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 Her uniform has been replaced by flowing robes as dark as night.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."

Fear strikes me but I force it down. She begins to move for me again, seeming to glide on her own flickering shadow. I give the torch another aggressive wave in her direction. "Not another step, you hear me? If you try anything, I am igniting that table and screaming 'Fire' at the top of my lungs. Don't think arson is beneath me, I've done worse."

"When all is said and all is done,
One word shall stop your wretched tongue."

Staggering back again, I feel my grip falter, the flame visibly shaking in my hands. I try to shout but nothing comes out. All I can manage are a few strangled gasps.

"Perhaps we do not know all about you, but your name has not easily eluded me... Inara Luscinia."

The second it is spoken, I feel an overwhelming heat all around me. My hold on the torch slackens but she snatches it from me before it can cause anything to catch fire. Any attempt to fight her spell is useless. My eyes roll back and I fall into a deep sleep.

—

I wake to the final words, spoken by an actor, "Betwixt Dravidian shores and linear 5930167.02 — and strikes the fulsome grove of Rexel Four. Co-radiating crystal activate!"

The wind picks up, hotter than the Styx. A cackling reaches my ears. It's too late.

Someone lifts me from the ground and into a chair. All I can do is stare as Shakespeare falls beside me, massaging his head. Racing footsteps join us in no time. The Doctor glares impatiently at us. "Stop the play. I think that was it. Yeah, I said, 'Stop the play!'"

"I hit my head," he dazedly mumbles.

"Yeah, don't rub it. You'll go bald. Are you all right, Inara?" I manage a small nod and open my mouth only to remember that nothing will come of it. He doesn't get time to notice my distress, as a large crack of thunder shakes the building. "I think that's my cue."

A hand grabs onto mine, dragging me up and onto the stage with the others.

Smoke swirls above us in a giant tendril of blood red. Anyone in the audience who was not quick enough to escape has been sealed inside by the locked doors. Opposite us, up in one of the boxes, stand three figures cloaked in darkness. They cackle at the sight of our horrified faces. A glowing orb sits in their wrinkled hands, raised to the conjured storm. I point to them and then to my throat, desperate to convey my condition and the danger that we face. Fury burns in his eyes.

Scarlet energy rises from the orb and a cloud of batlike creatures swarm into the tempest. It only takes a closer look to see their skeletal forms robed in ragged black. They ride the lightning, their cries mingling with the rumbling sky.

The Doctor lunges past me, grabbing Shakespeare and steering him to the centre of the stage. "Come on, Will! History needs you!" he yells over the storm.

"But what can I do?"

"Reverse it!"

Once again, he is clueless, overwhelmed by terror. "How do I do that?"

"The shape of the Globe gives words power, but you're the wordsmith — the one, true genius, the only man clever enough to do it."

The winds rise. He has to struggle to make himself heard at all. "What words? I have none ready."

Indignantly prodding his shoulder, he bellows, "You're William Shakespeare!"

"But these Carrionite phrases, they need such precision."

"Trust yourself," he urges, incandescent in the light of the spell. "With you, the words just come like magic. The right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm. Words that last forever. That's what you do, Will, you choose perfect words. Do it! Improvise!"

He steps back then, his hand clasping onto mine. I give our friend an encouraging nod.

Shakespeare takes a deep breath, stifling his nerves with his knuckles pressed to his lips. And then he begins, his mind spilling over into its intricate knotwork of ideas.

"Close up this din of hateful dire decay!
Decomposition of your witches' plot.
You thieve my brains, consider me your toy.
My doting Doctor tells me I am not!
Foul Carrionite spectres cease your show between the points..."

He looks to us for guidance. Understanding, the Doctor prompts, "761390."

They are repeated with the stark confidence that he builds with each woven phrase.

"And banished like a tinker's cuss,

I say to thee..."

With one arm raised to give his last word true meaning, he falters and turns his head again. The Doctor is out of ideas. Panicked, Martha shouts a suggestion, "Expelliarmus!"

"Expelliarmus!" the Doctor repeats.

"Expelliarmus!"

The Carrionites shriek and claw at the air but the force is too great. Their tornado grows thinner, dragging them up into the pitch black that opens up above the theatre. The doors fly open and streams of paper soar after them.

We watch their flight without a hint of regret at the play's true ending. "Love's Labour's Won. There it goes."

They all vanish with one last clap of thunder. A shocked silence falls.

Someone starts to clap.

Before we know it, a racket of applause floods towards us from the shaken audience - louder, even, than the night before. Martha gapes at them in utter bewilderment. "They think it was all special effects."

Shakespeare does not miss a beat. "Your effect is special indeed."

The others begin to take their bows. Before I can get dragged into it, the Doctor tugs gently on our connected hands and leads me off the stage. We weave through the crowd with various shouts of praise and pats on the back until we reach the witches' box.

He crouches, carefully scooping up the crystal ball that lies abandoned on the floorboards. Tinny screams come from within. I join him to examine it and fail to suppress a smirk at the sight of the three crones trapped within, clawing at the curved barriers of their new prison.

"How are you feeling now? Cat got your tongue?"

Glaring, I elbow him and force out my reply with only a little strain as the effects of the curse lift, "S-Screw you."

"There she is." Without warning, he leans in to give me a quick kiss and disappears back around the curtained entrance to the box.

—

By dawn, the theatre has closed up. I emerge from the dressing rooms after a quick nap only to bump into the Doctor. My attention is immediately drawn to the frilly ruff around his neck and the giant horse's skull tucked under his arm. "I'm not even going to ask."

"Fair enough. My lady." He holds the door for me and sets a prop crown jauntily on my head.

I sink into a low curtsy and mockingly reply, "My lord."

Martha and Shakespeare sit on the edge of the stage. His hand rests on her back, their faces just inches apart. "Good props store, back there," the Doctor loudly announces. He shares a glance with the skull and scrunches up his nose. "Not sure about this, though. Reminds me of a Sycorax. What do you think, Inara?"

Stooping a little to get eye-level with it, I gasp, "Oh my Gods, you're right! Please never remind me of that lot again."

"'Sycorax'," Shakespeare repeats thoughtfully. "Nice word. I'll have that off you as well."

"I should be on ten per cent. How's your head?"

He grimaces in response. "Still aching."

As if struck with an idea, the Doctor dumps the skull into my arms and removes his ruff, putting it on for our friend. "'Ere. I got you this... neck brace. Wear that for a few days, till it's better." He pauses and examines this new addition. "Although, you might want to keep it. Suits you."

Frowning, Martha casts her gaze towards the sky. "What about the play?"

"Gone. I looked all over. Every single copy of Love's Labour's Won went up in the sky."

"My lost masterpiece."

"You could write it up again," she suggests.

We look at each other. Digging his hands into his pockets, he shakes his head. "Better not, Will. There's still power in those words. Maybe it'd best stay forgotten."

This news doesn't seem to disappoint him at all. In fact, a smile starts to curl at the corners of his lips. "Oh, but I've got new ideas! Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy... my precious Hamnet."

She freezes at the mention of his name. "'Hamnet'?"

"That's him."

"'Ham... net'?"

"What's wrong with that?"

The Doctor is quick to cut in. I realise it might be good, considering all of the spoilers we have already given. "Anyway, time we were off. I've got a nice attic in the Tardis where this lot can scream for all eternity." I pass him the crystal ball from the stage and slip it into one of the large pockets of his trench coat. "And I've gotta take Martha back to Freedonia."

Shakespeare chuckles, "You mean travel on through time and space?"

"You what?"

"You're from another world, like the Carrionites. Martha's from the future. And Inara carries a past I am familiar with in a manner that must be out of this world. It's not hard to work out."

Glancing between us, he stumbles through his surprised response, "That's... incredible. You are incredible!"

"We are alike in many ways, Doctor. Martha, let me say goodbye to you with a new verse. A sonnet for my Dark Lady."

He takes her hand. Over his shoulder, we both send her amused looks, raising our eyebrows.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate—"

"Will! You'll never believe it! She's here, she turned up!"

Stopping with his lips barely an inch from her hand, he looks at the two actors who have barged in on the unexpected improvisation. One of them beams proudly up at us. "We're the talk of the town. She heard about last night, she wants us to perform it again."

"Who?"

"Her Majesty, she's here."

No more than a second later, a fanfare picks up. A redheaded woman dressed in finery and haloed with gilded lace enters, flanked by armed guards. The Doctor can't contain his excitement, practically squeaking, "Queen Elizabeth the First!"

Her eyes narrow with rage. "Doctor!" They then burn into me. "You!"

"Who, me?"

"My sworn enemies."

We look to each other but find no more certainty. "What?"

"Off with their heads!"

"What?"

"Never mind what, run!" Martha snaps. "See you, Will! And thanks!"

The bustling streets do well to put distance between us and the guards, but we can still hear their shouts behind us. "Please tell me I'm not the only one who's confused."

She rolls her eyes. "Obviously not! What have you done to upset her?"

"I don't know," the Doctor shouts back. "Haven't met her yet! That's time travel for you. Still, can't wait to find out. That's something to look forward to."

He pauses to let us into the Tardis, looking back over his shoulder. The guards have caught up enough for one to notch an arrow. I grab the back of his collar and yank him in. "Come on!"

—

A/n:

Wow, that was a lot longer than planned. I do love this episode.

That "special effect" line is perfection and makes Dr Who's Shakespeare way more attractive. RIP to Martha, but I'm different.

Then again, 10 and David Tennant own my heart so...

Preparing myself for the ages it will take to do the Daleks of Manhattan 2-parter. Got a really bad cold. Like, really bad. Stabbing pains in my ear, can't swallow or breathe without choking (don't even joke) kind of bad. Hey, at least it gets me out of tomorrow's English essay which I definitely didn't just find out about yesterday.

Thoughts so far? Predictions for this season?