Doctor Who [4.01] Weltschmerz

Chapter 2

Seven o’clock the next evening, the Doctor was strolling towards to Her Majesty’s Theatre - he always found it paid to be early - and he was thinking. Well, he was always thinking. This time it wasn’t about Rose though, he thought, and that was something. He had gone over that last conversation in his head so, so many times … he’d never said it … not once, not in the whole time they knew each other, but she had to have known …

He shook his head and shook the thoughts away as best he could, berating himself that he had slipped into his rut again. He put his thoughts back where they were before he had distracted himself: that young woman he had met the day before and how intriguing she was. For one, she hadn’t gaped at him like so many other people did upon learning his name - she just took it as it was and if that was his name, so be it.

He glanced around the street and spotted a florist’s on the other side: darting across the lane, his trench flying out behind him as he dodged a car, he plunged his hand into his pocket and grabbed a few pound notes, still stuffed in there from Christmas before last. He opened the door and scanned the shop, contemplated for a moment just how much he liked shops, and found what he was looking for: roses. He bought a dozen and left the shop, returning to his path to the theatre.

Upon reaching the theatre (about 7.20), he jogged up the steps and gave his ticket to the man at the door. Making his way to the foyer, he stopped a rather harried-looking gofer and inquired politely, holding up the flowers: “Excuse me sir, but d‘you happen to know where I could find the dressing room of Miss Diehl?”

The young man looked a bit alarmed. “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Diehl’s in a bit of a state and isn’t fit for visitors.”

“Oh, but I’m a good friend. Surely you could run along and tell her the Doctor’s come to--” He stopped cold, looking over the boy’s shoulder at Emily, who was standing there in full costume, her hair half-done and seeming quite flustered. “Why hello Miss Diehl, we were just talking about you.”

“I- er- um, hello Doctor, I didn’t expect … why have you got flowers?”

He glanced from the wrapped bouquet to her and back. “Oh, um, performance gift, thought it might be nice - I do hope you like roses?”

“Yes, but isn’t that traditionally given after the performance?” she questioned, one eyebrow raised.

“Eleven for good luck before the performance and one as congratulations after?” he countered, scratching the back of his neck. (The young man had snuck away and disappeared down a corridor.)

“Oh, well then … why did you want me?”

“To give you the roses of course, but am I to understand something’s wrong?” He walked forward, coming up to her. “You look rather … unprepared.”

She froze for a moment and blushed slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her head, then she threw her arms up in the air and sank onto a pouffe. “We’ve lost our Demetrius and this is the final performance!”

“Ooh, that’s not good … ” He winced and sat down beside her. “What’s happened?”

“He’s taken ill and isn’t at home.” Emily groaned and shook her head, an English accent becoming more pronounced. “We don’t know where he is really, we’re just kind of assuming he’s ill … ”

“You get more British when you get upset.” He smiled, quietly amused.

“I do, yeah, family of performers, my British accent’s good, tends to happen - now what are we going to do?” She looked at him imploringly then buried her face in her hands. “Unless you’re amazingly good at memorizing lines, the final show won’t go on and Prince William’s supposed to be here - can you get unluckier than that?”

He sat there for a moment, thinking things over, then turned back as what she said hit him. “Hold on, did you just say ‘unless I’m good at memorizing lines’?”

Emily turned to him and met his eyes. “Yes I did, but I wasn’t serious - and by the way, you have lovely eyes.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I suppose, but as a matter of fact I am … Demetrius, you said?”

“Yes, Demetrius.” She looked astonished. “You don’t mean to say you can memorize a main character in … ” She checked her watch. “Thirty minutes?”

He shrugged. “Well … I don’t mean to be immodest, but … ” But she was already gone, sprinting down the hallway and calling for a Mr Buckley, saying they had a Demetrius and could she have a raise for finding one.

“But I’ve already got it memorized … ” He shook his head and sprinted after her.

---

The stage was set, the actors were dressed, and one of them was speaking: Hermia - a young, happy-looking woman with curly hair. Lysander, a gent with short black hair, stood behind.

“God speed, fair Helena! Whither away?”

Emily, playing Helena, whirled, her hair a mess and her eyes red from crying.
“Call you me fair? That fair again unsay.” She coughed, sobbed, and her shoulders sank.
“Demetrius loves your fair -- oh, happy fair!” She stepped closer, looking somewhat crazed.
“Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.” She coughed again, swaying on the spot.
“Sickness is catching. O, were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go —
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.” She looked away, Hermia and Lysander more than a bit shocked.
“Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I’d give to you to be translated.”
She turned back to Hermia, taking her hand and imploring her.
“Oh, teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart!”

As she finished her little monologue, Emily’s thoughts cast to the one playing Demetrius tonight … how honourably he had done so far … and how cute he was. She was much more into her performance tonight than she had been before, and she had no doubt that it was due to the change in actor. Those eyes …

And later on, when Demetrius woke, enamoured with Helena, it was all she could do not to murder the script and hug the man. She restrained herself, however, with the thought that she had just met him yesterday. And who knows - he might be taken. Honestly, the woman who caught him was one lucky lady.

---

Long after the performance, when all the other cast had left, the Doctor came by Emily’s dressing-room and knocked on the door. He’d found out from the other cast members that she was off to Paris the next day for an opera, and figured she’d still be packing up.

“Hello, Emily, are you in there?”

“Oh, yes, sorry Doctor — hang on a mo —” A muffled bang, a muffled exclamation, and the door opened onto a ruffled-looking Emily, still half in costume, Helena’s skirt accompanying a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt. “Do come in.”

He entered, laid the last rose of the dozen on her table, and crouched, picking up shards of what seemed to be a vase. “D’you break something?”

“Yeah, just an old vase, I’ll pay for it out of my fee … Packing up, knocked it off.” She put several books in a suitcase and turned to him. “I thought you would have left by now.”

He looked up from picking up the ceramic. “Had to give you that last rose.”

“Ah.” She turned back to the suitcase.

The Doctor stopped, staring at one of the shards in his hand. “Hold on, did you say this vase was old?”

“Yeah. It’s been here ever since anyone can remember. No one liked it … but none of us was brave enough to break it.”

“‘Cause it’s … could be … um … ”

“A conversation piece?” she asked, slightly sarcastically.

“What? No. Well, yes. Well … see, it’s got a symbol on it.” The Doctor turned the pieces over in his hands even as the young woman continued packing.

“Yeah, I know. Like I said, none of us liked that vase.”

“Why not? The colour?”

“Nah, it … ” She exhaled and turned to him, her eyebrows furrowed and her head tilted. “We just didn’t. Kris gave it to me the night before … ” She blinked.

“Night before what? And Kris is?” He was looking up at her intently now.

“The night before he left.” She looked concerned now. “He was the one who played Demetrius, the one whose place you took. He gave that to me last night. He said he couldn’t stand it in his room anymore, he just felt … look, you know the Scottish play?”

“Macbeth, yeah?” He shrugged. “Another Shakespeare.”

She clutched at her heart. “Good thing I don’t play Sir M! You just killed him!”

“Oh, curses schmurses, Carrionites are easy pickings …”

“Carrionites?” Her face shifted to a puzzled expression.

“Nothing, go on, tell me more.” He waved it off with his hand.

She raised one eyebrow and gave him a searching look before finally continuing. “Its name gives a lot of actors the heebie-jeebies, if you know what I mean, especially when they’ve acted in it or some such relationship. That statue gave us the same sort of feeling, like it wasn’t safe, like it was … ”

“Watching you?” His voice had gone low, and his dark brown eyes were concerned.

“... Yeah. Like someone was watching your back.” She looked away, leaning back on the table, and scratched her head. “Funny thing is, though, some kid actor tried to smash it a while back - it got to him like it did Kris. He threw it off the second balcony and into the orchestra pit. Not a dent - not a scratch - not a crack. He left next day: walked out.”

“I see.” The Doctor merely frowned, while Emily shrugged.

“Why does it matter? Probably just some bit of lore. An ancient symbol, we’ve come to associate it with evil subconsciously …”

“Then how would I know?” He was staring at the pottery again. “I’m not an actor, and I’m not …”

“Not what?”

He didn‘t answer. Instead, he looked at her intently for several seconds and finally said, “Maybe you’d better come with me.”