The Doctor dashed into the nearest cottage then came shooting straight back out again, his hands flapping. ‘Couldn’t see much from where I was, but I think she survived the process. She must be here somewhere.’

‘But Clara died,’ I insisted. ‘The Ice Lady … ’

The Doctor threw open another cottage door, poked his head inside then looked back over his shoulder at me. ‘It’s complicated.’

With that, he tried the next door, disappeared inside … and this time, didn’t come out. So I followed him.

The cottage was everything you might expect. Idyllic, really, with its fireplace cluttered with blue china and ornaments, its sofa and chairs with their neat antimacassars as preventatives against a gentleman’s hair oil. A door led onto a staircase and another door to a neat little kitchen.

But the Doctor wasn’t looking at these little details. And neither was I.

Because almost filling the room was a massive glass jar, a bell jar, in fact, like you see in museums, usually with some unfortunate bird of paradise or monkey inside, stuffed and preserved. ’Cept inside this humungous thing weren’t no monkeys.

A very bonny young fella in frock coat and trews stood there, smiling, for all the world like he was posing for a photograph. And, seated next to him on a plump little chair – Clara! Just as I’d seen her on that previous adventure except, like the fella, her skin was sort of softly glowing.

Glowing red.

Pipes led from the bell jar to a strange lash-up of machinery with a mighty bellows wheezing up and down and obviously providing some sort of air to the waxy, grinning couple within.

The Doctor’s face was grim. He stood for a moment more, staring through the glass at his friend then, looking quickly round, he picked up a chair and hurled it at the jar.

The glass began to crack – fracturing like ice on a pond – spreading like crazy over the curved surface. In only a moment, we had knocked out the remains and removed enough to get inside. The Doctor scooped Clara up in his arms.

Managing her stiff body between us, we staggered back into the Mill and, miraculously without being seen, found our way back to the revivification machines. We got Clara into one of them boxes, and the Doctor’s sonic did its work. Soon the coffin-like thing was clattering and steaming, light pouring through the grille on its surface.

‘Reckon she can be revived?’ I asked. ‘Like you were?’

‘I hope so, Jenny. I hope so—’