Ignoring the wet stain darkening the contrasting stark golds and half-nudes of the old Klimt, the Doctor turns to the Mirrors; they slide out of human form, slipping, melting like the glossy ghosts of ice cream sticks until they’re mere silvery slabs standing behind each of the three men still in the Library room.
The Doctor starts to take his place in the middle between the Master on the right and Rassilon on the left, but then sucks in a breath, holding up a finger after dampening it with his tongue.
“I almost forgot! To the wardrobe, Batman!” he cries as he scampers away, exiting through a hidden side door pressed into the paneling near a shelf of old knitting manuals. “It’s an occasion, and I need something to wear!”
Rassilon pales as he stares after the receding panel... and as Borusa watches for the half-second it takes the color to drain from the man’s features and return again, she bites back a frown.