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The Doctor turned to see Cristián looking at the steward in confusion. ‘He’s my servant,’ said the Time Lord.

‘Oh. Right you are, sir.’ The steward beetled off to rouse another of the first class passengers.

‘Sorry about that,’ murmured the Doctor.

‘I don’t think I can go in,’ said Cristián.

The Blue here was thick as paint, filling up his mouth and nose, ringing in his head like a bell. He remembered the Hallowe’en Massacre and the Happening and it all came pouring into him like a great river of badness, bad feeling, bad. His skin crawled. His heart jumped and leapt. He was sure he would have a coronary or lose his mind.

But it was just another panic attack.

Just another one. It wasn’t real. He had had so many panic attacks again and again, and it was just another one.

Pull yourself together, said the little voice in his head.

The Doctor had already gone into the cabin. Cristián pulled himself together and went in to confront the god of war.

* * *

‘CQD MGY CQD MGY CQD MGY CQD MGY CQD MGY CQD MGY.’

Six times Phillips tapped out the signal, distress Titanic, distress Titanic.

Other ships heard the call, sent it out in ripples across the Atlantic, ripples that spread outwards from the sinking ship as though it were a stone tossed into a pond.

* * *

The cabin was quiet, perfectly quiet. Outside the room, doors were being knocked on, shouts were being voiced, the band was playing a cheerful ragtime tune. In the cabin the air was still, everything was calm.

Huitzilin faced the Doctor across the cabin. ‘Otiquihiyohuih,’ he said, and his voice rang in the air like a bell.

‘Shut the door,’ said the Doctor. Cristián shut the door. Neither of them took their eyes off Huitzilin.

He was tall and muscular. He glowed palely, blue‐white, like a young star. He wore a loincloth and embroidered cape. There were geometric designs printed onto his cheeks. Golden pendants hung from his ears; a gold and jade plug was fitted into his lower lip. His left foot was distorted, malformed, feathers sprouting from the skin.

His hair was bleached white with time, mixed with long feathers of a dozen colours. His eyes burned Blue like volcanic flame.

He was transparent, he was intangible, but he was real, just a fraction, but real.

‘Ixiptla,’ he said, and the word was full of affection.

The Doctor stood ramrod straight, Huitzilin’s pale light reflecting off his white jacket and throwing strange shadows across his face. He reached up and tore a handful of feathers out of his hair, the quills trailing blood.

What was left of Anna lay on the carpet between them, already fading into oblivion. Cristián took a step towards her, his shoe bumping into something on the floor, but the Doctor restrained him with a gentle hand.

‘Give me the book, Cristián,’ said the Doctor quietly.

Cristián opened his mouth to say something, but Huitzilin turned his gaze on his descendant. ‘Shut up, little flower,’ he said. Cris’s arms went slack, and he dropped the Codex Atlaca onto the floor.

‘His part in this is finished,’ said Huitzilin.

The Doctor carefully knelt, still keeping his eyes on the Aztec, and picked up the book. A flock of blue sparks exploded from inside the towels, wreathing his arms. He did not flinch.

‘The priestess who tried to use that spell against me was vaporized,’ said Huitzilin, smiling.

‘Why?’ said the Doctor. ‘Why did she try to use it against you?’

Huitzilin tilted his head, not understanding.

‘The Aztecs lived for war. They ate and drank war. Why try to kill the god of war?’

Huitzilin shrugged a graceful shrug. ‘Perhaps that priestess did not want her sons to die. She carried my blood, she had the magic eye. She knew who I was.’ He laughed nostalgically. ‘Of all the peoples I have encountered over the last five centuries, my own people were the only ones who really understood war. We saw it in the street and in the marketplace. We saw the captured warriors and their fate, we saw our fathers and brothers and sons go into battle and not return.

‘Did you