As he pulls the TARDIS doors together, closing her to the outside world, his nostrils flare, his olfactory nerves suddenly thick with the scent of full roses heavy with hip and swaying in a soft breeze. A rich, fruity flavour lades the air; his body feels as though a weight has dropped upon it. Breath comes at a premium to his several lungs, and his feet feel suckled by the black, oozing peat of an unseen bog. Taking strength from the hard old wood, the feel of striated grains and whorls and knots painted so blue beneath his fingers, he listens.
“Lord Other,” says a new voice. Feminine… tinged in scented oil and soaked in the perfume of promises. Soft outside, sharp inside. Like a mouse. Or a cybermat, depending on your fetishes.
He refuses to reply to this. He will not. She is trying to get a rise, surely. But maybe he will speak to her if she asks the right Question. His body does not answer.
A laugh, like the tinkle of tiny bells. No. He will not give in. He hasn’t imagined the title or the roses.
“Pasmodius sent me, Doctor- I have a book for you. He said you requested it.”
An olive hand holds out a thick volume. The pages are flimsy with age and appear rotten, rising higher between the dry brown leather bindings than an entire hand held palm up. Big book. Slightly stinky- perhaps some mould has got in…