04 - Timewyrm- Revelation

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TIMEWYRM: REVELATION by PAUL CORNELL
With thanks to:
Miles Booy - Criticism and structural advice.
Jean Riddler - Rune lore.
Tony Gallichan - "This is a dead chapter..."
Penny List, Wendy Ratter, Marion Barnes - Moral support.
And to all my friends, for their love and patience.
And thanks to Mum and Dad, for Bread and Butter and Honey.
Thanks to the Estate of Aldous Huxley for permission to quote from The Doors of Perception, published by
The Hogarth Press, and to Elaine Greene for permission to quote from Arthur Miller's The Crucible, published
by Penguin Books.
Prologues: Hymn From a Village
"But if it wasn't for the snow, how could we believe in the immortality of the soul?" "What an interesting
question, Mr. Wilde. But tell me exactly what you mean. " "I haven't the slightest idea. " Oscar Wilde,
escorting an over-earnest lady into dinner.
They say that no two snowflakes are the same. But nobody ever stops to check. Above the Academy blew
great billows of them, whipping around the corners of the dark building as if to emphasize the structure's
harsh lines. Mount Cadon, Gallifrey's highest peak, extended to the fringes of the planet's atmosphere, and
the Prydonian Academy stood far up its slopes.
From within the fortress, chanting could be heard, as young Time Lords were instructed in the rigours to
which biology had made them heir. Trains of scarlet-robed acolytes made their way about the towers in
endless recollection of protocols and procedures. From the courtyard came the sounds of mathematical drill,
as instructors demanded instant answers to complex temporal induction problems. In high towers, certain
special pupils were being taught darker things.
But behind the Academy, somebody was tending a flower.
The bloom was a tiny, yellow blossom, sheltering in a crack in the grey-green mountainside. Near it stood a
blasted tree, and under the tree sat a robed figure, regarding the flower. It was just a simple bloom, but hardy.
The Gallifreyans called it a Sarlain, but the Hermit knew of people who would have called it a Daisy, or a
Rose, or a Daffodil. It was complex and strange, the edges of its petals notched and striated. It was very
beautiful, but to understand it, they would have to label it as something, the Hermit knew.
This, to him, was the most urgent issue in the universe.
The acolyte dashed up the hill, panting, his breath boiling away in the cold. Tears were freezing on his
cheeks. He approached the hooded man almost angrily, as if to demand something of him.
"They're fools! Blind, uncaring fools! They can't see the way it's going, they won't - "Sit down."
Calming himself, and wiping his face on the cuff of his robe, the acolyte sat, and bowed to the dark figure.
"I am pleased that you wish to continue your . . . other studies. Have you prepared the verse?" The voice from
beneath the cowl was a whisper.
"I have. I have fasted for three days and three nights, I have made supplication to . . . to the powers you
named. I was discovered."
"They will not punish you."
"I don't understand much of what I've written."
"Of course!" The old man laughed. "That's the point. Much of it you are too young to remember. Read."
So, shivering in the breeze and the billow of time, the acolyte began to do so.
The head beneath the hood nodded, one eye glinting from the darkness.
It would be several centuries before the acolyte grasped the meaning of his work. And as for understanding it
- Perhaps he never would.
It was the Sunday before Christmas 1992, and the churchgoers of Cheldon Bonniface were wrapping up,
shutting the doors of their houses and stepping out this fine Norfolk morning. Distant bells were ringing.
Those who lived in the more distant cottages, near the marshland, had bicycled or driven in, and were buying
Sunday papers from the little shop on the village green.
The chill in the air was pleasant to the old folk, who remembered their youth, before there was any television,
when they'd build snowmen and run through the forest, following each other's tracks. It certainly smelt like
snow was on its way.
And with the snow, something else. It was muttered in many versions, along the road that led to the small hill
where St Christopher's stood. Old men wondered if they would see another Christmas, wives said that this
was unusual weather for the time of year, and blamed it on that ozone, and little boys wondered if they were
growing up, because, somehow, things were different.
Inside the little church itself, the same conclusion had been reached. The Reverend Ernest Trelaw, vicar of St
Christopher's, was pacing up and down the aisle, debating.
Nobody stood with him amongst the seasonal decorations and the piles of food for charity. The organist, Mrs.
Wilkinson, was ill. But Trelaw was not alone.
Saul was with him.
Saul was a voice, a presence, that Trelaw had been introduced to by his father, the previous vicar. He
inhabited the church in the same way that Trelaw inhabited his body, and had been on the site, in various
guises, down the centuries. Trelaw could communicate with him silently, but the cleaning ladies had heard
him humming hymns, and had named him as the ghost of old Saul Bredon, who had died asleep in the pews
sometime last century.
But Saul was not a ghost. He was an accumulated wisdom, an intelligence formed from the focus of so many
dutiful minds over such a long time. The Celtic Cenomanni had called him Cernwn, and each succeeding
people had their own name for the spirit of the hill.
Saul had hardly been surprised when the Christian missionaries had tried to exorcize him. But he had been
taken aback when, failing to do so, they came up with a typically pragmatic answer to the problem.
They built a church around him and declared that he was an angel, or the Grace of God. Or something.
It had taken the first Reverend Trelaw, Ernest's great-grandfather, actually to talk to Saul rather than pray at
him. Upon realizing that the church was an independent entity, and not actually divine, old Dominic had set
about teaching it, both in scholastic and spiritual terms.
In 1853, at a midnight ceremony, Saul had been baptized in his own font, splashing the water around with his
psychic muscles.
Save Trelaw, there was only one witness, and he claimed to have little knowledge of religion. He was a
traveller, known as the Doctor. A wise, hawk-like old man with a mane of silver hair and an eccentric nature,
he had made his way up the hill and entered just as the ceremony was about to begin. He had, he said, left
his companions in the village, having known that there was a happy occasion afoot.
Without quite knowing why, Saul had trusted him instantly.
Over the years, Saul had met the Doctor on a handful of occasions, always as part of some hectic adventure,
some heroic quest. That was what the church and the vicar, having swung the morning bells together, were
considering now.
"Something is different," chorused Saul, in a voice like an infinite church choir. "The fabric of reality has
changed."
"It could be that the Doctor is returning," Trelaw muttered at the rafters. "I thought last time was too good to
be true."
"Indeed. I must admit that when he walks through my doors, I expect all hell to break loose."
Trelaw smiled. Saul could be quite charmingly innocent at times, particularly in his choice of metaphors. For
his own part, he didn't know whether he looked forward to the Doctor's visits or not. On the last occasion, the
Doctor, in yet another new form, had simply brought his niece Melanie to Cheldon Bonniface to enjoy some
brass rubbing.
"Perhaps it's just the weather Saul, getting to both our old timbers ...."
Trelaw broke off as the church doors swung open. Standing there were those new people . . . what were they
called?
"Hutchings," Saul informed him silently. "Peter and Emily. And Peter heard you."
"Ah, good morning, you're here a bit early, you caught me rehearsing my sermon." Trelaw shook hands with
the man and wished for a verger. "
Peter Hutchings was in his early thirties, tall and solid, but with the slight stoop of somebody more used to
the desk than the playing field. He wore his suit uncomfortably, and had cultivated a beard that would have
done a hermit proud. "Pleased to meet you, reverend," he muttered, seeming slightly abashed. "This is my
wife, Emily."
"Ah yes," Trelaw took the cool hand offered him. Younger than her husband, Mrs. Hutchings had the face of a
great beauty. The reverend, who noticed these things more than he cared to admit, imagined her as a
carefree student, riding some mythical Oxbridge bicycle. Her features were almost aristocratic, but it was an
aristocracy mocked by the humour inherent in her face. Her russet hair was cut in a bob.
"Hello," she murmured and wandered further into the church, absently. Resisting the urge to stare after her,
Trelaw turned to Peter.
"Well, what brings you to Cheldon?"
"A change of scene, really. I'm on a leave of absence from Cambridge, and I thought it was time to put the
savings to good use and settle down somewhere."
"Cambridge?"
"I'm a professor of mathematics. I've got a new paper brewing. Knot theory. It's all a bit abstract."
"I'm afraid my maths doesn't stretch beyond O level," Trelaw smiled. Other parishioners were starting to enter
the church now. He made his excuses and attended to the preparations.
"She is very sad," opined Saul silently, indicating Emily Hutchings with a mental gesture. "But there is
something very meaningful about her. She is a character in a very big story."
"Indeed," replied Trelaw in the same fashion, studying the faces of his flock. "I wonder where the Doctor is
now?"
From the pew where she had sat, Emily suddenly looked up, as if she had half-heard something.
"I think somebody just walked over my graves," muttered the living church. "All of them."
Christmas decorations brightened the windows of St Benedict's School, Perivale. There was a chill in the air,
and a smoky taste. In the playground, groups of howling children whirled and weaved. By the main building,
Miss Marshall was supping a steaming cup of coffee, blowing into her hands. If only she had their energy.
By the edge of the crowd stood Dorothy. Oh dear. Still all alone, trying desperately to be part of the games,
but not knowing how. The little girl was gazing in panic at a circle of her peers, who were skipping in a circle,
hand in hand. She was waiting for a place to be offered her, but none would be forthcoming. Miss Marshall
knew well enough that she couldn't interfere. That would only make things worse. Still, Dorothy needed a
friend, somebody who'd look after her.
At that moment, little Alan Barnes grazed his knee, and the teacher was distracted with the business of
disinfectant. It was just as well. Something fundamentally important was about to happen.
Outside the school gates, a dark figure stood, watching intently. Its eyes were worried, sweeping the
playground for a particular child.
Dorothy.
Somehow aware of all this attention, the little girl in the patched anorak looked around her. She was scared,
as well as angry and confused. Somewhere, there was danger.
With the boys, a little way off, sulked Chad Boyle. He was eight, full of venom, with a little army of followers
and a horrible itch in his head. He was carefully listening to some internal voice, his brow furrowed in
concentration. He'd seen the teacher retreat into the school, and had instantly picked up a half-brick from the
pile where the builders were constructing an extension. He was just obeying orders.
"Whatcha doing with that?" asked an awed admirer, pointing to the brick.
"That creepy Dotty. She's got it coming. I'm going to kill her," Boyle spat with relish. The gang cheered. They
knew that they'd get hurt if they didn't. Like most bullies, Boyle had a few worried followers, who liked to
watch him do things that they wouldn't have dared to do themselves. They supported him with their silence,
their unspoken agreement. But they didn't really like Chad. He knew that, somehow, and this made him more
angry than ever.
The day before, Boyle had stepped on Dorothy's toe in assembly. Quite offhandedly, Dorothy had pushed her
elbow into his stomach and sent him flying with a trip. And the Head had told him off for messing about!
She was strange, anyway. Nobody would play with her. She said she wanted to be an astronaut, which was
crazy, because girls couldn't be astronauts. Everybody knew that.
He skipped over to the staring girl, and while her back was turned, raised his hand.
The brick was cold, gritty and hard through his mitten. His raised hand was silhouetted against the low sun,
so perhaps it was the sudden shade that made the girl turn.
She screamed.
Boyle savagely swung the weapon down, splitting Dorothy's skull and killing her outright.
The law was called in. Miss Marshall didn't actually tell Chad off. She didn't know where to begin. The whole
concept of scolding a child for murder seemed somehow farcical. The boy's peers, his gang, withdrew from
him with a kind of superstitious awe.
A decision was made that the child be tried before a juvenile court, and would remain in the custody of his
mother until then. The Head took it upon himself to visit the victim's parents. Instead of covering the matter
up, he called a special assembly, and delivered a lesson on the taking of life.
For once, everybody listened.
Mrs. Boyle could feel the shame of it every time she pulled open her living room curtains in the morning.
Initially she'd been tearful, asking Chad time and again how he could do such a thing. She'd beaten him with
her old slipper, the one that her husband used to use, but Chad just accepted the pain silently, as though it
were a minor inconvenience.
All the time he'd looked at her with a kind of puzzlement, as if the answer to her demands was obvious.
Finally, on being shaken, he said: "The Angel told me to do it."
This did nothing to improve Mrs. Boyle's state of mind. She convinced herself that her son was insane, that
from now on it would be a matter for psychiatrists. She had spent some time in their hands herself, and knew
that the neighbours knew it. "Inherited," they would say. "The sins of the fathers . . ."
She was unable to sleep. She wished Eric was still here. Perhaps he could have been a better influence on
the child, a stronger hand. Through the bedroom wall, on occasion, she heard Chad talking to himself,
laughing and mumbling.
One night Mrs. Boyle heard something stranger still.
It was 3 a.m. by the clock radio, and she was huddled up into her pillow, worrying. Next door Chad was
mumbling away, increasingly excited.
The noise started softly, then rose to a crescendo. A galvanized suck, like something organic being ripped
apart by machinery. It rang out through the wall, vibrating the wooden cross that hung above Mrs. Boyle's
cold bed. Then, with a thump, the sound died.
Mrs. Boyle jumped up, stifling a cry. Shaking with fear of the unknown, but brave with concern for her son,
she padded to the door of her room, and looked out into the darkened hallway. A blue light was flashing under
Chad's door, and she could hear the sound of boyish chuckling.
"Chad? The called, her voice pitched high with fear. "What are you doing?" Sobbing, she made herself walk to
the door and push it open.
What she saw convinced her of her own madness.
Hand in hand with a strange little man, Chad was stepping into an old-fashioned police box. The man's eyes
were closed, and his head was tilted to one side, locked at an odd angle. But he was leading Chad away.
The little boy turned back and smiled at his mother.
"It'll be all right, Mum. The Angel sent him to get me. We're going to kill Dotty again."
They stepped into the box, and it faded away with the same hellish roar.
Mrs. Boyle collapsed to the floor, screaming.
1: STEP ON
O God! I could be bounded in a nut-shell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that 1 have
bad dreams. Hamlet William Shakespeare.
Ace sat bolt upright in bed and didn't cry out. She did what she'd done since she was little, looking around
her room to make sure that everything was as it should be. Of course, this was a strange kind of room, a
dormitory in the TARDIS. Still, with her Happy Mondays posters, hi-fi and cool box full of explosives, Ace felt
more at home here than she had anywhere else.
And, of course, everything was fine. The room reacted to her waking, brightening slightly so that she could
see every corner.
She had dreamt . . . what? Home stuff, probably, wishing she could go back and use a crate of nitro-nine
where it most mattered.
But still . . . she rubbed her face with her hand, well naff dream. Ace was in her early twenties, but had
wisdom beyond her years, the instinctive wisdom of a wanderer in the fourth dimension. She had a face that
could be soft and beautiful, but would suddenly frown in a dangerous anger, an anger that could blow the
world apart for its sins. Which was sometimes how she felt. Ace held certain things to be important. These,
in order, were loyalty, street cred and high explosives. So maybe she was a couple of pounds over
fashionable, but it was all muscle, and she liked her bacon sarnies too much to care. "Sides, if she ever met
Tim Booth, he'd love her for her mind, wouldn't he? There'd be trouble otherwise.
She heard it then. Far off in the darkened corridors of the TARDIS.
Somebody was crying out, low and distant.
"Old fella? Look out, man. It's inside!" "Professor?" the young woman from Perivale called, but no answer was
forthcoming. Throwing back the covers, Ace went exploring in her nightie.
The TARDIS was some weird kind of craft, huge on the inside, containing literally miles of gleaming corridors,
a swimming pool, even a gym which Ace had set about customizing. But outside, the TARDIS looked as cute
and old-fashioned as something in a museum. It looked like a police box, and Ace had had to look that one
up, because the idea of a copper rushing around the corner to use a phone rather than a walkie-talkie was
really strange. She supposed that the Doctor hadn't changed the way the thing looked because he liked it. Or
not. He was, after all, an alien, right? He talked about a place called Gallifrey, a home that he didn't feel good
about returning to. That suited Ace. If he didn't want to go home, he wouldn't make her go home either.
In the evenings, the Doctor would serve a mug of something hot, and he and Ace would talk about history and
politics and science. Then he would say that he had some loose ends to tie up, and bid her good night.
These "loose ends" Ace supposed to be the preparation work for the Doctor's tricks. During the night, she
would wake up at the distant sound of landing, and be concerned. After the first time, she had asked the
Doctor what he did at night.
"Putting props in place," he had said, "making sure people know their lines, sometimes leaving notes on the
script. All the universe is a stage, Ace. Acting's not enough for me. I like to direct."
These little touches, the night moves in the Time Lord's game, were not apparently dangerous. They
consisted of such things as moving items of furniture, research on when things happened, and making sure
certain couples never met. Bit mean, that last one.
However, in the time between adventures, when the Doctor was planning his next campaign, this activity
usually ceased. They had only just left Kirith, and with his search for the Timewyrm drawing a blank, Ace had
thought that the Doctor would actually get some sleep, or do whatever he did. Still, the activity continued.
Only these days, when Ace asked him about it, he'd only say that she must have imagined, it, that he'd been
in his room all night.
As she proceeded through the darkened labyrinth, Ace realized that she had only assumed that the Doctor
slept. Sure, he locked himself in his room at night, but this was a man who didn't need to shave, right?
Coming to his door, she knocked softly. "Professor? Are you okay?" After a moment, the door opened a tiny
crack. The Doctor, still fully dressed, glared at her like she was some dreadful thing, come to kidnap him.
The little-boy face was hardened with loathing, the kind of fierce disgust that only a tremendous innocent
could show. An optimist who had been wrong too many times.
That look had always comforted her when the Doctor applied it to his enemies, because it was real attitude.
Now she understood why. It made her feel awful, tiny and weak, and thus angry.
"Doctor? It's me! You were shouting!" The Time Lord blinked, realized where he was, and grinned at her,
which was always beautiful to see, strange and quite funny, like some old cartoon. He opened the door a little
wider.
"Oh yes. Sorry. Nightmare."
"Me too. You were shouting out. Didn't sound like you, though."
"No. That's the trouble with time travel. Difficult to keep a routine. Cocoa."
Tossing Ace a robe, he strode off in the direction of the console room. When Ace got there, the Doctor was
circling the console, checking readings and flicking switches. His expression was dark, as worried as she
had ever seen him.
"Where are we going, Professor?" "Nowhere. Everywhere. The TARDIS is waiting. Waiting for me."
"There's something wrong, isn't there?" The Doctor seemed to consider, and for a moment Ace felt like a kid
at Christmas, about to discover that there wasn't any Santa Claus. Then he smiled again, and ducked out of
the room. Ace sighed, and stuck her hands deep into the pockets of the robe.
Her foot touched something. On the floor of the console room lay a pressure hypodermic, empty. Ace sniffed
the despatch end quickly, but she couldn't recognize the tang as anything familiar.
The Doctor returned, and Ace quickly pocketed the syringe. The Time Lord was carrying two mugs of cocoa
on a tray. Ace carefully took one. Perhaps she would have said something about the hypo, but the Doctor
launched into one of his rare explanations, and it was never a good idea to miss those.
"I'm worried. Ever since Kirith. The Timewyrm has vanished from the TARDIS's tracking equipment, which
means it's in hiding. That's always the way with evil. Devious, subtle . . ."
Ace realized with a sigh that the Doctor was talking more to himself than to her. Their course over the last
few days had been erratic, a series of desperate attempts to detect temporal disruption. The had landed in
Lewisham in 1977, and visited a pub called the Rose of Lee. They had prowled the streets of Rome in 1582;
they had sat and meditated on the Eye of Orion. It was as if the Doctor was trying to see a pattern, divine
some meaning in these varied events. He seemed desperate.
"Dreams are the reason for sleep, Ace. There's no point in sleeping unless you dream. Do you ever get the
feeling that somebody is trying to tell you something?"
"No." Ace was going to say something about the Doctor's general lack of consultation, but he was off again,
returning with what appeared to be an ancient glazed pot.
"King Wen's gift. The I Ching. For services rendered." He overturned the pot on the floor, and out fell a jumble
of sticks.
"Professor, what -?"
"Shh. A simple macroscopic oracle. Reflects the universe in a small action. Our perceptions depend on
scale. As above, so below." He set one stick aside and divided the stack into two piles, then he proceeded to
speed through a complex procedure, holding the sticks in his fingers, throwing them back into the pile and
swiftly counting. Finally, he leapt up, and fed a series of numbers into the TARDIS computer. "The
combination of the sticks suggests a series of numbers. 541322, in this case, and let the rest sort
themselves out randomly."
The central column began to rise and fall with new purpose, locked on to a course.
"So, what are we heading for now?" Ace stood up.
"Adventure. Conflict." The Doctor smiled his secretive smile, and Ace grinned back.
"What, deadly danger?"
"Yes. You'd better get dressed."
The TARDIS spun through the vortex, its exterior reflecting the spiralling purples of the time corridor.
By the time Ace had pulled on some leggings and a hooded Farm T-shirt, and grabbed her jacket and
rucksack from the bedside cabinet, they had landed. The Doctor plucked his umbrella from the hatstand,
adjusted his own headgear, and walked straight out into the unknown, not bothering to look at the scanner.
He did that a lot these days. Following, Ace hoped he knew what he was doing and was not just showing off.
He always seemed to, but, a bit like a stage magician, the Doctor didn't like to reveal how his tricks worked.
That was fine if you were in the audience, but scary if you were the rabbit waiting in the hat.
A full moon blazed over a snow-covered landscape, a dense forest and marshlands beyond, where sheets of
ice reflected the moonlight. In the distance shone the lights of a village. The air was crisp and clear, with a
bite of frost, and the countryside lay silent, expectant. Ace zipped up her jacket.
"Countryside. Nasty."
"Do you think so?"
"Yeah. Bad things can happen to you out here, and nobody knows. There's nobody around to help." They
started to trudge through the snow, the Doctor licking a finger to estimate the wind direction.
"I remember Sherlock Holmes expressing similar sentiments."
"Yeah?" Ace was interested. "Did you meet him? Oh, right, he wasn't real, was he?"
"Just because somebody isn't real, it doesn't mean you can't meet them," murmured the Doctor with a sly
smile.
Ace paused for a moment as he carried on.
"Right," she said, and followed.
They came to a ridge overlooking the village, and the Doctor nodded to himself. A cluster of thatched
buildings huddled around a village green. A little way off lay a blacksmiths, and a coaching inn beamed with
welcoming noise and light.
"Cheldon Bonniface. Norfolk. England. Earth. Middle nineteenth century, by the look of the buildings. Hmm, I
had better be careful."
"Careful? Why?"
"I might be here. I visited this place on several occasions."
Ace frowned, boggling at the concept of two Doctors in the same place.
"Would that be so bad?"
"Potentially catastrophic. No such thing as coincidence. No, somehow I think we're playing a different game
this evening." And suddenly, as if he had revealed too much, he changed the subject. "Do you know where
the word Ace comes from?" They started to descend the hill.
No."
"From the Latin, as a unit of weight." "Cheers, Professor."
"The French usage came to be applied to a pilot who had shot down ten enemy aircraft . . . " He carried on
this conversation until they reached the inn, a jolly-looking place with horses tethered in a stable. The painted
sign that creaked outside named it as the Black Swan. "And of course, there's the expression "to bate an
ace".
"What does that mean?"
"It means giving your opponent an initial advantage. Making yourself appear equal."
"Nothing to do with using an ace as bait, then?"
"Not at all. After you." He waved her into the inn.
It was the noise that hit her first. The landlord, a huge, portly chap with bushy sideburns and a ruddy
complexion, was struggling to reach a table, carrying a tray brimming with foaming tankards. The crowd that
surrounded him, merry looking villagers, travellers still in snow-covered boots and various musicians and
beggars, were making a huge, joyous, row, singing carols.
Ace felt like joining in. Then she realized, with a start, that things wouldn't be as easy as all that. Her
leggings weren't really the height of chic in the last century. Was she going to be fending off drunken toerags
all night?
"It's all right," muttered the Doctor, closing the door behind them. "Nobody will notice." He squeezed his way
to the bar, and called out to the plump woman who was slopping hot mead into mugs.
"Martha! What time is it?"
The woman looked up and beamed, laughing. "Doctor! We haven't seen you in years! But you always ask
that question! It's just past ten o'clock on Christmas Eve!"
"Really," the Doctor yelled back. "Is there room at the inn?"
"Now, don't you be quoting scripture at me," Martha laughed. "We've got two rooms." She winked at the
Doctor. "Will you be needing both?"
"Ah. Yes . . ." the Doctor seemed shy for a moment. "As well you know. I must have a word with George."
"Well, when 'e's got a moment. George, look who's here!"
George, who turned out to be the landlord, looked up from his discussion with a ragged tinker. For a moment,
Ace thought, he seemed worried. Then he broke into a laugh.
"Doctor! From the family of Doctors! How's the young lad?" The Doctor found his hand pumped a little too
heartily.
"Oh, he's fine. Still playing his cricket. I need your rooms."
"You have them. You're the sort of guest I like in an open house, not like that lot . . . " he nodded at the group
of tinkers, taken in out of the cold on this special night. "Half a trade between the lot of them. To tell you the
truth," he leaned closer, "I've been wanting a word with somebody who has a bit of book learning. Fancy a
game of chess?"
The Doctor nodded, intrigued.
Ace had quietly ordered herself a mug of mead, and had sat down amongst the tinkers, grinning. With their
moppy hair and carefully-bound packs, they reminded her of the anarcho-punks she'd known in her own time.
"Hi, I'm Ace." The hardy men regarded her with amazement.
"Well, you're a bawdy lass. A bit lickerish, I fancy," began a man with an ocarina. This prompted general
laughter. Ace glared.
"I dunno what that meant, toerag, but it didn't sound friendly."
"Oh, don't be insulted, madam." The interloper was an Irishman in a dusty top hat. "We're just enjoying the
hospitality before George closes the place down and ushers us off to church at midnight. I'm Rafferty. This is
the missus, Brigid." A lean, rosy-cheeked woman nodded at Ace. "For myself, if a bit of praying gets me an
inch of hospitality in this world, I don't mind."
"Into God, George, is he?"
"A fearing man."
Ace supped the mead gently, relishing the honey taste and the herbs floating on top. The Doctor tapped her
shoulder discreetly, and spoke in a low murmur.
"Having fun?"
"Yeah. Well historical."
"I'm off to do a bit of research. You've got the room at the top of the stairs. Meet you there in half an hour."
"Okay."
He moved away, but returned on an afterthought.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：129 页 大小：437.37KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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