The Time of Change

Elizabeth's Credentials

I'm finally able to remove my touch from the painting, and I step back, breathless. Beside me, still holding tight to my hand, is the Doctor. No time seems to have passed, but I feel like I've been gone for years. As if sensing my unease, my husband peers at me sideways.

    "The Time War's over," I say to Kate. "Why've you brought us here to look at a painting of it?"

    She moves into my line of vision on the other side of the Doctor. "The painting only serves as Elizabeth's credentials," she tells us, "proof that the letter is from her. It's not why you're here." She gestures at the letter in the Doctor's hand, then moves to stand with her assistant.

    "What is it?" he asks me, his voice going unheard by the others as they softly converse with one another.

    I meet his eye. "This," I whisper in reply as I nod toward the artwork, "is definitely why we're here."

    With a thoughtful frown, he carefully breaks the ornate wax seal on the envelope. He unfolds the parchment to reveal more exceptional calligraphy and tilts it so that I can read alongside him.

    My dearest love,

I hope the painting known as 'Gallifrey Falls' will serve as proof that it is your Elizabeth who writes to you now. You will recall that you pledged yourself to the safety of my kingdom. In this capacity I have appointed you curator of the Under Gallery, where deadly danger to England is locked away. Should any disturbance occur within its walls, it is my wish that you be summoned. God speed, gentle husband.

    The Doctor looks up, perturbed. I raise my eyebrows at him and flick my gaze down at the word "husband;" he returns a guilty, tight-lipped smile. Then he turns to Kate. "What happened?" he asks.

    She says curtly, "Easier to show you," and leaves the room. The Doctor glances at me, takes one last look at Gallifrey Falls, and sighs. Folding up the letter once more and stowing it in his jacket pocket, he pulls me toward the exit.

    As we cross the room, the man who unveiled the painting removes his cellphone when it gives off a tinkling ring. "McGillop," he answers it. He listens for a moment, then peers at the phone screen. "But that's not possible," he says. "I was just—" He waits. "Understood, sir. But why would I take it there?"

    The Doctor and I try to keep up with Kate and her quick strides as she leads us into another hallway, which ends in not a door but a wall. This time, there is a curtain over what she is apparently going to show us. A thick gold pulley hangs on the far right, and she nods at Osgood to pull it. The young lady sniffs once and does so. The curtain parts, slowly revealing a woman with a kind but strained smile, and—

    No way.

    The face of the previous Doctor meets our eyes, and my heart gives a lovesick lurch at the sight of him: sticky-uppy hair, crooked nose, intelligent smirk—the works. I would know his face anywhere, even after all this time. He's dressed in an uncomfortable-looking corset-type shirt with a comically high collar. I can almost hear him complaining about it. This painting puts all mine to shame with its detail, but it still didn't capture those two eggplant-shaped dimples or the way one eye drooped slightly lower than another. These are things most people probably never noticed, though. I suppose I only remember them because before I learned who I was, his was the face I was always fighting to get back to.

    I take my husband's hand and laugh breathily, "No wonder you didn't want to tell me how you knew her. Elizabeth the First... Couldn't help yourself, could you?"

    "It was a long time ago," the Doctor replies.

    "Bit of a given, love."

    He chuckles once, then goes quiet again. I glance at him. He's staring at the painting but not at the Queen portrayed so regally within it. His gaze is locked where mine is, but in his is an emotion that's rather different from my own. Whereas I felt a detached sense of longing, his eyes shine with something like curiosity and interest, like he has never seen himself before. In the back of my mind, I wonder if he craves those simpler days, back before everything became as complicated as it is. As if he can hear my thoughts, he looks to me and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. I smile at him, then at his past self. Once again I imagine I can hear him speak, and it's a waking dream I welcome.