhead, the glass panes of the ceiling had been left open to the starlight. Deep shadows lay all about; here the music and voices from the ballroom were muted, as far away as a dream. Hector waited for his vision to adapt and proceeded at a slow pace, taking care to muffle his footsteps.

He spotted the Time Lord at last, sitting on a marble bench; his face, very pale in contrast to his hair and costume, appeared almost to float in the indigo twilight of the garden. Hector hesitated for a moment. The Doctor didn't look like a man interested in company. Still, this chance might not present itself again.

Hector allowed one foot to crunch a bit of gravel, and the Doctor looked up, his head turning.

"It's me," Hector said, strolling down the path. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Dr. Griffith."

"Yes—forgive me if I'm interrupting." Hector took a seat on a bench opposite the Doctor. "I've been hoping we could have a word in private."

The Doctor's expression didn't change. He made no protest, but he hardly seemed to welcome the intrusion, either.

Hector plunged on. "We learned some interesting things about you at the hospital today."

"Oh, yes, the bio-scan," the Doctor said. "I felt it when I went through the doorway."

"We were quite astonished at the results," Hector said. "It's not every day we have a Time Lord on Vareda—let alone the last Time Lord."

The alien still appeared impassive, but something in his face changed. His eyes were deep-set, and in the near-darkness, their expression couldn't be read, yet Hector detected a pulse of wariness.

"We're quite honored to have you here, Doctor," Hector added, switching to the smooth, assured voice he used when soothing the rumpled egos of his research scientists. "And please don't worry that I'm going to interrogate you or make your presence public. Apart from our Director of Security, I'm the only one who knows."

"Well, that's a relief," the Doctor said. "Let's keep the autograph hounds at bay."

His tone was light, verging on jovial, and yet Hector felt the words as sharp, piercing barbs. He flexed his leg muscles to stand, but a vision of Miranda in his mind's eye forced him back onto the bench.

"I'm sure you noticed Miranda during the storytelling," Hector said. "The little girl in the wheelchair."

"Of course."

"I'm her mother's—well, we've been together almost a decade now. Miranda's not my daughter, but I've come to think of her as mine." Hector said, "Doctor, is there anything that could be done for her? Not necessarily here on Vareda—perhaps on some other world, even at another time."

"There's nothing I can do for her. I'm sorry."

Hector's next couple of breaths felt tight and painful. "Nothing at all?"

The Doctor shifted, re-crossing his long legs. "Most points in time are in flux and can be changed in any number of ways. But other points are fixed, and they can't be altered. Miranda's death is one of those fixed points."

"You mean—you mean she's destined to die?"

"We all are," the Time Lord said.

"But so soon? As a child?"

"She has very little time left," the Doctor said. "A day or two, perhaps."

The pain inside Hector's chest expanded out into a crushing agony. "One or two days?"

"You have her records; you've charted the course of her illness." The Doctor might have been talking about something as benign as the growth of the plants in Queen Lavinia's gardens. "I could sense it when I stood next to her today. I'm sorry, Hector."

"But how can you tell?" Hector demanded. "Is it—what is it—?"

The Doctor said, "I experience time differently from the way you do; I feel it differently, and fixed points are always very clear."

Hector's chest heaved in convulsions, and he struggled to get his emotions under control. "Her mother—her poor mother—"

"Let Iris spend time with her. Make Miranda as comfortable as possible."

"These fixed points—she's just a child," said Hector. "How can she be so important? Surely just this once…?"

The Doctor's head shook back and forth. "When a fixed point is changed, the universe has an ugly way of compensating around it. I know Miranda's death will be unbearable for the people who love her, but trying to change her death will only bring more suffering."

Hector hauled himself to his feet. He had tried not to get his hopes too high, but now he felt cheated, cheated and enraged, that this whey-faced outsider would sit there and calmly tell him that a beautiful, innocent child had to die for some kind of cosmic greater good.

Voice hoarse and ragged, he said, "I can see you've never known the pain of losing a child!"

The instant the words left his mouth, Hector realized his mistake: the Doctor's face grew as hard and still as marble, and he looked up at Hector with an expression not wrathful but cold—as cold and blank and desolate as the furthest, uninhabited reaches of the universe, a hell without light or air or warmth or hope.

The Time Lord rose slowly to his feet, and though Hector topped him by four or five inches and outweighed him by thirty or forty muscular pounds, he quailed with fear. A horrible stillness flowed out from the Doctor, making Hector feel tiny, feeble, and terrified. Without words, he stepped past Hector and left the grotto. Hector listened to the sound of his quiet footsteps retreating, and then, on shaking, rubbery legs, he stumbled his way back out into the light. Avoiding the ballroom, he swerved sharply right and plunged into the men's bathroom, where he was violently sick to his stomach.

(x)

"He said no?"

They were in a small sitting room down a corridor from the ballroom, away from the laughing crowds, the infernal rhythm of the waltzes, the revelry, the unbearable joy. Iris sat on a sofa beside her mother, clutching Lady Bianca's hand in a death grip.

"I tried. Iris, I'm so sorry. I tried."

"You look ill," Lady Bianca said, leaning toward Hector with concern.

"I said something unforgivably foolish to him," Hector blurted, his face hot with shame.

"Oh, no," said Iris, eyes wide with dismay. "Hector—maybe if I talk to him—"

"No! I've made things bad enough—Iris, please don't make this worse."

"Did he say why?" asked Lady Bianca.

"He said Miranda… her death is a fixed point in time, and it can't be altered."

"Why?" Iris demanded. "She's a child, for pity's sake!"

"Iris, remember I asked you to accept his decision, whatever his reasons. It may seem cruel to us, but it must be some rule, some principle he's bound to abide by."

"Damn the rules!" Iris cried out. "My daughter is dying!"

"Iris," Lady Bianca murmured, "I spent a while today in the archives reading about Time Lords. They considered themselves the stewards of time, and their code was never to interfere with events, throughout the universe, at every point in history."

"They're all dead, except for him!" spat Iris. "Who is there to stop him now?"

"Don't say that," Hector chided. "He still has his own conscience to be accountable to, and when it comes to matters of time—well, I'm inclined to take a Time Lord at his word that he knows what he's talking about."

"Some conscience!"

"It's not for us, or anyone, to force him to alter rules he's had to abide by his entire life," said Hector. In spite of his own anger, his own grief, he understood at least on an intellectual level why the Doctor had refused.

"But—"

"Iris." Lady Bianca stood, every inch a mother. "Come with me—you need to rest. After tonight, you should spend as much time with Miranda as possible. You won't be alone—Hector and I will be there with you. You won't have to face this by yourself."

Iris turned her head from one side to the other, glaring first at her mother, then at her lover, her face taut with outrage and disbelief. Then she burst into a torrent of uncontrollable weeping.

"My baby—my baby!" she sobbed.

Lady Bianca held her grieving daughter, rubbing her shoulders, shooting a warning look at Hector.

"Come on," Lady Bianca said, steering Iris out of the room. "You need something to help you sleep—you've worked yourself into a state these past few days."

Hector watched them go, then leaned back in his seat. Failure—he wasn't accustomed to it. There had been very few things in life he'd desired and had failed to achieve or acquire. Intelligence, strength, willpower, character—all had served him well. And in one thing that mattered perhaps more than all others, he'd been thwarted. He swallowed back a tide of burning gall.

Abruptly, he took his feet, unfastening his cravat with an angry jerk. He couldn't bear this place a moment longer, the buffoonish dancers in their ridiculous costumes. He'd change into his own clothes and return to the hospital, where he could at least get some work done.

(xi)

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the Doctor said. "Who said anything was wrong?"

"Your face," River said, raising an eyebrow. "You might fool everyone else, but you can't fool me, sweetie."

"It was nothing."

"Which means it was something, but you're not going to talk about it."

"Is that a problem?" he huffed.

"Only if you make it one," she said.

The Doctor wavered, something in his face—his impossibly young face—suggesting that he badly wanted to unburden himself.

The orchestra had begun another piece of music, and the Doctor's expression shifted back to its habitual enthusiasm and delight.

"It's the Invitation to the Dance," he said. "You know, I remember when Le Spectre de la Rose premiered by the Ballets Russes in the Théâtre de Monte Carlo, on Earth in 1911." He held out an arm to River. "Shall we?"

"Some day you'll have to take me there and show me." River allowed herself to be drawn into his arms and back onto the dance floor. The night was still young, and anyway, long experience had taught her that patient waiting was sometimes the only way to pry anything out of the Doctor.

(xii)

The ball ended shortly before midnight; the orchestra played a number everyone seemed to know, because they all sang it with drunken enthusiasm. Then Queen Lavinia, who'd been holding court in a corner while Prince Lambert danced with a veritable parade of comely women, thanked her guests and the orchestra, and then there was a dramatic countdown to midnight. Everyone cheered, and more wine flowed. The Year of the Palamon had officially begun.

"Let's go," Rory said to Amy, tugging her hand.

On their way out, they bumped into River and the Doctor, who were chatting with Professor tarq-Volsica.

"The last tram to the dig leaves one hour before noon," River said. "Don't oversleep."

"Right back at you," Amy winked.

Rory gave the Doctor a light punch on the shoulder. "Cheers, mate," he said, unable to stop his mouth from twitching into a smile.

Out in the hallway, Amy giggled, "Did you see his face?"

"Did you see hers?" Rory answered.

Amy said, "Oh, to be a fly on their bedroom wall tonight."

Rory kissed her and said, "Speaking of bedrooms…"

"How fast can the Scarlet Pimpernel run?" asked Amy.

"Depends who he's chasing," Rory said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Amy took off at a sprint, incredibly fast even in her Louis heels and cumbersome skirt. She glanced over her shoulder to be sure Rory was in pursuit, then tore up the marble staircase to the guest quarters, heedless of the laughter and astonished expressions she left in her wake.

(xiii)

"I have something to show you."

"Oh?" The Doctor's face went bright pink.

River laughed. "Not like that, sweetie." She gave him a chaste peck on one cheek. "That bit comes later. Here." She leafed through the pages of her blue diary, extracting something near the back and handing it to the Doctor.

He stared down, paralyzed with disbelief. River knew how difficult it would be for him to accept this, but it was perhaps the best, if not only, way he would trust her—at least for this one night.

With a fingertip, he traced the Gallifreyan script on the outside of the envelope, the impression in the wax seal.

"Do you know what this says?" he asked.

"Only the outside," she responded. "I haven't seen what's inside."

He held the envelope up to the light, studying the handwriting, then gave the paper a cautious lick.

"Almost twenty-five years old," he pronounced.

"Yes."

"You've been keeping it all this time?" he asked.

"I haven't peeked," she said. "You can see the seal's intact."

He held the envelope beneath the light again. The Doctor had no doubts that River could have unsealed and resealed the wax blob if she'd so desired.

"Swear it," he said, just to see how she'd react.

She held up a hand. "I swear it, on the TARDIS herself."

"I gave this to you?"

"Yes," River said. "Or, you will give it to me, in your future."

"Twenty-five years ago," the Doctor said.

"In my past," River confirmed.

"I told you to keep it with you until tonight," the Doctor said. "This night. Because I knew what would happen, and I knew I'd want to see some kind of proof in order to trust you."

"Yes."

The Doctor was still inspecting the handwriting, analyzing it from every angle.

"Do you want me to go outside?" asked River. "So you can read it in private?"

"No," he said, unsealing the flap with one finger and pulling out the single sheet within, taking care not to rip the delicate paper.

River couldn't see the message from here, but she could see it was written in Gallifreyan script, a very brief note from the Doctor in the future to his past, younger self. His expression as he read the missive was sad, haunted—and baffled.

At last he tossed the note aside. He stood and held out a hand to River.

"Are we good?" she asked, swallowing down a gulp of unexpected nervousness.

He gave her a brief nod in return.

River stepped forward and reached up to kiss him. He reacted first with surprise, arms flailing out at his sides, then he relaxed, putting his hands on her waist, gently, as if she might break. His mouth tasted new and familiar, all at once.

"River…" he said, "have you… before… with me?"

"Yes."

"So there was a first time for you… with me?"

"That was a long time ago, sweetie. You still have that to look forward to. I promise you it's well-worth the wait."

"And you've been waiting years for this. My first time with you."

"I know it'll be equally memorable." River reached up and kissed him again. "You told me it was." He didn't seem sure what to do, how to react, so River tugged his hand and led him inside, into the bedroom.

(xiv)

Lady Bianca had seen to it that River had one of the finest guest suites, both as a thanks for her work on the dig, and also because River had said she was expecting to have a romantic evening. Tall windows opened onto a balcony, with stairs leading down into a large sunken garden—a private garden, too; none of the other guest rooms had access to it.

River had brought back all her gear from her flat in Township Seventeen, and it was stashed away in a cupboard, out of sight. She would leave Vareda from the royal palace the day after next. In a way, River felt like a guilty sneak, knowing the fate that awaited the planet. Still, she couldn't interfere with a fixed point, and she had no intention of suffering through Vareda's version of Volcano Day.

The Doctor was slipping out of his shoes, placing them with care to the left of the doorway. River did the same. Then she went and stood at one of the windows, hands clasped in front of her. A moment later, she felt hands on her shoulders.

"River… do I teach you all this?"

"You know the answer to that, sweetie."

"Spoilers," he said under his breath. "It must've been me. How else would you…" He kissed her pile of springy curls. "Unless you've been looking through the TARDIS data banks."

River just laughed.

"That vixen," the Doctor muttered. "You'd think I could trust her after all these centuries."

River said, "This isn't the sort of thing I consult a computer for." She spoke without turning to face the Doctor. "Anyway, the TARDIS is too possessive of you to give away your romantic secrets."

His long fingers were tracing a path down the striped sleeves of River's gown, toying with the delicate lace.

"You know… what to do?" he asked, voice taut with fear and desire.

"Yes," River said.

She heard his gulp, then he pressed the long length of his body against hers, rubbing with a delicious, subtle movement. River closed her eyes. His hands slipped around her waist, caressing up and down the smooth stays. He took his time with this, until River grew completely relaxed. She never rushed him. The slowness was maddening, but well-worth the pleasure that would follow.

She felt his fingers on the back of her neck, unfastening the jeweled choker, and then hot, wet suction, the faintest scratch of stubble, as the Doctor kissed her neck in a lazy line from beneath her ear down to her collarbone. He kissed a semi-circle along the collar of her dress, up each vertebra, then down the other side of her neck. River stayed standing by force of will; she was accustomed to being the aggressor—only with the Doctor would she be so passive.

Then his fingers were on the hooks of her dress, unfastening them, then the laces—naughty boy; he knew exactly how to undo a lady's gown. When he'd undone the laces down to River's waist, the heavy silk slid from her shoulders, dropping into a shimmering pile at her feet.

She felt him tracing the criss-crossing laces of her corset. The garment was an exquisite thing, which River had had made to go with the gown: deep blue, embroidered with gray thread, worn over a dove-gray silk shift. She'd chosen the colors with deliberate care: soothing, rather than inflammatory.

"And this?" the Doctor asked.

"Oh, let's leave it on a while longer."

"Hmm… how about all these silly things?" His fingers were in her hair.

"Take your time," River smiled. "There's at least two dozen of them."

He did just that, finding and removing each hair clip, as well as the jeweled combs that held her hair piled up. One by one, the glittering little gemstones fell into the pile of silk. At last, River's mane of hair tumbled down into its cascade of mischievous curls.

"Would you like me to undress you?" she asked.

There was a funny catch in his voice when he answered, "Please."

River turned, sliding her body against his as she did so, then snaked arms around the back of the Doctor's neck, running her hands through his hair and pulling his head down closer to hers for a real kiss. Her hands went to his cravat, untying the bow and unwinding the long strip of silk from around the Doctor's neck. River trailed fingertips along his shoulders, underneath the heavy silk of his jacket, and pushed it down his arms until it dropped onto the floor. Then she got to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.

"That's the thing about eighteenth century clothes," he said in a low voice. "There's so much to get through—all the laces and bows and hooks and, and, and layers, and there's always something else to take off, one more thing that has to be negotiated—"

River silenced him with another kiss. "It's called a tease," she said, coaxing the waistcoat down over his arms. God, he looked marvelous in that drop-shouldered, ruffled shirt. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh," he said awkwardly. "Yes, of course."

River took his hand and led him over to the bed: it was large and sumptuous, the frame hung with elegant draping curtains of damask, all in deep, rich colors. River had requested a large pile of pillows. She coaxed the Doctor down until they lay side by side amid the plush cushions and fabrics.

He continued his exploration, kissing her neck and shoulders, down into her cleavage, while River ran her fingers again and again through his hair, caressing the back of his neck, and finally managed to tug the blousy shirt up over his head. She loved his body in every incarnation she'd encountered, but this one was especially nice: lithe and athletic, tautly muscled. He turned her so that her back faced him again, and his arms wrapped around her waist. Inside the corset, River was sweating heavily, and from the way the Doctor's nostrils flared, she could tell the change in her scent was exciting him. She encouraged him, pushing her bottom into his lap, until at last he began to work the thin silk of her shift up around her thighs and hips.

River closed her eyes as his fingers explored between her legs, shuddering along with him as her scent grew deeper and richer. She covered his hand with her own, guiding his fingers, pushing into his touch to pleasure herself. The Doctor was whispering, "River, oh River," with each movement, and he groaned out loud when she finally achieved release, his fingers slippery from her wetness.

River disentangled herself from him a bit, half turning in his arms. Her fingertips grazed along his cheekbones. "All right?" she asked, her breath huffing out, breasts heaving against the right constriction of the corset.

"All right," he gasped.

River used her knuckles, digging deeply along the line of the Doctor's cheekbones. Doing so, she knew, would release the contents of two tiny glands into his bloodstream. Within moments, a musky, intoxicating scent began to exude from his every pore. River pulled his head closer to hers again, kissing him, their tongues meeting in a fierce duet. He clasped her to him and began rubbing, coating her body in his scent. The intensity of his arousal made River half-wild with longing, and with an impatient gasp, she unfastened the front of his breeches and helped him pull them down to his knees, where he kicked them off, along with his gray stockings.

Without waiting for further play, River clambered up to her knees, drew up her skirt, and leaned against the stack of pillows. An instant later the Doctor was on her back, his hands deftly pulling her hips toward his own. River felt a rough prodding in her nethers, and she gasped when he pushed inside her. They moved together wildly, with no coordination or control, driven by the blind urgency of need, until the Doctor found a more steady rhythm. River pushed back against him, encouraging him, arching her body in a way that would cause her the most intense pleasure. Their movements became faster, more vigorous, both of them alternately moaning and crying out, until River climaxed in a hot, wet, delirious rush. Then came another wave, and another, each more shattering than the last, and when it seemed she could not possibly experience anything more astonishing, the Doctor pressed his fingertips into the sides of her temples.

She'd experienced this before, but still, each time was a revelation as seemingly every fiber of her body achieved stunning, joyous release. She saw in her mind vistas of incomparable beauty: a dazzling supernova; a cascading waterfall of pure diamonds; a tropical forest, lush with orchids; a blood-red sunset over an indigo sea. She screamed and screamed with the blinding ecstasy of it all, and then darkness rose up over her mind like curtains of the blackest, softest velvet. Then the bliss became the warmth of oblivion.

(xv)

Light tickled the backs of River's eyelids, and she half-blinked. Vareda's two moons were rising, casting long, silvery beams of light across the balcony and into the bedroom. A breeze gusted in through the open windows, carrying with it the scent of flowers.

She realized she was lying on her side, a silk sheet drawn primly up around her shoulders. River burst out laughing.

"What?" the Doctor said, indignant at the joke she was having at his expense.

"Oh, sweetie," she said, turning to face him. "Covering me up like this. I'm not even naked."

The Doctor's bashful expression made her laugh even harder, and she leaned into him for a kiss. He was covered up as well, the sheet tucked around his armpits.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Me? Oh—yes, quite all right, of course. But you—?"

"What about me?"

"Well—you sort of… screamed, and then you blacked out."

"You're very thorough, sweetie," River said. She stretched, relishing the delicious sensation, and said, "I don't think you left a single stone unturned."

He went very red, and his hand drifted up to touch his face. She knew he must be wondering how she'd known about the scent glands, wondering if he had indeed told her—would tell her, in his future—what to do to release his musk. For now, there were things she couldn't share with him. Later, he would understand her need to withhold certain pieces of information. It was odd to lie here like this, knowing that for him, so much about her was still a baffling enigma.

River knew a lot about him—not everything, obviously, but perhaps more than most of his other companions. She knew he'd been with human women in the past, in defiance of an ages-old Time Lord prohibition against mingling with "lesser" species, but in order to do so, he'd had to learn how to make love as humans did, something she knew he'd always found awkward. To the best of River's knowledge, she was the only one who'd been able to couple with him as a Time Lord would. She couldn't replicate the exact experience of communion with his own species, but she could at least approximate it for him.

Now he took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. "River…" he said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

River tightened her body against his and said, "It was my pleasure."

He laughed under his breath, a sound of intensely self-aware irony. "And mine."

They kissed, and after a few moments, the Doctor pulled River on top of him. She kissed her way along his prominent jaw, down his neck and chest, sucking at his nipples. In the future, he would allow her to use her hallucinogenic lipstick on him, but at this time, there wasn't enough trust between them for him to give up so much control. River ran her fingers through his silky black body hair, swirling patterns on his abdomen, following the ridges of muscle up and down. She enjoyed listening to the sounds he made as she used her teeth and tongue on him. Even more, she enjoyed the sound of both hearts thumping beneath his ribs.

"Hmm," she teased, her hand moving beneath the sheet. "Someone's up for more."

"What?" he said jolting slightly, mesmerized by all this sensation. "Oh, yes, definitely—up for more."

River sat up, straddled the Doctor's hips with her thighs, and slowly sank down onto him. As she did, he let out a long, strange groan.

"Is it good?" she gasped.

His hands settled on her cinched waist, eyes half-closed. "Very good," he breathed. River adjusted her skirt so that it draped and flowed over him like a gray tent. Quickly they found a rhythm and began moving together.

"River," the Doctor moaned, "please don't stop."

Eyes rolling back in her head, River answered, "No chance of that, sweetie."

(xvi)

"Oh. My. God." Amy stretched her body to full length and exhaled a long sigh of contentment. "I am never getting out of this bed."

"Not even to eat? Or use the loo?"

Amy poked Rory with her foot. "You know what I mean."

"Hmm," he said, gazing down at her pale, nude body. God, he just loved the contrast between her alabaster skin and her dark red hair; he felt he could look and look at her forever and never feel like he'd seen enough. He reached a finger to trace a line from her rib to her waist to her hip. "Someone should've painted you," he said. "You're a masterpiece."

"I'll tell you about Vincent sometime," said Amy, coloring up.

"Vincent who?" said Rory suspiciously.

"Van Gogh," she said. "The painter. Who was penniless. And mad. And never bathed."

"Oh," said Rory, mollified. "Well, he should've painted you—look what a chance he missed."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Amy said, sitting to accept the glass of wine Rory offered. "Wow, they weren't kidding about the royal accommodations."

Rory raised his glass, and they toasted. "To Vareda," he said. "Why can't everywhere we visit be like this?"

"Because the Doctor would be bored to tears," Amy said, and she swallowed some wine.

"It's not Guinness," Rory said. "That's sacrilege, the way you're gulping it." He sighed; Amy had already drained her glass. She handed it back to him. "More, please."

He leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You're lucky I love you so much."

"I know," she smiled. Her hand reached between his legs, teasing and tickling. "Is the Scarlet Pimpernel ready to ride again?"

With a gusty laugh, Rory said, "If Marguerite would let him get to the wine bottle, he might be."

Smirking, Amy watched his arse as he retreated across the smooth parquet floor. Mine, all mine. A couple of Amy's female friends in Leadworth had wondered out loud to her what she saw in the nebbish Rory Williams. They'll never know, she thought.

He returned and got back into the bed with her. They drank their wine, Amy savoring the exquisite flavor more slowly this time.

"I love this planet," Rory said. "They do everything right here."

"Hm," Amy said. "I wonder about that."

"Really? Why?"

"I dunno," she shrugged. "It's like… it's almost like it's too good to be true. I keep expecting to find something rotten under the pretty surface. Not that I want to. I just keep waiting for, you know… what's that saying?"

"For the other shoe to drop?" Rory looked disgruntled. "You're getting as bad as him."

"It's just experience," Amy said, waving her half-empty wineglass in a vague circle. "Nowhere is really perfect, Rory."

"Well, let's for just tonight pretend it is."

She laughed, loud and merry. "That works, too."

They finished their wine, and Rory drew her back into his arms. "So, where were we?" Amy asked.

Rory said, "I think… they were riding horses across a beach in Normandy, weren't they?"

"It got a little hazy around there," Amy admitted.

Rory was kissing her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. "Lost in the fog," he murmured. "A soft, gentle, swirling mist, with the sound of the tide in the background." He'd reached her belly and now began to trace patterns with his tongue.

Amy pushed her fingers through his short, thick hair. "So, they got off their horses and took a rest… in a sand dune."

"A sheltered sand dune," Rory agreed, now kissing her thighs. "Very secluded… and private."

Amy opened her legs a bit more and pushed Rory's head down. He needed no further encouragement; a moment later, his tongue flicked out. Amy gasped, her head arching back, as he pleasured her with his lips and teeth and tongue. And then he worked his way back up again, kissing a wet trail over belly, waist, ribs, breasts, shoulders, neck, and finally settling on her lips. Amy could taste herself in his mouth, a tangy-sweet mix of salt and vanilla.

"I think Marguerite's ready to ride her stallion again," Amy said, pushing Rory onto his back.

He groaned agreeably and helped her on top of him. "The stallion's breaking down the barn door." He groaned again, and Amy with him, when he pushed up inside her.

They gyrated with vigorous thrusts, and Amy gasped, "D'you think River likes it on top, too?"

"Not… even… oh, God, Amy," Rory said, his eyes screwed shut in the hilarious expression he always made when he was trying not to come. Amy chewed the insides of her mouth to keep from bursting into giggles.

"Well? Does she—?"

"Amy," Rory gasped, "just—just—think of England, yeah?"

She gave his shoulder a loving poke. "Oi," she panted. "Scotland!"

"Oh, yes," he gasped as they moved even faster. "Oh, Scotland!" The look on his face brought Amy to sudden, breath-stealing climax, and Rory followed, thrashing and moaning, and Amy came again, and again, collapsing at last in a breathless, giggling heap on top of her husband.

(xvii)

Mollis and Moschata had risen fully now, flooding the garden and the guest bedroom with moonlight. River stirred, and when she rolled over, she bumped into the Doctor's prone form.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Did I wake you up?"

"I wasn't sleeping," he said, and indeed, he wasn't. The Doctor sat propped against the pile of cushions, lost in thought, but at least he didn't appear to be brooding. He almost never slept. In all the time she'd known him, River could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she'd actually seen him asleep.

She slipped out of the bed and went into the luxurious bathroom to relieve herself. When she returned to the bed, the Doctor held a hand out to her and smiled, pulling her close to him.

"What's the time?" she asked.

"About an hour after midnight," he said, not needing to consult any timepiece to know this.

"It's a beautiful night," she said, putting hands on his shoulders and leaning in to kiss him.

He returned the kiss with fervor, then slid hands around her back. Toying with her corset laces, he asked, "Shall I?"

Knowing she'd sleep more comfortably without it, River turned her back to him. She sighed with relief when he loosened the tight laces from top to bottom, and she murmured with appreciation when he helped ease her out of the stays.

"Better?" he smiled.

"Much." She kept her back to him, and he slid his hands around to squeeze and caress her breasts through the thin silk. When River's nipples grew hard, he tweaked them gently with his thumbs, causing a shuddering wave of gooseflesh to sweep through her. He continued this unrushed pleasuring until River had grown thoroughly wet and throbbing again.

"Doctor… is this going anywhere?" she finally asked.

"Where would you like it go to?" he asked in a seductive voice, kissing the back of her head and toying with her curls.

River wiggled out of his lap and stretched out supine beside him, then urged him on top of her. "Is it all right this way?" she asked.

"If it's what you want," he said, teasing up her silk shift.

"It's exactly what I want." River helped guide him inside her, tightening her legs around his waist. The moonlight cast their shadows, long and black and alien, against the far wall.

(xviii)

"Agkh!" Amy made an indescribable noise in her throat, waving a hand before her face. "You smell like… like the randy old tomcat that used to spray all over our house."

The Doctor drew himself up with wounded dignity. "Do I ever complain about the reek of human pheromones in the TARDIS?"

"Oi!" said Amy. "We always have a shower!"

"And don't think I don't know about that time in corridor 3B, either." The Doctor wagged a lecturing finger at Amy.

Arms folded against her chest, Amy said, "We were lost!"

"For six hours?"

"Hey." She glared at him. "It's a big ship, did you know that?"

"And what about the machine shop?" the Doctor asked. "How long does it take two people to find seven lengths of pink zeta-gauge thermo-fusion cables?"

"Longer than you'd think," Amy said.

Rory stuck his head out of the tram. "Oi, are we leaving, or are you two going to stand there arguing all day?"

At that moment, River appeared. "Sorry," she said. "My fault—I was looking for Lady Bianca, and finally someone told me she's not coming." She corralled Amy and the Doctor into the tram car. The doors whooshed together, and the car began moving.

"Why won't Lady Bianca be there?" asked Amy, surprised. "This is a big deal for the royal family, isn't it?"

"It's her granddaughter," said River. "Iris decided to stop Miranda's treatment. She's… there's not a lot of time left, and Lady Bianca wanted to be with Iris."

"That's so sad," Amy said. "That poor family!"

River took her seat, glancing at the Doctor, who sat watching the city speed past, his face curiously expressionless.

Amy had expected the two to be closer—giggly, flirtatious, holding hands, showing more obvious signs of affection. After all, last night they'd presumably experienced some sort of consummation, hadn't they? But neither one acted as though anything had changed.

I'll never figure him out, Amy thought, settling back into her own seat, welcoming Rory's arm around her shoulders. She was glad her own marriage was normal—or at least as normal as the marriage of two time-traveling honeymooners could be.

The ride to Township Seventeen seemed to Amy much faster than the first one they'd taken—perhaps because the distance and the landmarks were familiar now. Rory kept his eyes wide open for exotic birds or animals. To Amy, though, the view from the windows seemed like one long, green blur.

A crowd had gathered in Township Seventeen, people clamoring in excited clusters for a glimpse of the temple. Amy could see the shape of a slender crane, its arm arching over the temple walls.

That same feeling of claustrophobic horror struck her the moment they entered the temple, even though it was full of daylight, almost noon; even with dozens of people filling the Circle of the Stars, Amy felt strangely isolated.

Professor tarq-Volsica met them in the Lunar Circle, eyes blazing with excitement.

"Well, this is it," she said to River. "The big day's here at last." She looked up at the sky. "Almost noon. Shall we get started?"

"Why not?" River smiled.

As they circled around to the entrance of the Altar of the Sun, the Doctor dropped back a pace and said to Amy, "Want to wait outside?"

"No," said Amy, hugging herself. Keeping her voice down, she said, "I have such a horrible feeling about this, but waiting outside would be worse."

"All right," he said, squeezing her hand. "But if you want us to leave, just tell me."

"Thank you," Amy said. He looked her up and down, clearly concerned. Amy wished he knew what was wrong with her. She'd hoped that after the party and a night of shagging Rory, the temple wouldn't bother her so much, but if anything, today was worse than yesterday.

Queen Lavinia and Prince Lambert waited outside the Altar entrance; divested of their eighteenth century costumes, Amy almost didn't recognize them. When everyone had gathered, Prince Lambert made a charming speech, thanking everyone for coming. He thanked Professor tarq-Volsica and River especially for their work on the dig. At precisely noon, he concluded his remarks. Amy noticed that now the temple was bathed in the full light of the sun—no hint of shadow lay about the high walls. The thought gave her no comfort whatsoever.

With a barely audible mechanical hum, the crane swung into motion. Ropes and clamps had already been attached to the slab on the roof, and the crane lifted away the half-ton piece of stone as easily as Amy would have lifted a dinner plate.

A couple of assistants propped a tall ladder against the wall, and River nimbly ascended. By now, Amy was too sick with worry to find any humor in the way the Doctor was trying nonchalantly not to stare up River's legs as she climbed.

Rory squeezed Amy's arm. "You all right?" he whispered.

River had reached the top of the wall, and Amy could see her studying something.

"What is it?" the Doctor called, looking up and shading his eyes.

River didn't respond at first, and when she did, she only said, "I'm going in." She caught a grappling hook on the stones and used a rope to lower herself down.

Amy tried to tell herself that if River had seen anything sinister in the chamber, she'd have said something. Wouldn't she?

Too much time seemed to have passed before they heard a muffled thud, and then the sound of stone grating against stone. As the others watched, the door slowly began moving to one side. As soon as the opening was wide enough, Professor tarq-Volsica wiggled into the doorframe and began pushing. A few moments later, the stone had been completely moved aside. Amy wondered if the door was on some system of pulleys, or if River was just that strong.

"Your Majesty," River said to Queen Lavinia, her face glowing with sweat. "I believe this pleasure should be yours."

Queen Lavinia entered the Altar of the Sun, followed by Prince Lambert. A few senior members of the dig and officials from the museum followed. At last the Doctor bounced through the doorway, followed by Amy and Rory.

Amy's knees almost gave out on her. The sense of horror was concentrated here, as if a nameless, invisible evil had long dwelled within these walls. But she saw nothing remarkable. If some sacrifice had been performed here, some atrocity committed, there was no sign of it. Just circular stone walls, a packed dirt floor, all of it earth-smelling and fusty.

At the center of the chamber lay a large rectangular boulder, as wide as an automobile and as high as Amy's waist, carved and decorated with more sigils and glyphs, deep indentations, and depictions of wild animals. The boulder glittered beneath the sun, as if the limestone were embedded with shards of glass. Amy didn't like it. Everyone else had circled around the thing, marveling at it, but not touching it. Professor tarq-Volsica was taking photos with her small, hand-held computer.

Atop the big stone sat a rough-looking wooden chest. The lid was closed, but Amy couldn't see any sign of a lock. The chest looked like it had been carved from a single piece of wood, undecorated.

"It's Late Moschatan," Professor tarq-Volsica murmured, taking more photos. "This is…" She glanced around, as if concerned that her words might cause offense. "It's a funerary chest."

People murmured their interest, and Professor tarq-Volsica went on, in a louder voice, "Moschatans traditionally cremated their dead. These chests were used for the burial of clan elders."

Amy tried not to wail in fear as Professor tarq-Volsica drew on a pair of thin plastic gloves and gingerly raised the lid of the chest. From where she was standing, Amy couldn't see what lay inside, but she knew it must be something unspeakably vile.

"I don't understand," Professor tarq-Volsica murmured. "It's—it's just a strange scroll with… well, I don't even know what this… this writing is. It's not Moschatan, though."

"Let me see." River circled around and stared down at the chest's contents. Her face froze into an expression of unmistakable dismay. She looked up at the Doctor.

"Sweetie," she said, "I think you need to see this."

The Doctor went and stood at her side, leaning forward to get a better look. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came out. Amy heard a horrific noise, metal screeching against stone, and a sickening, wet sound. The Doctor jolted as if shocked with electricity, and began screaming. Geysers of red blood gushed up and out with ghastly force, splattering the people, the stone, the chest, everything.

In a heartbeat, River and Rory were on top of the Doctor, River barking orders and Rory stripping off his shirt to wad against the Doctor's leg.

Amy could hear nothing. She saw people moving, saw their mouths shaping words as they shouted, saw the Doctor grow white, his eyes rolling back into his head. His body slumped in River's arms. Amy saw the blazing sun overhead, the sinister waves of shimmering heat. Black spots danced before her eyes and she crumpled down, the hard, packed earth rushing up to meet her. Darkness closed in over her head, and she knew nothing.

To be continued…