It's cold here. But we have no snow. I am displeased.

That is all.

Rose had been to the Globe Theatre before. Once with the Doctor in his last body, once with him in his current body when they'd shown up to help put out the fire that would consume the building in a decade or so. It was unlike any other theatre she'd been in—and she'd been in many, many theatres, all across time and space. There was something…magical about it.

The Doctor had fished out enough money for the three of them out of his pockets (though why he had money from the 1500s in his pockets was anyone's guess) and they got to sit in one of the balconies reserved for the nobles. They'd been given comfortable seats with cushions and a great view, over the heads of the lower class citizens who stood in front of the stage. It wasn't a bad deal, really, having to stand when the cost of admission was only a penny, but Rose preferred to sit through a play that would last for more than two hours, thank you very much.

Tonight would feature Love's Labour's Lost. Rose knew absolutely nothing about it other than it was a comedy, and she only knew that bit because the Doctor prattled about it all the way upstairs. He'd tried to convince her to read all of Shakespeare's works at one point, but Rose hadn't been able to make heads or tales of Romeo and Juliet while she was in school and she doubted she'd fair better with his other plays. The Doctor offered to read them to her and explain, but Rose knew enough about Romeo and Juliet to know that having the Doctor read it to her would be embarrassing. She'd suggested he find her some Shakespeare-to-modern translation copies of the plays, but he'd found the very idea scandalous. So Rose was left with a very poor knowledge of Shakespeare and the details of his works.

The same could not be said for Martha. She was not on the same level as the Doctor, but from what Rose could gather, she'd been able to make sense of Shakespeare's complicated language enough to enjoy what she'd read and to have a legitimate conversation with him.

The Doctor was grinning like a kid at Christmas and Martha was lost in a daze of awe, both of them watching the play with wide eyes. Rose, however, couldn't focus on the play for more than a few minutes at a time. There was something about the theatre that did not feel right. She'd never sensed anything wrong the other times she'd been here, but right now, the air positively tingled with an unknown energy that made Rose unable to relax. The Doctor was too absorbed in the play to notice her restlessness and Martha didn't say anything because, for all she knew, Rose was simply bored.

Near the end, the energy spiked and Rose felt a sense of dread that she hadn't felt since Krop Tor, when the Beast had predicted her imminent death—which had yet to occur and Rose was beginning to think it really had lied. Abandoning her attempts at watching the play altogether, Rose scoured the theater with her eyes, noting every little thing and every person. Her eyes were drawn to a young lady sitting alone in the only empty box, dressed in fine clothes and jewelry fit for someone in Kensington Palace. She appeared docile and from what Rose could tell, she was beautiful. She was staring down at the stage with a patient, almost expectant expression.

Just some rich lady, probably with more airs than a lotto winner, she thought dismissively. Still, Rose found herself glancing back at the woman every few moments, not wanting to take her eyes off her.

When the play was finished, the actors came onto stage for their bows, and the entire audience stood, clapping and cheering, hooting and whistling—Rose among them, even though she'd missed half the play. Martha was positively beaming as she applauded.

"That's amazing! Just amazing. It's worth putting up with the smell." She exclaimed over the din. "And those are men dressed as women, yeah?"

"London never changes," the Doctor replied.

Rose glanced at the woman again. She was the only one not on her feet and applauding. She simply stared at the stage.

"Where's Shakespeare? I wanna see Shakespeare." Martha complained—then had an idea and lifted her fist into the air, shouting, "Author! Author!"

Rose tore her gaze away from the woman to stare at Martha and the Doctor stared as well.

"Do people shout that?" Martha asked awkwardly. "Do they shout 'author'?"

"Author! Author!" Someone down below echoed Martha's chant, then others followed, until the whole theater was calling for Shakespeare.

"Well…they do now," the Doctor said.

Then the curtain to backstage parted and outstepped the Bard himself. He gave a showy leap as he passed between two actors, and landed with an arm in the air. The crowd went wild, applauding louder than before. Martha gave a little hop of glee.

He walked up and down the stage, smiling, bowing, blowing kisses at his public, and leaning down to slap the hands in the front row like some sort of rock star.

"He's a bit different to his portraits," Martha noted.

"Good ol' Will," the Doctor said to himself.

Rose wished she could share their enthusiasm, but she'd already met him and she'd had to distract him by flirting—which kind of made seeing him on stage less appealing than it should have been—and she was growing ever more concerned about that woman.

"Genius," the Doctor leaned towards Rose. "He's a genius. He's the genius! The most human-human that's ever been. Now we're gonna hear him speak!" Rose nodded, trying and failing to seem interested, but again the Doctor didn't notice. "Always, he chooses the best words. New, beautiful, brilliant words."

At that moment, William Shakespeare decided to crush the Doctor's excitement by hollering, "Aaaah, shut your big fat mouths!" And while the audience roared with laughter, the Doctor's face fell.

"Oh, well," he muttered.

"You should never meet your heroes." Martha told him.

"You have excellent taste! I'll give you that." Shakespeare told the audience, then pointed to a man in the crowd. "Oh, that's a wig!" The people around the man turned to look, pointing and laughing. Martha leaned forward to get a look.

The energy in the air suddenly seemed to crackle, causing hair on the back of Rose's neck to stand straight up and her stomach to flip over. She looked at that woman again. She had a smug look her face.

"Doctor…" Rose breathed. He didn't hear her over Shakespeare.

"It just stops!" Shakespeare was saying. "Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon." The crowd voiced their approval. "Yeah, yeah, all in good time. You don't rush a genius." He told them with a bow.

Two things happened simultaneously: the weird energy in the air reached a new high, hitting Rose like a punch in the gut, and Shakespeare jerked upright like a puppet on strings. A hush fell over the crowd, except for a few chuckles, as if everyone could, somewhere in the back of their minds, suddenly sense the strangeness that had Rose ready to throw up or vault herself over the heads and rails between her and the woman who she knew was the cause of it.

She was quivering with tension and, finally, the Doctor noticed. "Rose?" he asked quietly. "Rose, what is it?"

"Something's—"

"When? …Tomorrow night!" Shakespeare declared loudly and the crowd cheered. On stage several of the actors exchanged looks that betrayed their surprise and exasperation.

But Rose's eyes were on the woman who was positively smirking now.

"The premiere of my brand new play," the Bard declared loudly. "A sequel, no less, and I call it Loves Labour's Won!"

The whole theater burst into another round of cheering, except for two people: the Doctor and Rose. The woman was clapping now, pleased, and Rose felt like someone had dropped lead into her stomach.

Rose spent the entire time they were exiting the theater looking for the woman, but it was like she had vanished into thin air. The thought didn't settle well. She wanted to tell the Doctor, but he was absorbed in a conversation with Martha about Loves Labour's Won and something about it being a lost play. Martha suggested they try to record it and make a mint back home.

"Don't get a brain door," Rose muttered.

Martha looked at the Doctor for translation.

"She means to say 'avoid temptation' and she's right. It's a bad idea, Martha. You could seriously mess up the timelines. There has got to be a reason the play is lost. …Damn. I was hoping to give you a nice, peaceful trip, but I suppose we could stay a bit longer. Is that alright with you, Rose?"

NO! She wanted to get out of here and away from the mysterious energy of the Globe, the woman, and the sinister feeling creeping along her skin. But it all reeked of mystery and danger, the kind of thing the Doctor loved sorting, and if they left now things would probably end badly somewhere along the line.

So she smiled at him. "Yeah, sure. So what's first?"

"First…" the Doctor looked around. "We go find Shakespeare."

"Oh yeah, sure, let's just do that." Martha rolled her eyes. "This is London, for God's sake! How are we supposed to find one person in a city this big, even if he is a famous bloke?"

"Remember, we're in 1599," the Doctor replied. "This isn't so much a city as it is a town. And Shakespeare isn't just a famous bloke: he's the famous bloke. You'd have an easier time finding him than you would the Queen if she was out for a stroll."

Martha looked at him doubtfully.

"No, really," he frowned. "Watch, I'll show you. Excuse me! You sir!"

As it turned out, the Doctor was correct. He'd only had to ask three people if they'd seen Shakespeare or knew where he was staying before they were directed to The Elephant Inn, a fine establishment run by a reputable woman named Dolly Bailey. It was easy enough to find: Dolly was well known around the area, and they were warned that if they were lookin' to cause a fuss, she'd have them tossed out on their backsides straight away. The Doctor didn't seem too concerned, and Rose and Martha had to hitch up their skirts to keep pace with him once he got moving.

He slowed outside of the in, taking a moment to let the two humans catch their breath and smooth their hair.

"Rose, I've told you about me an' Shakespeare, yeah?"

She nodded. "A bit. You helped write Hamlet or somethin' like that?"

Martha gawked. "You're kiddin'…"

"Nope. It was a long while ago for me…long while…" he murmured, his eyes staring at something only he could see. He gave his head a quick shake. "A long time for me, but it hasn't happened for him yet, not for about four more years, so not a word about it. And Martha? This should go without saying, but you cannot tell him anything about his future, and try to avoid mentioning I'm an alien and that you're from the future, if you can."

Martha nodded, trying to look serious, but her lips were twitching. "Yes sir."

The Doctor grinned, hold his arm out to Rose. "Well then. Shall we?"

They approached a young woman with dark hair who was near the stables, helping a man unload a horse. She saw them coming and curtseyed respectfully.

"'ello sir, ma'am, ma'am," she smiled. "What can I help you with?"

"Hello," the Doctor said brightly. "I was told Mr. Shakespeare is staying here, is that right?"

The girl nodded. "Yes, sir. He's just up the stairs, I think. Oh, but wait! You can't—he doesn't want visitors!" She called after them but they ignored her.

Upstairs, they encountered a firm-looking blonde woman with a broom in her hands. She blocked their path, hands on her hips.

"Patrons only," she informed them. "If you're wantin' to stay the night, come on downstairs and I'll get you signed and you can pay your fee."

"Actually, I'm looking for Shakespeare," the Doctor said, stepping forward. "I was told he's up here."

The woman's glanced to the left quickly, almost back the way she'd come from, then she frowned at them. "And who told you that?"

"That room there?" The Doctor pointed to an open door at the end of the hallway but didn't wait for her response. "Thank you!" He took off, leaving Dolly Bailey staring in disbelief. Rose and Martha followed him, the latter giving the woman an apologetic look. Dolly set her broom against the wall and followed.

The Doctor was already in the room, and the girls followed him in. "I'm not interrupting, am I? Mr. Shakespeare, isn't it?"

"Oh no." Shakespeare put his hand on his forehead. "No, no, no, no. Who let you in?"

The Doctor kept right on grinning. Martha hid behind him, suddenly shy. The rest of Shakespeare's words were lost on Rose, who had noticed a young maid working near the bed. Every hair on her body suddenly stood on end and adrenaline shot through her veins. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Shouldn't exist. Dangerous. That wicked energy she'd sensed earlier—the girl was practically radiating it.

Their gazes met. Rose clenched her teeth together so hard that her head hurt and her hands curled into fists. Something in the girl's face changed and for a moment, she was hideous, her face wrinkled and her teeth sharp, and Rose felt like she was seeing her for what she actually was. And then it was gone, the girl looked human again. Her face remained cold, dangerous, but there was something almost wary in her gaze as she regarded Rose. Neither of them seemed to be willing to look away from the other.

"Excuse us, ma'am."

Rose jumped, ending the standoff, then stepped forward so the two men who'd been seated with Shakespeare could exit the room, followed by Dolly Bailey. Martha was already taking a seat and the Doctor remained standing behind the empty chair, watching Rose. She noted the concern in his gaze as he nodded towards the chair. She smiled at him but glanced meaningfully at the maid who had used Rose's distraction to slip away from them, closer to the wall. The Doctor frowned, looking questioningly at Rose.

He didn't sense it, then. Was she going mad? No, she was sure she'd seen the girl change.

The Doctor looked down at Martha. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't do that."

Martha looked embarrassed and stopped whatever it was she'd been doing. Rose seated herself in the chair and smiled at Shakespeare. The Bard narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Have we met? I have the strangest feeling that I've seen you before."

"No," Rose said quickly. "No, I don't think so. I'm sure I'd remember meetin' you, Mr. Shakespeare."

He smiled. "You keep fine company, mister—"

The Doctor flashed his psychic paper. "Sir. Sir Doctor of the TARDIS. This is my wife, Dame Rose Tyler, and our companion, Martha Jones."

"Interesting," mused Shakespeare, pointing. "That bit of paper. It's blank."

He lowered the paper, grinning gleefully. "Oh, that's…very clever," he murmured. "That proves it. Absolute genius."

"No," Martha said, peering at the paper. "It says so, right there. Sir Doctor, Dame Rose, Martha Jones. It says so."

"And I say it's blank." Shakespeare tilted his head, studying the trio before him.

"Psychic paper," the Doctor explained quietly to Martha. "Um, long story. Oh, I hate starting from scratch."

"Psychic?" Shakespeare put his hand under his chin. "Never heard that before and words are my trade. Who are you exactly? More's to the point, who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"

Rose barely held back a snort, pressing her lips together to hide her grin, and Martha looked taken aback.

"What did you say?"

"Oops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl?" Shakespeare asked. The Doctor puffed out his cheeks, exhaling slowly, and Rose pressed her lips together to stave off a laugh as Shakespeare tried again. "A swarth? A queen of Afric…"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" Martha laughed.

The Doctor rubbed his eyes. "It's political correctness gone mad. Um, Martha and Rose are from a far-off land. …Freedonia. I met them on my travels. This is Martha's first time away, she's—"

"Excuse me! Hold hard a moment!" A man said loudly. A ginger man in rich black and gold jewels stood in the doorway, glaring at Shakepseare. "This is abominable behavior. A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mr. Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before performed."

Shakespeare nodded. "Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it 'round."

"I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine. The script, now!" The man demanded.

"I can't."

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled."

The bad feeling faded quite suddenly and Rose noticed that the girl had slipped out of the room. She wasn't sure whether to be glad or worried, yet she couldn't help but slump against the back of the chair in relief.

Martha was looking between the two men. "It's all go, 'round here, isn't it?"

"I'm returning to my office for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labours Won will never be played!" The ginger man declared and stormed away, leaving silence in his wake.

"Nice bloke," Rose remarked after a moment.

"Lynley," Shakespeare said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry you had to witness that. Dolly!" he called. "Dolly Bailey!"

She appeared a moment later in the doorway with a tray in her hands. "Is something the matter, Will?"

"Could we have another round of—oh!" Will straightened up. "I was just about to ask."

She smiled, holding the tray between the three time travelers. They each took a mug and she placed the abandoned mugs left by Shakespeare's associates. "If you need anything, just holler. Sir, there's a chair right there if you require one."

Rose took a sip. It was thick and heady, like cider, but not quite. Still, it was better than some of the other drinks she'd had during her travels.

Martha took a sip, leaning back in her chair and resting her leg on her knee, completely unladylike. "Well, then…mystery solved. That's Love's Labours Won over and done with."

Rose's entire body stiffened as she felt it again, so thick she was surprised no one could see it, or at least feel it. It hit her like a punch to the gut and she choked on the cider in her mouth, dropping her mug to the floor as she doubled over. She managed to swallow the liquid in her mouth and then she gasped, gulping down breaths of air, feeling very much like she was about to be sick.

"Rose!" That was the Doctor in front of her, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes wide and afraid. "Rose, what's wrong?"

Before she got a chance to answer, from outside came a single, guttural scream. Shrieks and cries split the peaceful night air, cries for help. Everyone surged to their feet, except for Rose, who was shaking. Shakespeare was already moving for the door and Martha followed without hesitation. The Doctor knelt in front of Rose again. "Can you stand?"

Rose nodded, still trembling and nauseous, rising to her feet. He put his arm around her for support and ushered her quickly out the door. The feeling only grew worse as they descended the stairs to the courtyard. The man, Lynley, was stumbling back towards them, holding his throat and spitting up water.

"Doctor!" Martha cried. "Look!"

"What's wrong with him?" he wondered aloud. "Rose, try to keep upright, I need to have a look, alright?"

Rose nodded, her arms crossed over her stomach. She curled inward slightly, leaning away from the man.

"Leave it to me!" the Doctor shouted to the people gathering and loped to Lynley's side. Martha followed. "I'm a doctor!"

"So am I—near enough."

They caught Lynley as he sagged forward. "H-h-help!" he gurgled through the water he was spewing. He jolted as if he'd been struck, mouth gaping and eyes wide. The dark energy spiked and Rose dropped onto her knees, her stomach heaving.

Then with one final cry and spurt of water, Lynley's legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground.

Rose gasped loudly as the feelings faded, gone as if they had never occurred. She sucked in a sharp breath and felt Dolly Baily's hand on her arm to help her up. The Doctor was staring down the street the way Lynley had come from, Martha was bending over the man, trying to reassure him. The Doctor stopped her before she could do CPR, though. Rose thanked Dolly with a weak but genuine smile and joined Martha and the Doctor by Lynley's body, kneeling at his head.

"I've never seen a death like it," the Doctor murmured. "His lungs are full of water—he drowned and then… I dunno, like a blow to the heart, an invisible blow." The Doctor looked at Rose. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes…now…it—it stopped when he died." And she felt horrible because for a brief moment, she'd been happy—relieved—when Lynley had finally keeled.

The look the Doctor gave her was piercing and she saw the wheels turning in his head. His eyes lingered on her as he stood, looking away only to address Dolly Bailey. "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural if unfortunate demise. Call a constable and have him taken away. "

"Yes, sir," Dolly said, disturbed.

She's back. Rose turned her head and, sure enough, the servant girl was there. From a distance, Rose noted how much she resembled the woman in the theater, except for the clothes. But Rose herself was proof that clothes did not always prove one's status and one could easily disguise themselves if needed.

"I'll do it, ma'am," she told Dolly dutifully. The girl's eyes flicked down to their group, lingering on Rose who was glowering at her. She gave Rose a cold smirk, almost challenging her, then turned and left, taking the uneasy air with her.

"And why did you tell them that?" Martha demanded when the Doctor knelt down again.

"This lot still have one foot in the Dark Ages," he explained. "If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."

"Wasn't it?" Rose asked. After all she'd seen with the Doctor, witchcraft wasn't high on the list of impossible things.

He looked up at Rose darkly. "Oh, yes. And you, you sensed it. How?"

She shook her head. "I…I don't—" she closed her eyes "—I don't know."

But she had a sinking feeling that she actually did.

Shakespeare led their procession back up to his room. The Doctor kept an arm around Rose protectively, but she was feeling fine now. The air was free of…witchcraft. Part of her felt like skipping, but that would be inappropriate considering what had just happened. The rest of her, however, was terrified. The Doctor knew something was different about her now and he wouldn't let it go. Her only hope was that she could hold off the truth until they got safely into the TARDIS, far away from any timelines he could damage.

"I got you a room, Sir Doctor," Dolly Bailey said from the doorway. "You, your wife, and Miss Jones are just across the landing on the left. It's the only one with two beds in here. Ladies, I noticed you didn't have any belongings with you so I left you a pair of gowns out. Might be a bit big, but they'll do."

Rose smiled. "Thank you, ma'am."

Dolly Bailey smiled as well. "My pleasure. Just leave 'em on the bed in the mornin'." She cast a concerned gaze over the room, her eyes lingering on Shakespeare, and she left the way she came.

"Poor Lynley," Shakespeare said, though he didn't actually sound very sorry. "So many strange events. Not least of all, this land of Freedonia where a woman can be a doctor?"

"Where a woman can do what she likes." Martha corrected.

"And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading," he answered quietly.

"A trite reply," Shakespeare nodded and the Doctor smiled just a bit. "Yeah, that's what I'd do." He looked at Rose. "And you, Dame Rose… Never mind the fact that I know I have seen you before—you knew something was wrong. You knew…before he even screamed."

"I…I didn't," she stammered, shaking her head quickly. "I just—I just choked. On the cider. I d—I didn't know." She felt silent, staring at the floor.

Shakespeare just looked at her, considering, and then turned to Martha. "And you, Miss Jones, you look at them like you're surprised they exist. They're as much of a puzzle to you as they are to me."

The three of them exchanged nervous glances. Shakespeare was a genius, there was no arguing that, but the fact that he had managed to discern that much about them within the span of a few minutes was a bit frightening, to Martha more than any of them.

"I think we should say goodnight," she said quickly and left the room quickly without looking back. Rose tried to follow her, but the Doctor's arm was locked around her and he wasn't leaving yet. So, apparently, neither was she. She shot him an angry look.

"I must work," Shakespeare sighed. "I have a play to complete." He got to his feet, walking around the table as he spoke. "But I'll get my answers tomorrow, Doctor."

The Doctor shrugged off the bookshelf he'd been leaning against, pulling Rose with him towards the door.

"I'll discover more about you both, and why this constant performance of yours, Sir."

"All the world's a stage," the Doctor replied from the doorway.

"Ooh…I might use that," he mused. "Good night, Doctor. Rose."

"Nighty-night, Shakespeare."

Drop a review on the way out. People are more inclined to click on stories if they see a high review count - especially for things as tricky as season rewrites. Lots of reviews means the author must be doing something right. ...Am I not doing something right? ;~;