Squeezing himself through the minutes, he says to the guard, “Well, just between you and me, I’m not really a Lungbarrow, Cousin. Shush now! And keep a medic handy… the place between my shoulder-blades is itching. Someone’s going to poke the bear to-day.” He grins, curving his lips in his usual Cheshire fashion, despite his apprehension. Then he leans in close to Silander again, saying, “The question is, which bear? And will it be the Chinese finger puzzle or the Whitechapel autopsy?”
Silander stares, unable to make sense of much after ‘…not really a Lungbarrow, Cousin.’, his purple eyes pitching behind closed thoughts as though he’s been dealt a blow. It is a happy wound, he decides, as he nods to the man before him. It is a trouble, to be sure, to sufficiently contain his reverence. But no one must see. No one must hear. That much is plain on the Doctor’s face. And yet, why speak it at all?
“Sir. I don’t know what you mean, Lord Doctor sir. And may I say, I rather despise your neckwear, sir.”
“Carry on then, Silander! I’ll just pop old Borusa to his seat and then…” but the Doctor abruptly feels a pulling, a snare, thin wires of potential space-time closing around them all in a…
Blinking, he shakes his head. His new Cousin Silander’s hand is on his shoulder and Borusa is standing beside him, looking up. Watching him, and waiting. She takes his hand, grasps it firmly with far more than a seven year old’s strength.
“Call a medic like he said, but have them wait outside. This is, after all, the Doctor we are speaking of. Someone is bound to be injured with him around, well-meaning menace that he is.”