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‘I wish she had.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I have a message for you.’

* * *

9.40 pm

Jack Phillips blew out a tense sigh of relief. At last they were in range of Cape Race.

He finished writing down the ice warning from the Mesaba. That made, what, six in one day? It was as though they were were floating around in an enormous cocktail.

Ah, well, that was the bridge’s problem. He’d take it up to them when he got a free moment. He put it to one side, under a paperweight, and went on hammering out the passengers’ messages.

* * *

9.50 pm

Sir Charles is in his stateroom. Despite the cold, he has opened a porthole, and the sea breeze pushes slowly in. Sir Charles likes the smell of the sea.

Sir Charles opens his writing desk, lifts away the Titanic stationery inside. Everything appears to be in order. Under his bed is a small metal box, and in his clothes trunks are a number of small packages, carefully wrapped, like a pile of belated Christmas presents.

He lifts his head for a moment, taking a deep breath of that salty air. The backs of his hands are tingling; there is a sense of anticipation tonight, of something about to happen. The most important event of his life is about to take place. He will not appreciate this until it happens.

He and Anna have travelled a great deal in the last few months. In order to sell what they have acquired, they have been to Paris and to Prague, negotiated with a Turkish holy man and with an Irish museum director.

But it has not been a particularly successful expedition, not compared to past endeavours. Sir Charles knows it is bad luck to hang on to an item for too long, for the very practical reason that the more ports one passes, the more likely it is that one’s luggage will be searched. Still, all this travel is broadening for Anna’s mind, and his daughter is becoming as astute at negotiations as he is.

There’s another smell in the air now, an extra tang mixed with the salt. Storm coming, says one part of Sir Charles’ mind, while another part is mapping out their American itinerary. If New York isn’t interested in the remaining items, there’s the west coast – he’s never been to California – and there is always the Mexican government. It would be ironic to sell them back their own artefacts, but there you have it.

On the other hand, if what Anna told him is correct, they might be able to unload those particular items before they even reached New York.

Sir Charles goes into the bathroom to comb his hair and straighten his tie. He is short and stubby, with a broad nose and thinning mouse‐coloured hair. You would not notice him in a crowd. Despite the mild thrills of smuggling, he considers his life to be a bit of a grind, a bit dull. Even travel becomes wearing when one is only revisiting places one has seen before.

From all over the ship, from behind space and between space, from the air and the walls, from the freezing water and the steam in the engines, oozing out of nothing, Huitzilin comes.

There is a soundless sound, like a colossal cymbal being struck in reverse. Sir Charles’ cabin is suddenly full of the smell of ozone.

He comes out of the bathroom, wondering if there is an electrical fire.

The air itself is on fire with Blue light. Great black slashes appear in the wallpaper, as if something is clawing at the solid matter. On the writing table, a glass of port wobbles in circles and shatters, spattering the desk with purple.

Perhaps Sir Charles screams. The noise and the brilliance wash through the cabin in a tidal wave of energy.

Huitzilin pulls himself together.

* * *

In the TARDIS, Ace hears the backward cymbal sound. Her eyes snap open. The great fist around her heart lets go.

* * *

The Doctor is examining the clock on the grand staircase.

He’s seen photographs of it: a pair of angels with a laurel wreath on either side of the clock‐face. Honour and Glory crowning time. Cristián sits on the top step, his bow‐tie undone, loosening his collar.

He feels the sudden build‐up of energy as a sizzling at the back of his neck, the tiny hair standing up. Panic explodes