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

Borusa, her gaze turning steely in her stern little face, stands up and snaps her fingers, sending the dust back where it came from with a handy little trick.  “Rubbish. As Time Lords we have superior control over our body systems. It’s that ring of yours. Well, you’ll tell me when you’re ready, and preferably before you’re dead. But you won’t be dying, will you? Not in your… state.  In any case, never believe I think less of you now than I did when I first realised what type of man you really were. If you don’t feel up to this, it can be postponed. You still look a bit like one of those pallid cress sandwiches Pasmo so favours.” 

Forcing a smile after having his bluff called, the Doctor pulls his robe the rest of the way on, hoping vainly that Borusa won’t notice the tightness of his mouth as he raises his right arm a bit too high. “Oh that’s just lovely… the gestational blood pressure spikes are starting up again. But really, we’re okay. Come on,” he adds, taking Borusa by the arm and swinging her to her feet and out the door along with him, “… let’s discuss the active pieces in code on the way to the Panopticon. It’ll annoy Rassilon- both of them.  And speaking of Pasmo… wasn’t he your man in Havana?” 


“Yes, Man in Havana! Haven’t you ever seen that? It’s got Sir Alec Guinness!”


The End

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