How exactly does an object become melancholy? it muses as it rifles and sifts through pairs of chartreuse lace stockings, cream and black-striped gaudy French dresses and endless boring pantaloons for more documents. It has already found the, what was it called? Shopping List, hidden in a perception-filtered hat box.
The Doctor’s voice floats up again, into the Hand’s thoughts. Abruptly, it imagines them coursing through its constructed bare bit of wrist somewhere. “Now Handy, there’s my Extra-Special Extra-Handy-Hand! Where do you think you should look next? Surely you’ve had enough of crossdressing and corsets and would like some nice after dinner material, eh? I think it’s time to write a letter… but remember to put the isometric locks back where you dissolved them! We don’t want the nice assassin to discover we’ve been admiring his fancy colours…”
Of course! The desk. The Hand had forgotten the desk until the clawfoot leg had smacked it in the finger. It would surely scowl, had it a mouth. Or a face. The noble furniture of the Citadel were not as haughty as the House furniture, but they still could give one quite a bit of lip. The desk, however, keeps silent under the Hand’s eyeless gaze, because it knows the Hand could deconstruct it into its individual atoms.
Not that the Doctor would have let it. The desk isn’t that bad, anyhow, not like the man who had placed it in this room. The Assassin.