Chapter Twenty, Part One: soffite d'argile et de têtes d'orMature

What was it she had always told her students? 

Ah, yes. 

“It’s like sifting flour to make bread.” 

But, she has not seen flour, nor tasted. Nor touched. 

Nor smelled the baking of it into bread. 

Not she, or any of her students who have never left Gallifrey. 

Bread was written about in the books she used to teach from, in lines and lines and lines of stiff, rigid description. But she has never made it. It is what the Doctor meant that day, she thinks silently… that day he became Lord President and acted insane to derail suspicion, then lowered the transduction barrier and pretended to betray them all, secretly defending Gallifrey against two invasions in the process. And he used That Thing to do it… rendering his personal memory of the event forever lost. 

Poor boy. 

“It’s like warm snuggles and sunshine you can eat,” rambles an overhead voice, “…just breathe it in, Borusa… " 

Annoying boy. 

Borusa considers opening her eyes, and then harumphs, opening her mouth instead. 

“I have no need of lecture from a youngling of –mine- in a subject with which I am thoroughly conversant, Doctor; I am the one who taught –you- to do this, after all…” she breathes, drawing the smell of familiar countryside into her lungs. 

She thinks of her family’s old grey cottage, set in the elder bosom of hills the color of seepen blood. 

She dreams of that thorny little patch of black brush in the back corner of the estate’s small garden. 

Her thoughts flick through her memories like a film being viewed; she picks one, settles it in a corner of her brain and attends the frame of it as if placing a painting.

The End

0 comments about this story Feed