Clara’s eyes blink open on the familiar feeling of wax crusting one’s eyelids. Well, familiar if your name is Clara Oswald and you’ve recently recalled a prior incident in which you were dipped in red goo then set under a cloche and adored like a macabre candy statue in a Willy Wonka-themed Victorian rocket facility.
She moves her eyes, a bit here, a bit there, trying to shake her eyelids free enough to see.
She tests her fingers by trying to curl them- yep, still encased in stuff.
At least her toes are wiggle-able in her shoes…
A sound draws her though, out and to the left.
She looks up, suddenly noticing the facts of the environment; she’s in a living room- that much she can see inside her waxy prison. She peers downward, straining her eyeballs against the thick wax.
She sees her body, seated in a rocking chair. There are wrinkles on her fingers, sorry, the wax covering her fingers, she mentally edits. There are lacy things, bits of neck-corner and sleeve and womanly articles. The dress on the figure she’s trapped in is black and long, reaching to her feet. There appears to be a… she cranes her eyes till they hurt, and manages a glimpse of her reflection in the gleam of a sword hanging above an austere mantelpiece… yes!