The Day She Saved the Doctor

by Susan Calman

  ‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’ shouted Rose, jumping up and down even more fiercely.

  ‘You’re attracting attention,’ observed the Doctor.

  ‘Good!’ said Rose. ‘HEY!’ She leapt even more furiously up and down.

  Slowly, the young man lifted his head once more. His eyes were red-rimmed. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, into their world.

  ‘Hey! HEY!’

  At last, his eyes caught hers.

  ‘Hello,’ she mouthed.

  The Doctor started and moved closer. ‘It’s leaking. The puncture.’ He shook his head. ‘This is going to get worse before it gets better.’

  But Rose wasn’t listening. She placed the palm of her hand against the window-pane, stretching her fingers up in greeting. She barely dared to blink or breathe, desperate not to break the young man’s gaze. From across time and space, he squinted back at her, looking incredibly puzzled.

  ‘Paper!’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth at the Doctor.

  The Doctor rolled his eyes, already in the process of handing her a piece of paper on which he’d already written ‘Hello’ in English, Russian and French. Rose didn’t even glance down, didn’t notice the unusual beauty of the handwriting.

  Across the road, the young man very gradually lifted one hand to his window in response. Rose could see the details of his palm through the glass, even across the centuries. She smiled tentatively.

  ‘More paper!’

  ‘What do you want it to say?’

  ‘Um. “Hello” again. And “Where are you?”’

  ‘He knows where he is. Just like you know where you are. You just shouldn’t be able to see each other, that’s all.’

  ‘How about asking if he can smell something weird. If he’s out of time?’

  ‘All of this is going to be a bit much for him. As far as he can tell, you’re just an oddly dressed child across the street.’

  ‘I’m not a child!’

  The Doctor glanced over. ‘Everyone’s a child to me.’

  Rose shot him a look. ‘Just write my name, then.’

  The young man across the way read the new sign as she held it up, then turned round. Holding up a finger telling her to wait, he turned to the sideboard against the wall.

  ‘Oh, look! He’s got an ink pot!’ said Rose. ‘And a quill!’

  ‘Yes, there were very few pre-revolutionary Russian biros,’ said the Doctor.

  Rose gave him a look.

  ‘And well done,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Keep at it.’

  The strange Cyrillic letters on the piece of paper the young man held up to his window seemed to swim and reorganise themselves in front of Rose’s eyes. ‘Count Nikolai Artem Livosich,’ she read aloud. ‘Wow. I should probably have put more than just “Rose”.’

  Rose noticed how the young man’s long eyelashes cast shadows along his high, pale cheekbones. The count lifted his glass of wine from the table and held it up to her in a toast. She giggled and, casting about, grabbed one of the helium balloons from the doorman and shook it.

  The effect on the count was almost comical. His eyes widened and he appeared completely astonished. Quickly he scratched out ‘Montgolfier?’ on a scrap of paper.

  ‘What does he mean?’ said Rose.

  ‘Montgolfier. It’s what they call hot-air balloons,’ the Doctor explained. ‘Quite the rage back then. And brand new. Not normally something you’d find in a house. He’s astonished by you. You look like you’re holding up a car.’

  Rose found herself grinning, even as the count was shaking his head in disbelief. Then he laughed too. On his piece of paper, the Russian now being translated into English by the TARDIS, he wrote ‘Show me?’ and made a beckoning motion.

  Rose turned round. ‘Shall I go?’

  The Doctor rubbed his short hair. ‘I can’t think of a worse idea. Or,’ he added gloomily, ‘a better one. But he can’t have made a hole in time. They don’t even have clocks that work properly.’

  ‘When is he?’

  The Doctor squinted through the telescope at the newspaper on the count’s table. ‘1812.’ He blinked and straightened up. ‘The Corsican Crocodile is already on his way. Napoleon,’ he said to Rose’s querying face. ‘Not a chap I like.’

  But Rose was transfixed watching the count again. Bent over, she saw one of the doors behind him open. Beyond the salon, young men and women were flooding along the candlelit corridor, dressed in the highest finery. Rose turned to the Doctor, eyes shining. ‘It’s a ball!’

  ‘Or a wake,’ said the Doctor, with feeling.

  In the TARDIS, the Doctor was still pondering the time-puncture problem when Rose emerged from the wardrobe.

  ‘How?’ she exclaimed, twirling round, her heavy skirts rustling. ‘How did women manage being dressed like this? All this stuff?’

  ‘It was a very ornate period,’ said the Doctor, without looking up. ‘If you were rich, ostentation was the name of the game. Of course, if you weren’t, you were lying frozen in a field without a headstone.’

  ‘This is my night out at a Russian ball,’ said Rose. ‘Can we save the downers for later?’

  She smoothed out the long silk gloves she was wearing. Her dress left her shoulders bare, with wide satin straps across her upper arms; the weighty silk was cinched in at the waist over a corset, and the skirt was deep red and inlaid with brocade. It was incredibly heavy, made her stand up very straight, and Rose had no idea how she was going to go to the toilet in it.

  She loved it.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she said, displaying neat little boots with ankle buttons.

  ‘In human terms, breathtaking, I’m sure,’ he said, looking at her at last, and she grinned. He squinted at her. ‘Put your hair up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Women of the era wore their hair up.’

  ‘Oh, did they?’ said Rose, pleased he’d referred to her as a woman rather than a child.

  Firmly, the Doctor took hold of her blonde ponytail, quickly braided it round the back of her neck, then deftly did something with his sonic screwdriver so that it all stayed up on top of her head.

  ‘What did you just do?’ said Rose. She tried to see her reflection in the TARDIS console. ‘Are you actually an intergalactic hairdresser? Is that why you never mention your job?’

  ‘Here, take this.’ He handed her one end of a long red ribbon. Then he took the ends of it, sonicked them together, then broke them apart again.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘I got the TARDIS to give you a sonic time loop. Tug on the ribbon and you’ll get back to this time – back to this apartment. Back to safety. Even if I can’t see you. Even if I’m hundreds of years away. Pre-revolutionary Russia is not a place I’d want you stranded.’ He paused. ‘There isn’t any place I’d want you stranded.’

  Rose tied the ribbon carefully to the top of her dress. ‘Okay,’ she announced brightly. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘And you have to get home before midnight.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No,’ said the Doctor. ‘Time is an imaginary construct. Midnight doubly so.’

  Rose gave him a look.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ said the Doctor. ‘Talk to the count. Find out what he knows, if anything strange has been happening recently. I’ll scout around, see if the puncture really is on their side. I’ll be inconspicuous.’

  ‘Dressed like that?’

  ‘I’ll be the stable boy. You can be Cinderella.’

  The Doctor and Rose were both quiet as the TARDIS heaved to a landing. When they stepped outside once more, all the lights of the big city were gone. Saint Petersburg was lit by oil lamps and candles at the windows, and shadows flickered on the snow. It was magical. It was also shockingly cold, even colder than Toronto.

  Rose turned to see that the TARDIS’s lamp had altered its usual steady beam and now flickered too.

  People passed here and there on sleighs, covered in thick furs, and the bells tinkled as t
hey came and went, their laughter frosting the air. Rose noticed others, less fortunate, not dressed for the weather, skulking in side alleys. She sighed. She hadn’t yet been anywhere in time or space where there weren’t people suffering. She wondered what it was like where the Doctor came from. Maybe there was nobody like that. Maybe that’s why he felt such an urge to fix things for everyone else.

  They came to the main door of the palace, and the Doctor shot off round the side of the building searching for the hole. Rose took a deep breath. Normally, she went to parties with Mickey and Shareen, and they’d grab some cheap cider, then turn up en masse and know everyone. Rose would no more go to a party by herself than she’d … well, than she’d speak to the reanimated spirit of a dead Welsh person or meet Charles Dickens, and she’d done both of those things. She had, she realised, changed quite a lot.

  She presented the Doctor’s psychic paper to the guard on the door. The guard immediately bowed so deeply she wondered who, exactly, the paper had claimed she was. Then she stepped through the door into a courtyard lit with great braziers. Glowing windows on all sides exuded laughter and chattering, and she could hear the strains of violins. On the other side of the courtyard, great French doors had been flung wide open on to the freezing cold of the Russian night. The clicking of soldiers’ boot heels resounded from the floor of the ballroom beyond, and the air was heavy with the scent of candle wax and cigars.

  Rose climbed the staircase to the glittering doors, then turned and stood for a moment, looking back over the courtyard. She took one more deep breath, then entered the ball.

  Heads turned to stare at Rose, and she swallowed and tried to remember to stand up straight as she walked into the ballroom. The music launched into a dreamy waltz, and she felt her face flush as she suddenly caught his eye. Because there he was in front of her: the count. Nikolai.

  He was one of the taller men in the room. There were still purple shadows smudged beneath his eyes, but the second he saw her his face broke into a broad smile that he immediately attempted to hide. A footman in a wig presented Rose with a glass of champagne, but she waved it away.

  Carefully, in case she tripped, she walked towards the young count, and he was beside her in a second, lending her his arm.

  ‘You changed into a gown,’ he said, as she took his hand gratefully. ‘I liked your casual attire.’

  Rose’s face fell.

  ‘A joke: excuse me,’ he said. ‘You look beautiful, mademoiselle. You have a dance card?’ he said.

  Rose was suddenly aware of an older man watching them both like a hawk. He scowled at them. ‘Who’s that, then?’ she asked.

  ‘My father,’ said the count.

  ‘Bit over-protective?’

  The older man started to make his way over to them.

  ‘Let’s dance! Quickly,’ said the count with a smile, putting his hand on her waist and whirling her across the huge, sparkling ballroom floor, out of his father’s way.

  The music was beautiful and Rose was acutely conscious of how close she was to the count. She soon found that, if she simply followed his lead, she was able to lose herself in the dance. Until she stumbled over another lady’s long train, that is.

  The woman turned and began to say, in a rather shocked tone of voice, ‘Nikolai Artem, shouldn’t you –’

  ‘Come on!’ he said, and waltzed Rose right on out of one of the ballroom’s side doors.

  In the corridor beyond, which ran the length of the ballroom, Rose collapsed, exhausted and giggling, beside Nikolai on a low chaise longue. Male servants wearing wigs rushed past with glasses, large plates of food, and huge bowls of flowers. Rose watched them.

  The count was looking at her. ‘Tell me, where are you from?’ he said. ‘I looked out in the village square, but that strange space of yours was suddenly there … and I thought I knew everyone in Saint Petersburg.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘I’m from London.’

  ‘London! How goes your war against that demon?’

  Rose wished she’d studied harder at school. ‘Um … up and down.’

  The count nodded. ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway.’ Rose sat up straighter, reminding herself why she was there. ‘What have things been like around Saint Petersburg? Have you noticed anything new around town? Anything, you know, out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Apart from you?’ replied the count. ‘Oh, and that place you live. Is it a greenhouse?’

  ‘Something like that …’

  ‘It seems very strange to me.’

  ‘Um, yeah. But anything else?’

  ‘I like both the colours of your hair,’ said the count, then put his hand to his mouth, flushing slightly, as though he’d said too much.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Rose. ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant, but …’

  They looked at each other for an instant, and Rose smiled awkwardly, feeling her cheeks warm and her heart beat fractionally faster.

  Then the count sighed. ‘Oh. I wish … I wish I had …’

  ‘What?’ Rose said softly. ‘What is it?’

  At that moment, the side door they had escaped through burst open.

  ‘Nikolai Artem!’ It was the count’s father. ‘The lady is arriving. It is time!’

  Nikolai’s pale face blushed bright red, and Rose recalled seeing him in the room, the despairing expression he’d had on his face.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘Ah?’ said his father, moving forward, ignoring Rose completely. ‘You understand how important this is. You know how much I have borrowed to put this on for you tonight. This is our last hope.’

  ‘But, Father –’

  ‘No,’ said his father firmly. ‘I don’t care what your feelings are. This family is close to ruin. It is on the edge, Nikolai. Either you make this marriage or –’

  Suddenly there was a blast of trumpets. The noise made Rose jump.

  ‘And she is here,’ said the older man. ‘The priest is arriving, the whole of Saint Petersburg is here. Nikolai Artem, it is time!’

  Meanwhile, the Doctor was still outside, carefully examining the salon window that he and Rose had spied through the telescope. He jerked his head up as a woman, with two men in huge fur hats following closely behind like bodyguards, glided up the gravel path past where he stood. The palace butlers and footmen rushed out to greet her.

  She was very beautiful. She wore a flouncing white dress and clutched a bouquet of lilies that were wilting in the frosted air. Her skin was pale as milk, almost wax-like in the moonlight.

  The Doctor lifted his nose and sniffed. Then he immediately turned and charged back round to the main door of the palace to get Rose.

  Among the throng in the ballroom, the Doctor couldn’t see Rose. He kept tripping over the ladies’ huge dresses and bumping into the people about him, who were taking their places for what looked very much like a wedding.

  ‘Rose!’ he shouted, but his voice was inaudible above the orchestra playing sweeping, romantic tunes as the guests found their places. ‘Rose!’

  Suddenly he felt a strong, heavy hand grab the back of his collar.

  ‘Oi!’

  Nikolai’s father sternly marched off, and Rose glanced up at Nikolai, whose face betrayed the truth.

  ‘You’re getting married?’ she asked. ‘Like, now? I have to tell you: this was a really terrible time to invite me over …’

  Nikolai swallowed. ‘I was going to tell you. She is … she is rich. My family is on the edge of ruin, but my bloodline is good … she chose me.’

  ‘Can’t you just say no?’

  Nikolai went even paler than he already was. ‘If I do, then I must join the army. It is the only way open to me. And, Rose, Bonaparte’s men are already nearing the gates of Moscow. They say the people are blocking up their windows with the bodies of the dead just to keep warm.’

  Rose grimaced. ‘I see. Who is she?’

  ‘She is new to Saint Petersburg, just like you are. She has money.’ A thoug
ht appeared to occur to him. ‘You don’t have any money, do you?’

  ‘Not a rouble,’ said Rose. ‘Sorry, mate. I work in a shop.’

  Nikolai looked surprised at this. ‘Oh well, no matter.’ He turned to go. ‘I have given my word as a gentleman, after all. It is not just me who needs saving – I have five sisters and … so on.’

  As he stood and attempted to put on a brave face, a strange man wearing a large fur hat that almost obscured his waxen face entered the room.

  ‘And here is one of her footmen, to bear me to my fate!’ Nikolai said, trying to sound jovial.

  The man ignored the young man, however, and headed directly towards Rose. ‘Anomaly,’ he said in a low voice that was almost a growl.

  Rose blinked and jumped up. This was interesting. ‘Uh, it’s Rose actually.’

  ‘Anomaly detected.’

  ‘Ooh. I’m not sure people say that in whenever we are,’ said Rose.

  The count looked confused.

  Rose leaned forward to peer more closely at the approaching man’s very white face. ‘So what are you?’ she mused.

  The man didn’t answer. Instead, he said again, ‘Anomaly detected’, and drew from his coat a large weapon shaped like a mace that blinked with a small red light. It didn’t belong in the nineteenth century any more than Rose herself did.

  ‘Aha!’ said Rose. ‘I’ve found it! Doctor!’

  ‘You need a physician?’ said the count, his brow crinkling, before the man harshly shoved him out of the way to get to Rose.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ said the Doctor.

  He had noticed straight away that the two men following the lady were either identical twins – or they were wearing the exact same version of a face. This one had extraordinary strength. He manhandled the Doctor through the crowd and eventually deposited him in the salon he and Rose had first seen through the telescope. From far away, down the end of the corridor, the Doctor could hear Rose shouting for him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to the large man, twisting neatly out of his jacket and bounding aside. ‘I really have to go.’

  ‘Anomaly detected,’ said the man.