No, this wasnt freedom. Just a transfer from one cell to another. But as she nested in Angels waiting form, Dusha parcelled up a kiss and sent it chasing the departing soul, a sign of her eternal gratitude. This she did before she opened her new eyes To look up into the cold marble eyes of a man she had never seen before. But she knew him of old, of course. Intimately.
Already her new body and her old heart were healing. Razum this powerful man who was her lover, who was part of her gathered her up in his arms.
Dusha was home.
Fitz was rapt. Romantic movies were not his cup of tea, except when it came to softening up a date, but watching Razum and Dusha, he had no choice but to be enthralled. None of them had. Aphrodites captivated heart ruled them all.
The girl, Angel, was suddenly the sum of all her ancestors: Natasha, Tatyana, and all the others between. Her presence as she stood in Razums arms was at least the equal of the Lord Generals and seemed almost too great for that petite form to contain. She had an aura about her, of confidence, greatness and so much more besides.
Divinity?
Well, Fitz didnt know about that. The main thing was, they lookedright together. They fitted. Dusha and Razum.
And that inescapable impression was what caused Fitz to glance sidelong at Aphrodite. He had since recovered from the shock of seeing her turn killer. But now, standing close to her shoulder, he could begin to appreciate the full extent of the distance between them.
Guilt was a wasted emotion. Best binned. Trix knew that well enough. But, left here to watch Dushas rebirth in Angel, she found the majority of her attention anchored on Aphrodite.
The fact that so many of her own impressions were inevitably derived from Aphrodites served as a reminder of how she had purposefully manipulated the woman. Talk about taking advantage of someones better nature. Fair enough, but what really irked Trix was the way she actually felt bad about that. And she had no idea where that came from.
Trix kept quiet and hoped it would go away, as Aphrodite exchanged kisses and farewells with her mother and father. She swallowed as Aphrodite quietly accepted the locket from Dusha. She blanched as Aphrodite turned and presented it to her.
We had best be going, said the goddess. Well wait for the Doctor on Paraiso.
Does he know to meet us there? asked Fitz.
Hell know, Aphrodite assured him.
Trix was busy looking at the locket, not sure she could see its attractions any more. It wasnt all that special and maybe it was only important for what it contained. Ill give this to the Doctor when we see him, she declared.
Put your gun away, Wargaard. And that expression on your face along with it. I hate to see a great man cowed. Razum made it plain he was ordering Wargaard out of the room.
Huh! You still regard me as a great man, eh? His eyes lingered on Dusha a while, before returning to Razum. Whatever you are both of you youre far above the likes of me.
Razum let the compliment bounce off him. And you are above other men. You are a leader, Wargaard. You should put that to good use, where it will count most. At the front.
And the future? Is that safe?
From me? Razum curled his arm around Angels waist, holding Dusha to him. Yes. In fact, I might see what more I can do to secure it.
Wargaard flexed his brow: a question.
Theres no telling what damage Greels experiments might have done to the timelines. Perhaps my temporal paratroopers are best developed into a unit for policing the past and preserving our future. We may even be able to track down the Butcher himself.
Wargaard huffed, but it was basically a grunt of approval. I wish you luck. Both of you.
At last, the man made himself scarce. And left Razum alone with Dusha.
He turned her to face him and examined Angels face, seeing those features for the first time and recognising and welcoming the new light behind those precious eyes. She searched his gaze, searched every inch of his face, just as he knew he could spend an eternity searching hers. Even together, neither of them were through searching.
Her parted lips were an invitation. Razum pulled her close and bent in to take her kiss.
Who would have thought love could be something so warm, vital; so tangible and substantial in his arms? So very alive.
It was a wonder. Something he could never have predicted.
The house was hollow. It seemed to Natasha that even the shadows were grieving.
The gentlemans footsteps, entering the drawing room, trespassed on a silence Natasha had thought would last forever. She glanced up. Irena stood, startled by the strangers presence. Apparently, he had shown himself in.
It was the stranger who had described Natashas beauty as genetic. She wondered how he would describe her beauty now. Were dark things beautiful?
As if in answer, Irenas black gown rustled: Natashas sister moved to greet the gentleman. Natasha tore her gaze from the shimmer of midnight silk and searched for something brighter in the mans eyes. In their infinite blue, with their suggestion of so many skies, all she found was an infinite sadness.
Natasha pouted, fighting a prophetic tremble in her lip.
The Doctor addressed Irena. Dusha wanted you to have this. Gently cupping Irenas hand, he placed the locket in her palm. Irena blinked, the rest of her face painfully static. Im very sorry, he said.
Natasha could bear it no more. Sobs breaking out of her, she fled from the room. She ran blindly, but all the grief and heartache followed her, flying along the longest passage in the house to the loneliest wing. She fell on her knees, her tiny frame sinking into the billowing folds of her own black gown.
She cried into her hands. She cried until her chest ached and her eyes felt raw. She wished she were dead.
The stark cold of that thought made her glance up fearfully, as if someone might have overheard. Through misted vision, the icon came sharply into focus, hanging there on the wall above her. The radiant smile of the Virgin Mary shone down on her, a warm reproof.
To wish for her own death was a sin. Against God. Against life.
Natasha dried her eyes and stood meekly to kiss the icon. She promised the Lady in the picture that she would be strong.
Before the Doctors visit, and his gift, Irena had spent her days in fits of uncertainty: was she wearing her black for Victor or for dear Sasha? Either way, she wore a mask of calm for Natashas sake, protecting her daily until, at night, she would fall into her pillow and allow the tears full vent. Except, cruelly, they never came. And neither did sleep.
She stood still for an age, it seemed, in the wake of the Doctors departure. Her fingers fussed at the locket, like it was some sort of key to an unknown door, thrust unexpectedly into her hand. And she searched around for Natasha.
She knew, instinctively, impulsively, where to look. And she found her swiftly, because she knew how much it mattered in the room overlooking the orchard. Cold light lanced in through the windows, the trees in the distance looked pale and emaciated. She stopped just inside the doorway and nearly choked at the sight of her baby sister standing in isolation and reverence before the icon.
Irena was torn. She knew she would have to go to Papa soon. Ill in bed, he would need to be fed his soup. But for now, right now, it was Natasha who needed her most. And, if her heart was utterly honest, it was Irena who needed Natasha.
She swept forward and spun Natasha around into a close embrace. Natasha hugged her so tight, they were closer then than they had ever been.
Irena broke down, shedding endless tears over her little sisters shoulders.
A lone bird skimmed low over the lake, the only one of its kind intrepid enough to investigate the ruby light glittering across its surface. The sun was setting on Paraiso.
And Aphrodite stood on her veranda, watching.
There was more than a hint of flamenco to her evening dress, and Fitz half imagined himself asking her for a dance, alfresco. Instead, he stood there, admiring her bare shoulders, her luxurious hair plunging down her back, her curves so brilliantly highlighted in the sunset. Everything, in short, about her.
The Doctors not one for fond farewells, she said, throwing almost a temptress look over her shoulder, before going back to watching the sun splash its brilliant reds and pinks across the sky. He knows how protracted they can be. More so with me.
True, the Doctor and Aphrodite had exchanged their farewells briskly. And Fitz had wondered about that. But he wasnt here to compensate for the Doctors impatience to be moving on. He had returned with something of his own in mind. And part of him enjoyed the fact that it was him keeping the TARDIS waiting.
Fitz walked up beside Aphrodite. I thought you might like to have this, he said. She glanced at the locket in his hand.
The Doctor got what he wanted out of it, I take it? The words could have been barbed, but Fitz knew it could just as easily have been his own awkwardness reflecting off this beautiful woman, the way the sunlight bounced off the lake, a fiery red.
Yeah, he said. A crystal, with a wonky kite design imprinted on its structure at a molecular level. The same one we found on a book. A crosssection, the Doctor had pointed out again, of a diamond.Diamante , Trix had translated pointedly, solely for Fitzs benefit.
But Fitz hadnt taken Trixs bait. Instead, he just took her comment as his prompt and asked if the Doctor needed the locket any more. The Doctor had shaken his head, continuing to peer down the microscope, deep into the crystal he had prised out of the trinket. It was the pearl, apparently, that counted; not the oyster shell.
Except, Fitz knew, that might not hold true for some. He held up the locket, and thought encouraging thoughts as Aphrodite considered his gift.
She turned her back on him. And lifted her hair, exposing the smooth nape of her neck. Fitz swallowed and, tentatively, drew nearer to drape the chain around her neck, locking the clasp in place with the close attention of a watchmaker. Aphrodite let her hair drop down.
Thank you, Fitz. She smiled as he came back alongside her.
They shared a moment in the gathering twilight.
What will you do now?
What a mirror does best. Reflect.
Fitz laughed. No, seriously.
I have everything here. I dont need to make a living. All I have to make is a life. And I enjoy a number of those. Different times, different places. Ill be getting on with some of those.
Alone?
Not always.
Fitz fought down a spike of jealousy. Of course, he said, if I wanted to join you, or if I wanted you to come with me, youd have no choice, right?
Right. She was a mirror, and she looked through him like he was transparent. Which is why you dont want either.
Right. She was right.
Fitz hugged her, they kissed, then he let her go. Let himself go, rather. Goodbye, he said.
Adios, she said.
Occasionally, as he made his way along the shore, back towards the TARDIS, he stole glances back at her figure, there on the veranda.
And he wondered what it would be like, to have a woman like that. Her empathic mirror amplifying and reflecting their passions back and forth with every heartbeat; every kiss, touch, caress a spark to fan the flames. Feelings spiralling higher and higher, until they might never come down.
Fitz shook his head. Had he had a narrow escape, or had he just passed up the greatest opportunity of his life?
Either way, no matter how much his friend kept his feelings under wraps, he was sure some kind of chemistry must have existed, at some point, between the Doctor and Aphrodite. But then, the Doctor shared some kind of chemistry with everyone.
About the Author.
SIMONFORWARDwas born in Penzance in 1967. From the age of three he was probably dreaming about writing forDoctor Who . For a while he was a computer programmer, but between reading, films, roleplaying and writing, much of his life has been based in fantasy. The author ofDrift for BBC Books,The Sandman for Big Finish Productions and a handful of short stories, he has now realised some of his dreams, but his ambitions know no bounds and so he already has plenty of new ones.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Justin Richards, for a) knowing a good thing when he sees it and b) knowing how to improve on that good thing.
Thanks also to Mike Richards (no relation) for his scrupulous proofreading and inexhaustible supplies of red ink, and Mark Michalowski for similarly scrupulous proofreading and calling me lots of unprintable names on a regular basis.
And thanks, of course, to Karen, without whom...
DOCTOR WHO: EMOTIONAL CHEMISTRY.
Commissioning Editor:Ben Dunn Editor Creative Consultant:Justin Richards Project Editor:Jacqueline Rayner Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane London W12 OTT