Dead of Winter - James Goss [37]
‘Fascinating,’ muttered Prince Boris.
The Doctor crumbled his biscuit, watching the flakes land on the bedspread the wrong way up. Someone would have to clean that, I thought sadly.
‘They probably don’t even realise they’re being used, bless ‘em.’ He groaned. ‘It’s all such a mess.’ He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Cards everywhere.’ He flashed us a sad smile.
Boris started to protest. He’d suddenly put on the Aristocratic Air and it suited him very well indeed. He demanded an explanation, why, in all the many months he’d been here, he blustered, he thundered, he threatened, and then, eventually, he went very, very quiet.
‘Kosov,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ The Doctor sounded patient and kind. All the time in the world.
‘If I tell you I had a difficult childhood, you’ll just laugh. The fine son of a very rich family, while thousands and thousands of children toiled on my farms hacking turnips out of the frozen soil. But… mine is a cold country. I was never alone with my parents. Always in big, gloomy rooms with a distant fire and lots of people watching. My father was severe, always grave – and if there was a twinkle in his eye, I was never close enough to see it. My mother, oh, the hour a day I saw her, she seemed like a goddess from another world. But the rest of the time was the nursery and the schoolroom. The only person who ever seemed to care or like me was Kosov. He worked in the stables, and he laughed and he joked and he taught me to ride and he encouraged me and he seemed proud of me… and… well, he was like a proper father. He had his own family, but he always seemed pleased to see me. I liked that. I liked him. But oddly, you know, you move away, you send the odd present, but it’s never easy to find out how your old stablemaster is doing. And then… then you fall ill, and you do nothing with your life. All those dreams, pointless. It all feels a waste… and then a countess discretely whispers at a party about this place. How marvellous it all is, especially with Kosov here again, looking after me.
The Doctor nodded. ‘You see?’ he said, like he was scoring a point he wasn’t happy about.
‘I see,’ murmured Boris, sadly. ‘Could Kosov be working with these creatures somehow?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Doctor’s hands were jammed in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the beach. ‘I’m not quite sure what’s going on. But I’m open to suggestions.’
We argued about this. About what he was going to do.
It took us a while to realise that someone was missing.
Dr Bloom’s Journal
7th December 1783
Disaster!
I was standing on the beach with Kosov. Even my wife was frowning.
‘The Doctor was not Familiar,’ said Kosov sadly. ‘The Doctor that The Sea created… lost…’ He gestured out to the grey watery horizon. ‘We need the Doctor.’
Perdita patted him on the arm comfortingly. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll find him and Madame Pond. We’ll find all of them.’
I made to protest, but Perdita stilled me with a glance. ‘My dear, you worry about so much – leave this to us.’
She is always so kind to me.
We stood there for a minute, listening to the song of The Sea, watching the other patients dancing gently around each other. There was a light rain. There always was a light rain, and The Sea churned a dull grey, little flecks of white floating on