***

Chips and a return to Earth were what Willow needed to settle her nerves. Her home would still be waiting for her. Her family would be alive and well. Everything was going to be fine, or at least she hoped it would be.

"Hold that one down!" The Doctor instructed.

She huffed, already holding a button down. "Are you sure I should be flying this thing?"

"It's not a thing!" he exclaimed. "And you're not flying her -- I am! You're only helping!"

"Okay, but I'm already holding this one down."

"Well, hold them both down!"

Willow reached her free arm towards the second button, her muscles straining. "I can't stretch that far."

"Just try!" he said.

Her head swivelled towards him, her face tightening. "Are you sure?"

"This is for your benefit, Willow." The Doctor edged closer, pulling a lever down as he continued. "I promised you a time machine and that's what you're getting. Now, you've seen the future, let's have a look at the past. 1860. How does 1860 sound?"

"Like a year." She remarked, her feet stumbling against the metal grating.

His upper body jerked back, slightly. "Oi!"

The idea intrigued her, however. History concerning the nineteenth century was more familiar to her than the future. "I guess I've always wanted to know what the Victorian era was like."

"Then let's find out!" He stepped around the console. "Hold on, here we go!"

The Doctor yanked another lever towards him and the time machine came to an abrupt halt, throwing both passengers to the floor. They laid beside one another, laughing their heads off at their predicament.

He jumped back onto his feet, checking the scanner. "You all right?"

"Do you have a license to fly this-" he shot her a brief glare as she stood back on her feet. "- The TARDIS?"

"Sort of." He shrugged.

Willow rubbed the back of her scalp, grimacing. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Ha, I did it! Give the man a medal." He twisted a dial, reading the statistics. "Earth, Naples, December 24th, 1860."

"Christmas Eve?" Her heart raced. "As in the day before Christmas?"

"Yep." He confirmed, crossing his arms.

"That's..." There weren't many words to describe her experience, except one. "... That's incredible." She peered at the scanner with a dazed expression. "It's funny -- you never relive the same Christmas." Willow leaned against the console. "But with you," she spoke, "we can." Her lip curled upwards, looking back at the Doctor. "I love it."

"Not a bad life." He commented.

A normal life may have been something she'd yearned for, but now Willow could see herself doing this forever. "No, it isn't." She slapped his arm, bounding towards the exit. "Let's go then."

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" he questioned, stopping the young woman in her tracks.

She narrowed her eyes, confounded by his change in demeanour. "Well, I was planning to experience a Victorian Christmas. What were you thinking?"

"Go out there dressed like that, you'll start a riot, Barbarella." Willow frowned, peering down at her outfit. "There's a wardrobe through there. First left, second right, third on the left, go straight ahead, under the stairs, past the bins, fifth door on your left." That was too many directions in one sentence. "Hurry up!"

She dashed back up to the console, marching to the other side. Willow jogged down the hallway, murmuring the directions to herself. The Doctor had yet to give her a tour of his time machine, and from the looks of it, the place seemed to go on forever. There was a library, a swimming pool, and at least a dozen kitchens varying in style. The rest was still unknown to her. It was like getting lost in Ikea, which admittedly happened to her once.

Eventually, she located what she assumed to be the wardrobe. Yet, the minute she stepped inside, Willow found herself in a maze of clothes. Each item varied in appearance, era and style. In the middle of the room, a spiral staircase stood tall. It stretched towards an unknown ceiling and floor, going on for miles.

"He's really been everywhere." She remarked, beginning her search for the perfect outfit. 

Willow rifled through his collection, and a part of her wondered why he had so many. The Doctor didn't seem like a hoarder. Then again, his life was still a mystery to her. She didn't want to pry anymore than she had to, especially since she'd barely told him anything about her own history.

A glimpse of midnight blue caught her eye near the stairwell. She wandered close, her vision adjusting in the dim light. Her hands grasped the hangers on the railing, pushing them aside. Hidden between a ruffled shirt and linen trousers, a Victorian-style dress hung, waiting to be worn. Her eyes glistened, a grin stretching ear to ear. Willow removed it from the railing, holding it against her body. She turned around, meeting her amazed reflection in a standing mirror. The silk fabric crimpled against her touch.

As she raised her chin, Willow spotted another treasure. Just behind the mirror, a pair of black lace gloves dangled over the railing, waiting to be worn. Her hand grasped the item, her mouth widening. "Oh, this is perfect."

Her excitement could not be contained as she raced to get changed. It was a miracle all these clothes fit her; even a pair of laced boots accommodated her size six feet. Perhaps there was more to the TARDIS than just its size.

Once finished, she adjusted her hair, drawing it into a low-hanging bun. Willow exited the wardrobe, her shoes tapping against the ground as she strolled through the hallway, returning to the console room.

The skirt ruffled against the metal grating, drawing his attention. The Doctor poked his head through the floor, observing her. "Blimey!"

She giggled, her fingers tugging at her dress. "I feel like I'm attending a reenactment." Willow gave her skirt a light swish. Her smile grew. "I guess this is, in a sense."

He lifted his head, his eyes brightening. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." She said.

Something in his expression shifted, his gaze falling. The Doctor returned to his maintenance work as he added. "Considering."

Her mouth went slack. "Considering what?"

The Doctor glanced back at her. "That you're human."

"You certainly have a way with words." His attempt to be nice was appreciated, though, even if the compliment did turn sour. "What about you? Are you going to get changed?"

He pinched the woollen fabric, displaying it. "I've changed my jumper."

As the Doctor began to climb out of the floor, Willow shook her head. "Nah, hold on." She raised a finger, halting his movement. "So if I go out in modern clothing, I'll cause a riot," she stated, "but you walking out in a leather jacket and trousers is fine, is it?"

"Should be." He thought.

"Nu-uh, that's not fair. I've seen a picture of you in a different get-up -- I know for a fact you don't just wear this outfit all the time." She folded her arms. "If I have to change, then so do you." He didn't move, returning a curious stare. Willow angled her head towards the hallway, gesturing. "Go on!"

"Fine." The Doctor climbed out, passing her with a huff. "I won't be long. Don't wander off."

"I won't!" She bore a smug expression, her gaze following him as he disappeared into the hallway.

Yet, when he was out of sight, Willow couldn't help herself. She approached the TARDIS doors and grabbed the handles, pulling them open. A gust of cold wind welcomed her into the past. She poked her head out, enraptured by the fallen snow and the bricked alleyway they had landed in. 

Willow bowed her head, staring down as she took her first step outside. Snow crunched beneath her feet, the sound as satisfying as it was to make. The winter air was new and biting. The doors slowly closed behind her as she wandered further out. She crouched to the ground, brushing the fallen snow onto her gloved fingertips. Against the warm fabric, the ice started to melt, the crystal white fading into transparency.

This was real. She was here. A young woman from the twenty-first century was walking across nineteenth-century snow on Christmas Eve. Sure, their history wasn't glamorous nor something to be admired, but it meant something to experience it herself.

Behind her, she heard the TARDIS doors open. The Doctor sighed. "I thought I said-"

She tilted her head back, smirking. "I didn't wander off." Willow stood up, pivoting over her left shoulder to face the Doctor. "I just wanted to see..." She blinked, straightening her neck. The Doctor, now dressed in a fine Victorian suit, closed and locked the TARDIS doors. "... Wow. That's pretty dapper." He adjusted his tie, lightly smiling before Willow added. "Considering."

His brows lowered. "Considering what?"

Willow wore a mocking grin, her head bobbing as she leaned forward. "You're an alien."

He shook his head, softly laughing at her retort. After all, he deserved it for the comment he made about her. The Doctor approached her side and lifted his arm. "You ready for this?"

With a beaming smile, she curled her elbow around his. Her other hand squeezed his wrist, clinging to him for warmth and security. "You bet."

"Here we go." The Doctor grinned. "History."

They began their walk, strolling through the alleyway and onto the streets. Horse-drawn carriages passed their vision. Willow regarded the sight with stunned silence and a sparkling glow in her eyes. This is what she wanted from time travel; she wanted to see the beauty of the past. She always thought the nineteenth century looked so glamorous with their modest appearances and sophisticated evening parties. Sure, health-wise, they weren't doing so well. But on the whole, there was nothing beating its eloquent beauty.

She understood the views of this time wouldn't be in her favour, but she knew the Doctor wouldn't leave her in a bad situation.

They approached a haggard vendor selling newspapers, the Doctor offering the man a coin for one issue. Willow's brows drew together, muttering to him. "Thought you were strapped for cash?"

"Yeah, modern cash. I'm a bit of a collector of old coins." He unfolded the paper, the issue flapping in the wind. The Doctor bit his bottom lip, a sneaking suspicion of his confirmed. "I got the flight a bit wrong."

"So what? We're here, aren't we?" That's all that mattered to her, experiencing a moment in history.

The Doctor folded it back up, adjusting the creases. "It's not 1860 -- it's 1869."

She couldn't care less about the date. They were still living and breathing in Victorian times. "Yeah, so?" 

"And it's not Naples." He admitted.

"Yeah, I think I can tell." Not that she knew much about Italy in the 1800s. She supposed it must have looked a little different.

He ground his teeth together, walking ahead of her. "It's Cardiff."

"Okay?" So, they were in Wales. Admittedly, she didn't know much about the history of this place, but Willow didn't consider that to be a bad thing. She could learn on the go.

She linked her arm with the Doctor's again, though it was shortly followed by a chorus of screams from within a theatre. The pair halted in their tracks, and the Doctor's mouth curved into a crazed grin. "That's more like it!"

The Doctor tossed the newspaper away, taking Willow's hand as they charged into the theatre. A crowd of Victorian gentry passed them by, eager to flee whatever was threatening their safety. The time travellers made their way through, carefully pushing others aside to reach the auditorium.

Once inside, the Doctor stumbled over his feet, his focus fixed upon a blue stream of gaseous energy exiting the body of an old woman; its screams echoed through the hall. "Fantastic."

Willow's posture stiffened, watching the entity in awe. "Is that a ghost?"

"Nah, ghosts don't exist." The Doctor announced.

"Okay, then what is it?" she asked.

"No idea." He replied.

Her head tilted towards the Doctor, glaring at him. "You're a real help, you know that?"

The victim's eyes snapped shut on command. Her frail body collapsed into her chair, sinking into unconsciousness.

Bewildered, the Doctor addressed a man on the stage. Unlike the crowd, he appeared unafraid of the spectacle. "Did you see where it came from?"

"Ah, the wag reveals himself, does he?" he accused the Doctor. "I trust you're satisfied, sir!"

Willow glanced back at the old woman, only to find her body being hoisted from the audience by an older gentleman and a young lady. They, too, seemed unalarmed by the entity's presence. "Hey! What are you doing?! Get away from her!" They didn't answer, prompting Willow's adrenaline. She picked up her dress, following the two into the audience. "Doctor, I'll get them!"

"Be careful!" he warned her.

She fought her way through the crowd, chasing the body-snatching pair out of the theatre's back exit. She nearly lost sight of them before her eyes caught sight of a black hearse. One of the culprits stuffed the old woman's unconscious form inside, using the crowd's distress as an advantage to steal her away.

Willow pulled up her skirt, dashing across the fallen snow. Her heeled boots skidded across the ice, but the slip wasn't enough to stop her approach. As the woman closed the hearse's doors, Willow caught up to them. "The hell are you doing?!"

"Oh, it's a tragedy, miss." Willow tried to peek over the woman's shoulder, attempting to bypass her. "Don't worry yourself. Me and the master will deal with it. The fact is, this poor lady's been taken with the brain fever and we have to get her to the infirmary."

Willow shoved her out of the way, opening the hearse doors. Her eyes widened, distinguishing the old woman's pale, veiny complexion. Her hand grazed her cheek, her frigid skin cooling the lace of Willow's gloves. "She's dead..." Not only that, she appeared to have been dead for quite some time. Horrified, Willow glared at the young woman. "... What did you do to her?"

The woman's mouth fell open, as if to respond, when an arm reached around Willow's head. Her gaze caught sight of a handkerchief before it was forced against her mouth. The scent of chemicals flooded her nostrils, struggling to free herself from her unseen assailant. Her muscles loosened, her knees giving way as a swift darkness overtook her sight.

***

Warmth tingled her skin. Not the burning type, this time. Slowly, Willow's eyes opened, glimpsing the side of a wooden coffin. She groaned, squeezing her face. "Seriously?"

How many times was she going to be knocked out? It had only been a few hours since she was smacked in the face; she didn't need to be chloroformed too. She sat up, rubbing both hands against her face.

A howling moan caused her to flinch. Her head snapped over her shoulder, realising she wasn't alone. A young man in Victorian garb sat in his coffin, absorbing a gaseous stream of blue light into his body.

"Hey, are you all right?" Her blurred vision adjusted, acknowledging his pale skin, white eyes and zombie-like expression. The man didn't speak, returning groans instead. "Okay, I'm just gonna..."

 As Willow moved, so did he. The corpse tumbled out of his coffin, his glassy eyes fixed on her. She gathered her skirt in her arms and sprinted towards the door. Her hand grasped the doorknob, but it failed to turn. 

"Oh, come on!" She slammed her fist against the wood. "Let me out of here!" Willow glimpsed over her shoulder, her eyes widening when a second corpse rose from their coffin; the woman in the audience. The outlook wasn't so good. "Let me out!"

Willow spotted an antique vase holding a few lilies. She rushed over, removing the flowers before tossing the vase at the approaching cadavers. The man stumbled back, but the attack did little to stop them.

With nothing else she could use, Willow tried the door again. It was bad enough to be knocked out and locked in a room, but twice in one day was absurd. "Someone, please!"

A cold hand cupped her mouth, pulling her away from the door. His touch set her gift alight, and flashes of a wartorn battlefield soon followed. Flames spread across the dirt and many failed to escape it. Lasers fired across a polluted sky, all brown and murky as if to hide the stars. The number of bodies was uncountable. Some unrecognisable from the burns.

She was all alone, dying in the hands of a corpse. Chills rippled through her body, her nerves spiking at the sensation.

Then came a light. A light in the stature and form of a man. It reached out its hand and grasped her wrist. "I think this is my dance."

The glowing man yanked her from the corpse's arms and, in doing so, released Willow from her solemn vision. Reality returned in a flicker of white. The hands holding hers warmed her chilled body. Willow looked up at her saviour, his form now clear as day.

To her relief, it was her friend, The Doctor. At least this time he could unlock the door.

A man with a goatee peered through the gap between the pair's heads. "It's a prank. It must be. We're under some mesmeric influence."

"No, we're not. The dead are walking." The Doctor responded, his eyes wide. Clearly, this was something new to him. He glanced at Willow, grinning. "Hi."

"Still think ghosts aren't real?" she asked, shivering in his arms.

"Well, they're definitely something, aren't they?" he remarked.

She glimpsed back at the stranger standing behind them. "Who's this?"

"Charles Dickens." The Doctor announced.

Willow raised her eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yep." He uttered, popping his lips.

She'd studied Oliver. Hell, she'd been in a secondary school production of Oliver. Not by choice -- her teachers forced her because they didn't have enough boys in the ensemble. The songs were in her head for weeks on end.

"Okay..." Willow cleared her throat, nodding at him. "... Hello."

The author's gaze was too transfixed to acknowledge her greeting. A fair response considering the presence of the living dead.

The Doctor was unmoved -- unafraid to address these mysterious beings. "My name's the Doctor. Who are you, then? What do you want?

The man replied, his voice overlapped with many others. "Failing. Open the rift. We're dying. Trapped in this form. Cannot sustain. Help us."

Simultaneously, they leaned their heads back, a coarse gasp resounding from their throats. The pair of possessed corpses screeched in anguish, the "spirits" releasing their hold on the bodies and fleeing back through their mouths. The blue streams returned to the gas lamps, vanishing as their hosts collapsed, dead once more.

Ghosts, Christmas Eve and Charles Dickens -- what are the chances?

***

Never before had Willow experienced such wrath, it raged in her core. The second they all gathered in the drawing room for a spot of tea, her anger emerged. "What the hell was that? How could you just leave me in there with a couple of cadavers?!" she yelled at the man who drugged her into unconsciousness. "Possessed cadavers, might I add." Her arms swept every which way. "It's bad enough that you chloroformed then kidnapped me, but leaving me to die takes the biscuit."

The funeral director, Gabriel Sneed, sat before her with a reddened face. "I won't be spoken to like this!"

"Oh, I'll speak to you in whatever manner I like because I am furious! You got that, you short, old man?" Her reply drew him into stunned silence. In the corner of her eye, she could see the Doctor's amused stare, admiring her bravery. "So, what's going on? What's with the freaky ghost zombies?"

"It's not my fault! It's this house!" His fingers tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, his mouth quivering. "It always had a reputation. Haunted. But I never had much bother until a few months back, and then the stiffs..." The old man hesitated, acknowledging the careless phrasing of his sentence. "... The er, dear departed started getting restless."

"Tommyrot," remarked Charles Dickens, his tone biting.

Sneed leaned forward in his plump chair. "You witnessed it! Can't keep the beggars down, sir. They walk. And it's the queerest thing, but they hang on to scraps. One old fellow who used to be a sexton almost walked into his own memorial service." He recounted. "Just like the old lady going to your performance, sir, just as she planned."

It wasn't enough to convince the author. He stood up from his chair, grimacing. "Morbid fancy."

This time, the Doctor fought back. "Oh, Charles, you were there."

His face tightened, his chin jutting. "I saw nothing but an illusion."

"That's not what I saw, mate. I felt that dead man have a little wander," her head snapped towards the old mortician, "as did you, Mister Sneed."

The funeral director bowed his head in shame as the Doctor raised his voice towards Charles. "If you're going to deny it, don't waste my time. Just shut up." The author's expression shifted, now driven into stunned silence. The Doctor looked at Sneed. "What about the gas?

"That's new, sir. Never seen anything like that." He confessed.

The Doctor's head bobbed. "Means it's getting stronger, the rift's getting wider and something's sneaking through.

"I'm sorry, the rift?" He'd never mentioned that before. It would have been useful to know that before Willow wandered off.

"A weak point in time and space. A connection between this place and another. That's the cause of ghost stories, most of the time." He explained.

Sneed, despite not fully understanding what the Doctor was talking about, seemed to confirm his suspicions. "That's how I got the house so cheap. Stories going back generations." Dickens fled the room as he spoke, slamming the door behind him. He glanced at his maid, Gwyneth, who sat in eerie silence. "Echoes in the dark, queer songs in the air, and this feeling like a shadow passing over your soul." Immediately, he dropped the ominous act as he looked back at Willow. "Mind you, truth be told, it's been good for business. Just what people expect from a gloomy old trade like mine."

She pursed her lips. "Yeah, well, death's not a stupid pantomime, mate."

***

A lit match against a gas lamp brought a roaring flame to life, granting Gwyneth and Willow some light in the kitchen. As Willow took a dish rag and a dirty plate, the maid turned to her. "Please, miss, you shouldn't be helping. It's not right."

"Why not? Because I don't work in this household?"

"Because you're not a maid."

"So, what? I still have some decency." Yet, Gwyneth held out her hand, her eyes pleading for the dish rag. "Okay, I'll dry and you wash. How about that?" The maid nodded and Willow handed the dish rag back to her. "I do this with my family back home." She told her, searching for a clean towel. "Honestly, you shouldn't be working here by yourself anyway. Has Sneed got any other staff around here?"

"They all ran off, I'm afraid," she informed her, "but I stayed."

Willow located a cream rag and began to unfold it. "How much does he pay you?"

"Eight pound a year, miss." She answered.

She froze, her jaw going slack. "A year?"

Gwyneth shook her head. "I know. I would've been happy with six." Despite her place of work being haunted, the young woman appeared quite content with her circumstances.

"So did you go to school?" she wondered.

The maid peered over her shoulder. "Of course I did. What do you think I am, an urchin? I went every Sunday, nice and proper."

"Once a week?" her eyes widened. "God, I wish I was that lucky. I hated it there."

"Me too." The women shared a brazen giggle, amused by their similarities. "Don't tell anyone, but one week, I didn't go and ran on the heath all on my own."

They laughed again. "Yeah, I tried my best to stay in school," she scratched the bridge of her nose, "But it could be hard sometimes." School was a place where young boys felt the need to be handsy because of their burgeoning puberty, and girls could hate someone for being the slightest bit different from the herd. "I skipped a few times, actually. Often to spy on this sixth-form boy who worked at a coffee shop. He was so fit."

Gwyneth's eyes bulged, her laughter ceasing. "Well, I don't know much about that, miss."

As she turned back to the washbasin, Willow goaded her, resting a hand on her hip. "Come on, you must have fancied a boy or two."

She harshly scrubbed a bowl clean. "I don't think so, miss."

"I'm not Mister Sneed, you know. I'm a young woman just like you." After living with Jackie and Rose for years on end, there's nothing Willow hadn't heard before. "I bet there's someone out there you like."

"I suppose." Her pale cheeks flushed. "There this is one lad. The butcher's boy. He comes by every Tuesday. Such a lovely smile on him."

"Oh, I'm sure." She remarked. "Told my little sister that the perfect man has to have a good smile and a nice bum."

Gwyneth's eyelids fluttered, her gaze darting back and forth. "Well, I have never heard the like."

It was a shame that, despite having a woman on the throne, their gender still wasn't widely accepted. Willow was lucky to live in a time where vices were accepted and modesty was more of an option than a demand some of the time.

"Why don't you ask him out?" suggested Willow. "Like, I don't know, take him out to the theatre or maybe brew him a good cup of tea? I mean, it would be worth it for a little snog, wouldn't it?"

"I swear it is the strangest thing, miss." Her lips curved into a wide grin. "You've got all the clothes and the breeding, but you talk like some sort of wild thing."

She considered the remark and nodded. "I guess so." Willow bit the inside of her cheek, glancing off to the side. "I don't know how to be me around people, to be honest." She was good at putting on a front, but it was hard with her abilities reminding her she'd never feel normal. "But I think some new company would do you some good, Gwyneth. You can't stay with Mister Sneed all your life."

Her smile disappeared and the young woman bowed her head. "Oh, now that's not fair. He's not so bad, old Sneed. He was very kind to me to take me in because I lost my mum and dad to the flu when I was twelve."

Willow grew quiet. "Oh, Gwyneth, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, miss. But I'll be with them again, one day, sitting with them in paradise. I shall be so blessed. They're waiting for me." She said. "Maybe your gran's up there waiting for you too, miss."

"I'd like to think so." Her forehead wrinkled, tilting her head slightly. "Wait, how do you know about my gran?"

Gwyneth shrugged, continuing to wash up. "I don't know. Must have been the Doctor."

She shook her head. "No, I haven't told him that." 

"But you've been thinking about her more than ever, right?" She gestured to Willow's gloved hand. "You're even wearing her ring. She must have meant a great deal to you."

Willow looked down at her finger, her eyes narrowing. There was no way she could have known that. "... Gwyneth, how were you able to find Mrs Redpath at the theatre?"

"Wasn't it obvious from the screams?" She released a faint, suspicious chuckle. "Mister Sneed says I think too much. I'm all alone down here. I bet you've got dozens of servants, haven't you, miss?"

She scoffed, unable to control her smile. "Does it look like I have servants?"

Gwyneth spun back, admiring the young woman's outfit. "Well, I'm sure that dress is worth a pretty penny or two."

Whoever wore it first certainly had a pleasant upbringing. "Yeah, but I'm really not from around here."

"No, you're not." She stared intently into Willow's eyes. "You've come such a long way."

Her brows furrowed, her face falling. "Why'd you say that?"

"You're from London. I've seen London in drawings, but never like that. All those people rushing about half-naked, for shame." Gwyneth's irises twitched, growing large and then small. "And the noise, and the metal boxes racing past, and the birds in the sky, no, they're metal as well. Metal birds with people in them. People are flying." 

Her focus stayed on Willow, yet the young woman seemed to look through her as she described the modern world. How she could know any of this astounded her, even Gwyneth herself appeared unsure.

"And you, you've flown so far. Further than anyone. The things you've seen. The darkness..." Fear flickered in her gaze. "... The Big Bad Wolf." She stumbled back, her body slamming into the kitchen cabinets. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, miss."

"No, it's all right. It's all right." She assured her. 

"I can't help it. Ever since I was a little girl, my mam said I had the sight. She told me to hide it." Gwyneth's words took her back. All her life, Willow tried to hide her ability, knowing it wouldn't be believed. And here was a young woman in a similar situation. Someone just like her.

Before she could question further, the Doctor made his presence known in the kitchen doorway. "But it's getting stronger, more powerful, is that right?"

Startled, Gwyneth answered. "All the time, sir. Every night, voices in my head."

"You grew up on top of the rift. You're part of it. You're the key." If that's so, then what did that make Willow? As far as she knew, there was no rift in London. The Doctor would tell her if there was. Then again, he didn't even realise she had a similar gift.

"I've tried to make sense of it, sir." She mentioned. "Consulted with spiritualists, table rappers, all sorts." Con artists. They knew less than she did what made her so special.

"Well, that should help. You can show us what to do." He remarked to the young women's collective bewilderment.

"What to do where, sir?" she asked.

"We're going to have a seance."

***

I wanted to get this out in time for Christmas since it technically is a festive episode. Not one of my favourites, admittedly. But I enjoy its short and simple narrative structure. Yeah, ever since I took a screenwriting module, I've become a big fan of good narrative structures.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and I hope you've all had a wonderful year. Thank you so much for 8K reads. If you enjoyed this chapter, then it make my Christmas if you voted and commented because it really does mean a lot to me.

- Alice.