The Storyteller

The Clue

The Rygellian pirates had lain dormant underneath the city, much like an inactive virus waiting for the right moment to strike and since the dead tell no tales we were -ironically- left in the dark.

Just think of Paris as one giant abstract human body and Gustave's organization as the white blood cells, the city's immune system, dedicated to keeping it safe from harm. Safe from foreign elements, such as myself.

I don't blame them for doing their jobs but I do blame them for not doing it right. How did these people slip past them unnoticed?

These were questions. Questions that needed to be answered and if I had known I would have. However, this was one piece of the puzzle that hadn't caught my attention yet.

But it caught yours, Amy.

Locked inside a drawer in Gustave's study was a file, a top secret file, that pointed the way towards the crux of this entire tale. Something that had been obvious from the entire beginning.

You hurt yourself as you bumped into the oak desk it was locked inside, scared by the banging on the doors.

"Open this door!"

You made an honest soldier quite mad that afternoon, Amy, and of course who wouldn't be when you throw a cup of boiling hot coffee into their face?

Gustave had locked the door behind him so you had no other choice to run upstairs and lock yourself inside his study. Oh, how I envied you! Standing inside Mr Eiffel's study.

Just imagine the building plans and engineering sketches framed upon the walls, the portrait of himself in the corner of the study, the stamp of his genius on every book. Of course, you didn't have to. You were there.

You knocked over an umbrella stand and a pot of ink that had been standing atop his desk awaiting its master. It spilled all over important documents! You silly girl!

You saved a book from the ink onslaught and within a blink of an eye you recognised the name 'Bernárd' underneath the words 'Property Of'. It was a Latin study book.

You were so close.

They were banging on the other end of the door and you could picture their faces. Usually it was your cross aunt shouting at the other end that dinner was ready or that your ugly boyfriend Rory was at the door again...

Who?

Right. Of course...No-one. He's no-one. I was saying...

You knew who it were on the other side of that door. A poor soldier drenched in hot coffee and a nervous manservant fiddling with a master's key of the house in his hands.

A single chair propped up against the doorknob wasn't going to stop them getting in.

"I'm a hostage! You can't shoot me!" You were getting quite desperate.

You looked for ways out of the study. A giant window. From there you could see into the garden but if you jumped there was a risk of falling straight down upon the sharp, black fence.

And trust me, you didn't want to go to a French hospital in 1889. Back then primitive medical minds thought the best way to revive a drowning man is to blow smoke up their bottom.

Honestly, sometimes I really can't believe the things the human race believed.

Were the Time Lords never like this in their own past?

Well...

From certain points of view there never was a past for the Time Lords.

However, Gallifreyan culture was born from a paradox. A man from the future established basic education at the dawn of our civilization and we never looked back since. But there's always a price for knowledge unearned.

It's a lesson many refused to learn: that there's no substitute for actual field work. Hence, there's me!

But sometimes it does help to write things down. Memories don't last forever. Some things get lost in time, forgotten, erased even...

Remember that, Amy. Remember...

And then there was a BANG.

A gunshot shattered the lock and missed you by a breath, but it hit the desk and shattered another lock.

They were cursing in French on the other side of the door, fighting amongst themselves for shooting at the door and you ducked for cover behind the desk.

You were practically sitting in it. If you hadn't been careful you would've gotten a wood splinter stuck in your hand or even a paper cut.

Then you found it. The file had been scattered across the floor at your feet but you don't need to read an entire file when you've got a single picture that can tell a thousand words.

Of course, without the words the picture doesn't make any sense. It could've been anything.

Photography in the 19th century had only just begun to discover its potential. All you were holding there was a grainy, black and white timelapse photo of a particularly strange event.

You could make out the shape of a beach in the picture but the rest was an all-too familiar mystery.

Then you picked up the other pages and started reading. A story begun to unfold and things soon started to make sense.

I love that moment, that Eureka moment, don't you?

"Oh, the Doctor's going to love this..." you said and you were right.

The soldier and the butler started fighting amongst themselves and the soldier's rifle went off in the struggle and it pierced the door and shattered the window.

Quickly you saw an opportunity had presented itself and by the time they had fought their way into the master's study you were halfway down the garden.

Naturally, this wasn't the first time you'd escaped a second floor window.

You have nó idea.

"Stop her!"

You were quite proud of yourself even though half of it was luck. Most of it.

You knew to quickly blend into the crowds where your pursuers could not find you and your clothing suddenly stopped bothering you.

Eiffel's Tower towered over the rest of the city -as towers quite often do- and it became your reference point of the city, your focal point of travel, knowing that I would join you there very soon.

Then a German Panzer Tank nearly knocked you off your feet. That wasn't supposed to be there.

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