“What are you doing here?” He makes no effort to stammer the words, for, on any other’s lips, they would be like a prayer against evil. That tee-shirt’s in his wardrobe, somewhere. He thinks he might have shown it to her in what suddenly seems like another life, because the woman standing before him is nothing like the girl-thing he’s been courting. And yet, she is exactly all of her.
“Be not afraid, my lover,” she moans at his ear, nipping the flesh there, “Theta Sigma says to tell you I need my present now. He said, ‘If he doesn’t believe you, tell him, Lucy Saxon.’”
He fights the urge to stagger- but he’s not even standing up.
“You’re in with him then. So be it. The box is on the nightstand.”
But she shakes her head, white bun trickling a thousand tiny braids like snow behind her. “No Koschei- he said it has to be by your hand.”
His own head shakes now, but he straightens and gets the rectangular box from beside his bed. It’s wrapped in silver. There’s a luxurious, crunchy bow. How like his old friend, to play psychologist in absentia.
“Here you are, pet,” he whispers, covering her hand with his as he lets the box slip from his fingers and into hers.
Before she twists the strange little ring on her finger, she looks up, a question in her eyes. “What name for you, my love? What title, if not for Rassilon’s meddling?”
He answers without hesitation.
But she is gone.