From the floor of the Doctor’s borrowed Zero Room, a smooth ivory dimple protrudes. It swells up, becoming the head of a woman who might have been a bride, once. Long hair echoes down the back, hinting at dark roots that could use a good bleaching. Full, thick eyebrows slide across the forehead, lifting in taut ends above pearl eyes. Her full lips are alabaster plums against the white roses of high-boned, angular, almost-chipmunk cheeks. Giant single pearls hang from the ears; a smile plays in the curve of sumptuous hips that flow into the floor beneath rays of what could have been white silk instead of TARDIS.
“Oh jelly, we’re here, then…” the Master whines as he wakes, blearily scrubbing his eyes as he reaches, in a rumpled coat wrinkled half up his back, to touch the cheekbone of his lover.
But Flamina is not beside him, nor is she in the Room.
“Could you tell me where that damn woman is? And why do you look like the goddess Fortuna?”
Rosette, the living avatar of Flamina’s TARDIS, snorts at him with an incredulous flair. Then she giggles and wiggles suggestively, pointing to the wall like a sun-bleached, stocky elf queen high on summer wine and travel bread.
From the wall, an old Victorian telephone flutters into being like a liquid butterfly, growing down into the surface of a bobbin leg table that also pools itself out from the stuff of the ship.