"It's not exactly five stars, is it?" Martha mumbles as we enter the small, damp-smelling bedroom. Our only source of light at this time are a few candles dotted about. Two twin beds sit in the centre of the room.

"Oh, it'll do. I've seen worse."

"I haven't even got a toothbrush."

I joke, "Neither has the rest of the people in this place. Nobody will notice."

On the other hand, the Doctor pats down his pockets and produces one. "Contains Venusian spearmint."

"So, who's going where? I mean, there's three of us and two beds. Are us girls sharing?"

She has a good point but I grimace and shake my head. "Wouldn't do that to you, I kick in my sleep. Besides, you're our guest. You have that one and we'll share."

She doesn't seem so certain, and says as much, "You really want that? I mean, no offence, but neither of you are short enough to fit on these."

"Exactly, we're saving you the nightmare. We've been in worse. Remember that pod with all the diseases?"

The Doctor scrunches his face up at my joke. "Vividly. And how come I'm the one who has to put up with your kicking instead? Sleep on the floor."

I scoff, "Fat chance. You've put up with me this far."

With a playful scowl, he drops onto the bed and yanks me down with him. I barely manage to stay on and cling to him hard enough to elicit a disgruntled cry. The space is much smaller than either of us anticipated and I now find myself practically on top of him.

Martha watches us in half amusement and half awkwardness. "So," she slowly speaks up, "magic and stuff, that's a surprise. It's all a bit Harry Potter."

The reference brings him a grin. "Wait till you read book seven. Oh, I cried."

"But is it real? I mean, witches, black magic and all that, it's real?"

"Of course it isn't!" he almost laughs.

"How am I supposed to know? I've only just started believing in time travel. Give me a break."

He shifts a little. I try to move to give him a little more room but instead, he takes advantage of my leaning forwards to put his arm around my back — the only way to get the both of us comfortable in such proximity. His hand comes up to cup my shoulder and I instinctively shuffle closer until my head falls against his chest. "It looks like witchcraft. But it isn't, it can't be. Are you gonna stand there all night?"

As if just realising, she straightens up and heads over to her bed. "So, is it normal to sleep like this? I mean, do you two just get a room somewhere or are there, like, hammocks or something in your ship?"

But he isn't listening, still pondering the problem at hand. His eyes scan the dingy ceiling as if following streams of written calculations. "There's psychic energy but a human couldn't channel it like that, not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we'd have spotted that. No." Without warning, he shifts onto his side to face her. His hold on me means that I have to move too, curling up with my back to his chest. I frown then, realising that this is surprisingly comfortable, pull his arm closer around me and settle into our new position. A hand sneaks around my waist to keep me in place. "There's something I'm missing. Something really close... staring me right in the face and I can't see it."

"Rose would know," I note before I can even think it through. The thought weighs on my chest and I sink further into him.

His head rests in the curve of my neck, lips brushing the skin as he inhales. "Yeah. She'd know exactly the right thing to say. Always saw the things we didn't notice." He suddenly forces a smile and wiggles onto his back again, leaving me cold and lonely. "Still, can't be helped," he directs at Martha, "you're a novice. Never mind. I'll take you back home tomorrow."

Now that my mind is a little clearer, I realise just how terrible our timing was, seeing the crease forming across her forehead and the way her grip on the bedsheets tightens. "Great!" she snaps, blowing out the last candle and plunging us into darkness.

I don't fall asleep for a while. At some point it seems possible but then thoughts of Rose and Jack come back and I can't bring myself to close my eyes. Fidgeting with my ring and necklace isn't enough to comfort me after a while. Sighing, I roll around and peer over the Doctor's still frame, his back to me. "Doctor?" I tentatively whisper. "Doctor, are you awake?"

"Never slept," his voice comes back. He turns onto his back and I prop myself up on one elbow, letting my other hand come to rest on the space between his hearts. I know I must be hearing things but I swear his breathing hitches at my touch. His eyes meet mine, framed perfectly by a sliver of moonlight. They narrow slightly in concern. "Can't you?"

I shake my head. "Too much going on upstairs."

That he understands perfectly well. With a hint of a smile, he outstretches an arm to invite me in. I settle against him with no hesitation and revel in the crush of his arms around me. "Hear me out, though... we just met Shakespeare."

It's almost too late to stop my nervous laughter, which I muffle against the folds of his jacket. "I know!" I gasp, wary not to wake Martha. "He's fantastic."

"Yes!"

"I mean, we actually met him. He called me 'my lady'!"

"Yes," he repeats with noticeably less enthusiasm.

I can't help but feel a bit of satisfaction when his hold on me tightens for a moment. My chin rests on his chest so that I can meet his gaze, my lips curling into a smirk. "You're jealous."

He clenches his jaw and I feel the heat rush to my face at the dip of his Adam's apple. "I am not," he states through gritted teeth.

I don't need to say anything. All I need to do is wait for his need to explain himself out of the situation to take over, inevitably digging him in deeper. I can practically visualise a countdown in my head. Three, two, one...

"I mean, even if I was — even if I was— what would I be getting jealous about? He's— He's..."

"'A genius — the genius. The most human human there's ever been.' Am I saying that right? 'Human human'? Sorry, I've just heard you sing him so many praises tonight, sometimes it's hard to keep track." My provocations cause his eyes to narrow and his jaw to tense further. Leaning more of my weight against him, I start to draw circles against the thin button-up that covers his chest. "If he hadn't brought it up, I bet you would've asked for an autograph eventually, wouldn't you?"

His head falls back against the pillow, his breath staggered again. Taking a sudden hold of my hand, he stops my teasing with a warning look. My ring glints goadingly up at him. "Stop it."

Now my face softens into the very picture of innocence, my eyes wide and my lips parted ever so slightly. He follows their movements with startling frustration as I say, "Well then, correct me. If you're not jealous, why do you care so much? Why do you look at me like that when all I'm doing is talking to a hero of yours?"

"Because you admire him and he loves it... and you're well aware of it, too. Don't act like you're not."

"Shame," I groan dramatically, still quiet. "He's far too distracted by our new friend. Don't think I'd get that far. Besides, I'm far too interested in someone else to bother with that."

He arches an eyebrow, knowing the answer perfectly well before he asks. He only does so for an ego boost, just to make me admit it out loud. "And who might that be?"

Our hands are still joined. His hold on it has loosened but he begins to fidget, curling his fingers around mine, hooking and unhooking them, tracing the ring around and up and then following the veins down to the curve of my wrist before beginning all over again in reverse. I watch his pattern with growing fascination and feel as the day's tension gradually leaves us. "Oh, just some guy. He's from out of town. You might know him."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. I mean, he's not very sociable, so maybe not. He prefers to be alone."

Another quirk of his eyebrow and the corner of his lips. His eyes drag up to meet mine again. "I'm sure he likes you just fine."

I have to end this little game before my heart beats any faster. Locking my fingers between his, I move up a little more and rest my chin on his chest again, my face now just a few inches from his. I'm glad he hasn't moved. That thin line of moonlight is all I have to give me a view of his face. "If it makes you feel better, though, I once rejected Casanova."

The Doctor chuckles softly. The hand around my back now smooths down my hair in long, soothing strokes. "His loss."

"Nah, he was fine. A little disappointed, mind; he took rather a shine to me. Then he met someone else to spend the night with. And I invented a new achievement."

"Really, what was that? First person to not sleep with him?"

I squint my eyes for emphasis as I beam up at him. "Not quite. The Time Agency suspended me for a month. Apparently, it is 'unprofessional' to get so drunk that you don't stop your less-drunk partner from sleeping with one of humanity's most notorious playboys. That being said, Jack did enjoy telling that story in the clinic after."

"Why does that not surprise me in the least?" he jokes.

Neither of us misses the easing of the sadness that often follows any mention of that name. It has been a long road to recovering from that grief but I'm finally getting there.

"Which part? Jack's conquest, the suspension... or the fact that Casanova was interested in me, because that's not exactly out-of-character for him."

That comment is received with a gentler smile. "Still, don't blame him."

He isn't focused on my eyes anymore. I offer no complaint — it would be unfair anyway, considering that my attention is also difficult to divert from his lips. The hand in my hair slips further down to grasp my chin, guiding me closer.

A scream breaks the perfect silence.

He is gone and I follow in his wake, pulling a bleary and bewildered Martha with me. The door to Shakespeare's room flies open and wakes from the desk with a start. Our collective gaze falls on the body.

While the Doctor swiftly kneels by the landlady's side, I rush up to the dazed man and take a hold of his face. He stares up at me in confusion. My finger gently pulls at the top of his eyelid to force it wider and I note, "Your pupils are dilated."

"I do not find that a surprise, what with this low light and beautiful company."

My disapproving glare falters when I catch a whiff of something strong and sharp. The tankard I pluck from his desk does not carry it but his breath does. "Did you take anything recently?"

"A few drops of bay leaf oil in my ale for a headache. Why?"

I shake my head. "Doctor, I'm picking up something sulphurous and sour. I would say some kind of poison but he seems perfectly healthy if a little disoriented."

My suspicions come with a lot of hope, counting on this being much simpler to deal with. His grim expression confirms my worst fears. "Her heart gave out. She died of fright."

"Guys..." At Martha's nervous call, we join her by the open windows. Nothing seems out of ordinary; except, perhaps, the engorged moon that glows down at us.

"What did you see?"

"A witch."

—

We are out of ideas. The wait passes on into dawn but nothing else happens. An examination of Shakespeare shows nothing else wrong with him save for a gap in his memories around the time that the landlady was killed.

When the first reaches of the sun peek out from the horizon of rooftops, I go to the window to carry out my morning prayers.

First, I remove my shoes and the Doctor's trench coat, leaving me in a white blouse and black trousers — pure shades suitable enough for my worship. Then come the silver flowers that adorn my ears and the golden ring which I set safely aside, along with the Tardis key from my necklace. I hang the chain on a hook on the mantelpiece to make up for the absence of idols. Bowing over a porcelain bowl, I cleanse my hands and face in the boiled water. The warmth soothes any aches and pains from constant fidgeting and anxiety. The towel set beside it is big enough for me to tie up and cover my hair with. I kneel before the fireplace.

I can feel the others watching my process but they do not speak. It did not occur to me that not even the Doctor has witnessed me pray before. The attention doesn't distract me, though. I find that very little can get in the way of this regular demonstration of faith.

Taking my platter of bread, meat and fruit that a skittish maid had brought up for each of us, I scrape half of it into the low flames. They consume each morsel eagerly until a sweet scent fills the room. I soak in every puff of their smoke like incense. My words are uttered in the flowing tones of my ancient language, "Divine Vesta, may you take this offering and look upon me with favour."

Once the gateway goddess has been properly thanked, I continue. The index and middle fingers of my right hand come together, and I kiss them gently, maintaining eye contact with the tiny owl engraved into the pendant. It glows appreciatively. Now both of my hands tilt to the heavens and my eyes follow.

I utter my prayer in Old Capitian, invoking my beloved deity. My voice seems little more than a whisper but rings out clearly in the room, silent save for the crackling of the last bit of fat from Vesta's gift. "Hear me, O Minerva Armipotens, blessed patron of strategy, borne of the head of Jupiter. My life I have devoted to your service, my trust and my soul I have given — and with your love I have been sustained. Look to me, Minerva Luscinia, and receive my sacrifice." With that, I scrape out the rest of the plate's contents. They fizzle and burn the moment they hit the smouldering wood. "Grant me the guidance of your eternal wisdom and give a good word to your uncle that he may ease the passage of one Dolly Bailey and one Edmund Lynley."

This continues for some time, with reminders of my best offerings in the past and promises of many more just like them — better than ever before — followed by a repetition of my longing for answers, both for our current predicament and my usual search. With each promise, the owl's round eyes glitter. She is satisfied. She accepts.

For the final libation, I carefully pour a generous amount of wine from a clay jar onto the fire. The flames jump, lapping up its sweetness, fuelled by one last dedication.

It is complete.

I can still feel the goddess' warmth all around me. My eyes close. Letting my hands fall into my lap, I sit in the silence and bask in the dregs of her waning presence.

When my eyes open again and my ears become receptive to the buzzing of distant people, I return from my meditative state. Dawn has come.

"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey," Shakespeare sighs, his footsteps receding from the open windows. "She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place. We all ran like rats. But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit?"

Her spirit will be safe now, I think to myself as I trace the soot-stained mantelpiece taking my necklace back. I rise from my knees, stretch out the aches left by over an hour in the exact same position, and fall into a chair beside the Doctor.

He watches me put my clothes and jewellery back on, following the lowering of my ring into its place. It feels right, like it has always been here, but I've only just started to notice it. The corners of his lips twitch into a smile hidden behind clasped hands. "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

Once more, the writer's eyes flicker with inspiration. "I might use that."

"You can't, it's someone else's."

"But the thing is," Martha muses, "Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright, and they were both connected to you."

He almost seems to take it as a challenge of some sort. "You're accusing me?"

She hastens to say, "No, but I saw a witch — big as you like, flying, cackling away — and you've written about witches."

Her comment raises further interest. "I have? When was that?"

"Not... quite yet," the Doctor mumbles.

"Peter Streete spoke of witches."

"Who's Peter Streete?" I ask with a frown.

Whoever it is, the name is not welcome. It unnerves him. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he clears his throat. "Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."

"The architect." Freezing, the Doctor comes to life. "Hold on, the architect! The Globe! Come on!"

——————

The Globe Theatre is drastically different from the previous night. I barely recognise it. Under the sunlight, empty of others save a few servants desperately trying to prepare the stage for tonight's play. It is bare and exposed without the light and attention it thrives on. Great marbled pillars of brick red and gold hold up the ceiling above the stage, which only covers the outer ring of the theatre, leaving the sky open for better light and fresh air. Elaborate frescoes colour the back wall and surround the ornate double doors that lead backstage.

I stand with Martha and Shakespeare on the raised platform, staring out at the boxes, seeing what the actors must perform for. And yet, somehow, this does seem like much of a stage. Not compared to where the Doctor stands — alone, at the centre of the straw-carpeted floor. What once was a place for the poorest of the audience now looks far richer. With no-one else around, he draws in the light from our surroundings until everything is dull in comparison. His own personal spotlight. He is an actor, a hero in his own epic tale, delivering his soliloquy for us and only us.

In the centre of the floor, the Doctor examines the structure around him. "The columns there, right, and fourteen sides... I've always wondered but I've never asked, Will, why fourteen sides?"

Dismissively waving a sheet of the script, he replies, "It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all. He said it carried the sound well."

"But fourteen? Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen?"

"It's a significant number, isn't it? Fourteen days in a fortnight, the atomic number of silicon, or the weight of nitrogen," I slowly suggest, stepping closer to the edge. "The Fourteen Infallibles, the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Fourteen children are sacrificed to the Minotaur..."

Martha nods. "Plus, there's fourteen lines in a sonnet."

"So there is. Good point! Words and shapes, following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets. Oh, my head! Tetradecagon! Think! Words, letters, numbers, lines..."

"This is just a theatre," Shakespeare attempts to reason with him — the most unlikely words to come from a playwright.

His pacing slows and he makes his way towards us instead, leaning against the platform. "Oh, but the theatre's magic, isn't it? You should know! Stand on this stage, say the right words, with the right emphasis, at the right time. Oh, you can make men weep. Or cry with joy. Change them..." He trails off, his gaze drifting. "You can change people's minds, just with words in this place! And if you exaggerate that..."

It suddenly comes to her. "It's like your police box. Small wooden box, but with all that power inside."

"Oh! Oh, Martha Jones, I like you! Tell you what though, Peter Streete would know. Can I talk to him?"

Once again, Shakespeare's expression becomes solemn. "You won't get an answer. A month after finishing this place, lost his mind."

We all look at him, startled by this new