“The moon goes in first,” he murmurs softly to the TARDIS, holding the locket over the molten silver. “We want a reduction, not a pancake! Not yet. And now the story, as I promised.”
The silver chain slips from his fingers, and as its shine looms over his face, caressing as it falls, he recalls what he saw in the cave, and sets the steamy sweet gingery mug of hot apple scrumpy to his frothing lips.
No tongue? No problem!
The heat alone is enough to stimulate his memory of the place.
He has entered the cave, picking his way amongst the seaweed and rocks. The darkness of the place was palpable, mutant even, as he peers inside the cauldron depths of that gaping rock maw, searching for any light.
The blind of white beckons suddenly then, showing him a bit of snowy hair against the black ink.
He is walking, before he knows it.
Before he realises, he is reaching.
His fingers, hale and whole, bring themselves to touch her shoulder. For it –is- the girl.
Rassilon’s little girl.
As he touches her, he notes that her hand is frozen above a copper pot with a white porcelain handle.
The pot above a cookfire.
Seven pots and pans adorn the little space, all filled with a liquid that is brewing.
Seven sauces for seven pots for seven cookfires.
Man and woman and the flame.
In the back, the shadow of the box sleeps. It feels him. It stares.
He ignores it, waving it away as if swatting a fat and stinging fly… and sneezes.