Borusa and Clara look at each other from across the room.
Clara comes first, calling out a cautious “Who are you?”
Tircosieljarminyaebim smiles, her face a strange effigy of clean cotton and cold cream.
“You, my daughter, are to be given a gift. You, the other one, come here.”
Borusa pushes off from the pillar she’s hiding behind and asks, “… what is your business here? The Doctor told us this would happen, but… seeing you, this… what you’ve done… we need answers.”
“Clara, Borusa,” Tircosiel calls, the music of her words ringing slightly like a fond old bell, “Ask him yourself. My time here is done.”
Her hands open on two rings, carved with roses and gleaming golden in the pale light of the moon overhead.
Each woman comes to claim a Rose Ring with careful doe steps, wary of betrayal from this creature of creatures at the center of so many intrigues.
She rests her hand above Rassilon’s chest, and the big man melts into her, absorbed, like a pot of hot candy being stirred.
Together,” she whispers, then she smiles at the women, and retreats back into the tub, a backwards wave of white chocolate.
“We’ll, uh, we’ll tell the Doctor you said hi!” Clara pipes up, staring down nervously at her ring and twisting it this way and that. “And don’t forget to wri…”
Borusa shakes her head, then grabs her face and shakes her head again before touching the rose on her own ring and vanishing, too.