As he walks, the Doctor considers the Time Lord in his arms.
Her hair is so light; he wants to pet it again, but Jenny was never as young as this. Borusa is not Jenny. Still, his hand hovers over her little pudgy face. There is a mole on her cheek, a birthmark, they’d have called it on Earth. It looks like a little rosebud, just popping up from the paint, nice and flat, not too conspicuous.
“Hallo, the castle! The lady’s a watercolor.” he murmurs, giving in and brushing a hair from her face as he passes the entry guard into the Panopticon.
The dark-skinned guard’s confused chocolate rabbit of a face makes him cross, and he says something.
“Well, you’d be knackered too if you were two metres tall and you had to walk a distance the Great Wall of China because someone screwed with the temporal stabilisers! You listen to me! I know a thing or three about reticular problems! And by the way, what’s your name, soldier?”
The seal-haired guard’s pinching face crunches like a crisp for a half-second before he straightens. “Silanderedloomiscariotiquilylon, former Lord General Lungbarrow sir. Of House Redloom.”
The Doctor, for a moment, wants to hit something. For a very small, very thick moment, he imagines himself frozen in a block of fish custard… with a stick sticking out for the convenience of hands. Not the time to lash out now, it’s not the time, it’s not. It’s not! The fingers of one hand are curling in his robes. With Borusa dangling from his right fist by a sandalled foot, still asleep, he shoves the magma down, imagining water trickling between the slats of a washboard.