Chapter Eighteen, Part Six: We Bake a Likely Lussebulle, For Saint Lucia’s DayMature

“Hello, Theta. You’ve been absent far too long. There are many among us who may have missed your meddling. I of course, was not one of them. As for the Ring, I know better than to ask what you’re about. And, as for that greenish tinge to your face, if you’re too ill to give evidence today, you will still have to do it eventually.” Her voice is direct, crystalline and surprisingly powerful, for a child. Of course, this is no child. 

“Oh my-! I can’t… Borusa? My old master of studies, former Cardinal Borusa? Oh my word. That’s just… that’s just… Oh I’m so sorry sir, but… this is… oh, this is too much! Saint Lucia on a step stool! Ah hah ha ha ha HAH HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHA!” 

Suitably chastised, the Doctor slides down to the ground onto his back, still laughing as girl-child-Borusa glares down at him with moist, slightly pouting lips. 

She gestures to the Doctor’s stomach. “Ah- I see. That’s where you put her. I was suspicious when her tracer vanished off the screens near the Eye of Exit. “ 

The Doctor stares, his eyelids shoving down like a dog’s tail as he struggles to regain himself. He snorts his way into one last obstinate grin, then, out of air from laughing, lies back on the stones of the floor and rests himself, his teeth groaning apart in gaping draws of breath, his four lungs heaving like he’s just run away from something substantially larger than he. 

Borusa, recalling her genius student as dubious at best, settles herself on the step and waits for him to remember the courtesies. “You are the most chaotic, devious, destructive, most irritating and insufferably noble creature in the history of Gallifrey, my boy. Give me your wrist.”

The End

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