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

“I’m okay, really, just let me…Ow-ow-ow!” The Doctor writhes on the ground, his arms wrapped around his belly, face scrunched in a school boy wince. “Oh, blimey. I laughed too hard. “ <koff-koff> “Hey listen, would you help me u- oh right. You can’t; you’re a midg- I mean a minor...erm… substantively diminutive person…” He rolls onto his side and looks up in time to see Borusa plant her kiddy foot on his forehead. 

Three merits for that honest albeit feeble attempt at curtailing your rudeness.” 

“Thanks, miss.” murmurs the Doctor, ducking away. 

”Oh lord. Get up, insolent boy. We’re already half an hour late for The Testimony! And you call yourself a Time Lord!” she deadpans, her voice hotly clipped, manicured and flat enough to fry several strips (and really, whole slabs would be more appropriate) of bacon. 

He sighs, scratches his middle and straightens himself, finally, holding the wall and the bench to avoid any silly incidents. 

“Do you mind turning ‘round so I can slip my robe on, sir?” 

“I’m fairly certain I’m older than you are, Doctor.” says Borusa, her blue chalcedony eyes twinkling with sharp intelligence as they narrow at him. Across flushed apple cheeks, a brief smile dances on one end of a dainty mole.  Still, her hands go up to cover her eyes, almost like the shamed ones, and she closes her gaze to him. “And two, you’re clothed already. Be quick; just don’t hurt yourself.” 

 He sighs again, remembering his mother, and bends to get his robe, a length of red Prydon importance dangerously close to sliding off onto the floor. He grabs it up, but stands too fast and has to flop down on the bench... knocking his former teacher over into a pile of dust in the corner between the door and the seat leg.

The End

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