River fingers the note he gave her, stepping carefully against the thick snow coating every corner of the place in a crust of crunchy frost.
‘Hang ten at the unicorn; the fiddler’s still on the roof.’
She smiles, cocking her head a little as she reaches for the door and pulls it open.
“I thought you didn’t play anymore...” she says, idly brushing off her purple gloves as she lets another smile curtain her features.
No answer, but a scrap of Hanzi paper seal flaps free of the building’s bricking and swoops against her cheek.
She smiles again, and looks inside before stepping up the one little wooden step and in through the entryway.
Glancing up out of habit, she spies a coats rack near the edge of the left-opening door; long, wooden... a nice smooth cherry, liquid and dark against the pale grey of the inside walls.
Thirteen steel hooks.
She counts them.
There is a black undertaker’s cravat hanging on the first one. A well-loved fur with a dark collar on the second. The third bears an opera jacket... the fourth, a 20-foot long scarf with seven stripes, and a velvet fedora with a painter’s pin.
River Song knows where this is going. She guessed the riddle several months ago.