Chapter Twelve, Part Seven: Hell is for HandbasketsMature

The Assassin had found the Doctor’s old room from his days as Lord President, and had ordered it sealed, him having pretended to be the Cardinal and all for the past few months. The Doctor would have thought it odd that they’d never found the short stone passage behind that old tapestry, which the Bird-Hand now found itself traversing. Must have been a perception filter on it the size of Mount Perdition. Perhaps the Doctor had left it that way? Well, after the Hand was done, it would snap its fingers and put everything back as it had found it, shelves neat, drawers in, drawers in the drawers instead of on the rug, petticoats in the chest. But it would confiscate the contents of the lonely trunk sitting in the middle of the Doctor’s old room, thanks.

 After all, hadn’t the Doctor always said, “What is it with villains? They never put their stuff away after they move in. It’s a fair bit embarrassing, not to mention fodder for the neighbors...” 

It never sees the hand come down around it. Never sees the silver ring shoved down its throat. 

It disappears.

The End

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