She must have seen the Mirrors, he reasons, as he steps forward into the welcoming arms of the Seven, who gleam like slabs of moonlight to his eyes. He concentrates on the visual- a milky dawn on two-sunned Gallifrey, red grass floating on the hills like clouds of fish. A boy with a rock in his hand. A body. A crying accomplice.
He turns round, his back to Them now. He can see her out the corner of his eye, shifting like white cancer in the half-light of the Dream museum.
There are lavender tears running from the pools of her black eyes, and her lovely arm has grown a wicked shard, much like the piece of glass that stabbed him in the TARDIS console room.
She lurches forward in a lunge through the air, her shard-arm tearing rents in two paintings facing opposite each other across the hall- a wild-eyed woman in a blue dress, and a nervous girl in a blue pant suit with a pin on her lapel.
He touches his eye, and a hot tear sits there, not quite dropping onto his skin as he flings himself backward into the memory, through the Mirrors.
Her mouth makes the words of a song...
“Baby, it’s cold outside...”