Following the instructions of the reptile creature Vastra (who dares to call herself my employer. It is merely useful for me to use her dwelling place as my temporary barracks, you understand. Once I have completed a full reconnaissance of Earth and its defences, I shall be off!), I piloted a carriage over the wet cobblestones. Pulling the carriage was the hideous, four-legged brown thing which I had learned to call a horse. A dumb animal which the primitive Hu-mans of this time nevertheless found useful in pulling them about, not having, incredibly at this stage of their evolution, mastered the fundamentals of internal combustion – or even matter transportation. I had covered my clothing in a cloak and scarf to conceal my dazzling beauty from the world.

I dragged at the leather straps which were attached to the horse-thing and sighed.

‘Lost! The shame of it. I must submit myself for dissolution at the great hatchery on Sontar. Where is Sweetville? Where?’ I glared at the horse-thing. ‘Horse! You have failed in your mission! Do you have any final words before your summary execution?’

The horse-thing just bowed its stupid head and munched on some straw.

‘The usual story,’ I spat in disgust. I took out my blaster, shaking my head. ‘Fourth one this week! And I’m not even hungry.’

Then, without warning (he was lucky I did not remove his head with my staser blast) a small Hu-man child stepped from the shadows. As grimy as the straw-strewn street he wiped his runny nasal hole (bringing back memories of the Rutans, you see) on a filthy sleeve and said: ‘Turn around when possible. Then, at the end of the road, turn right.’

I peered down at him. ‘What?’

‘Bear left for a quarter of a mile,’ said the urchin boy-thing. ‘And you will have reached your destination.’

I reached out my hand and pulled the boy onto the seat next to me, grateful for any help at this stage of the mission.

‘Thank you, Hu-man. What is your name?’

‘Thomas, sir,’ piped the boy. ‘Thomas Thomas.’

I whipped the horse-thing and wheeled the carriage round. ‘I think you will do well, Thomas Thomas.’

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

Out of the Mill we went, the Doctor and me and onto the pretty streets of Sweetville, though it was a foggy night and perishing cold. Each and every little workers’ cottage had a cheerful glow coming from its windows: a cosy hearth, a welcoming home.

But the Doctor ran up and down the street, hurling open the doors and peering inside.

‘Are we talking about the same person?’ I demanded. ‘About that Clara?’

I was confused, you see, to say the least, being as how the Clara I knew had met her end at the hands of the Great Intelligence and its monstrously wintry army some little time ago.