Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Forty-Five: Love's Labour's Won

The odd actor or servant passes us by in the wings but they don't notice us, caught up with the rush of the play. Pausing by a table littered with pots of ceruse foundation and cochineal lipstick, I nod to Shakespeare, who lingers by the back doors.

He bursts onto the stage. "Stop the play!"

I can just about see his receding shadow in the light now provided by the chink in the doors. His entrance elicits shocked gasps from the audience. My search of the hidden room continues but I find no evidence of the witches anywhere. It doesn't make sense. They must be lurking somewhere out of sight, using the refuge of backstage until their plan is put in motion. With no knowledge of this play, I have no clue when that will be. The realisation only puts more pressure on my investigation.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but stop. This performance must end, immediately. I'm sorry, you'll get a refund, but this play must not be performed."

A sudden thud alerts me. Rushing to the entrance, I peer through to see him lying unconscious, struck down by something invisible.

Invisible but not unknown. The witches are here.

A few of the actors shuffle forwards to lift him, depositing him further back and out of sight. Another, who had been feigning sickness only moments before, begrudgingly gets to his feet and declares in verse, "You must forgive our irksome Will,
He's been on the beer... and feeling ill."

His improvisation is met with a round of applause.

Now, I suppose, it is up to me to stop this play. Anything overt will likely get me injured or killed like Shakespeare; I must be quick and unnoticed. Casting my gaze across the room, I look for anything that might aid my attempt to stop this play once and for all.

A glimmer catches my eye.

I curse under my breath and stride over to the wall, taking up the torch fixed to the wall. My focus briefly lands on my reflection in a rust-dappled mirror. "Well," I remark to myself, "I'm about fifteen years too early but never mind that. It was always bound to go up in smoke. Worth a try, isn't it?"

"I think not."

Whirling around, I come face-to-face with an oddly familiar figure framed with long, copper hair — the maid from the inn last. Her uniform has been replaced by flowing robes as dark as night.

My legs collide with the dressing table in a frantic attempt to put some distance between us. "Stay back! Don't come any closer or I swear to Minerva I will set your cloak on fire."

The witch cooperates, swaying slightly in place with her hands poised in front of her, as if to cast a spell on me. I wouldn't put it past her. "What do we have here?" she jeers. "My, aren't you far from home?"

"You're one to talk," I snap, brandishing the torch again when she starts towards me. "I hear you're looking to colonise this planet. Sorry, you're a bit early. As much as it pains me to say, they've got a lot to achieve. I can't let you do this."

Triumph brightens her glacial eyes. "And you believe that you can stop us?"

"I've fought beings much scarier than you, believe me," I say with a shrug.

This amuses her far more than I expected. She wrings her hands in glee. "I see. Not just far from home but out of time... in more ways than one. A nightingale, a shining light by meaning but you are far fierier at heart. And what a heart it is!" I easily dodge away as she reaches for it. "Devoted to a maiden goddess and a lonely stranger. It is no wonder your soul is torn so."

"You know nothing about me, Carrionite," I shakily argue, although I have an awful feeling that it won't work this time.

The witch clearly thinks the same, as her thin brows raise almost halfway up her forehead. "Ah, ah! I am afraid that will not work a second time. Your friends already tried and they perished."