The sound of her walking seemed to be optional; either her steps were annoyingly slap-sharp or creaky like the upstairs of a haunted house, or so silent she had to look down to make sure she was actually moving. And somehow the walls kept swallowing her cries.

Right-right-left. Left-right-left. Would he make it up those stairs? No. Probably not. Let's try left-left-left.

The machine had now started producing a very different and very insistent noise that quickened her heart rate and closed up her throat and followed her around. Hidden speakers everywhere, had to be. She was getting lightheaded, too; empty stomach. At least the kitchen hadn't been moving.

Through that doorway. Then right.

The bell-shaped doorways would have been brilliant if you had an enormous 18th century dress to swoosh around, all bigger downstairs, but as it was... eh.

Right. Stop. Have a listen. Worry you're getting yourself lost. Continue. More blue-ish metallic corridors. Left-right-right. Doors everywhere. They were much less keen – it seemed, anyway – on slicing off her arms when the Doctor wasn't near, so that was a plus. Metal doors. Stained-glass doors. Snake-skin doors, wallpaper doors, spare blue doors and hanging sheets of vine and solid mist and concrete/i. Wooden Earth-doors that wouldn't give no matter how much she pulled/pushed. General unwelcomeness was getting harder and harder to ignore, but she still had a good feeling about continuing. Snog box, snog box, snogbox snogboxnogbox.

Up tiny ladder. Duck under random curtain. Pass damp-looking knobbly structure, chunks of.

Peek into rooms with; a desk, a well (there was no way she was drinking from that); a squash court; a crumpled hot-air balloon; a hammock and an ice bucket.

Long stretches with grid instead of floor or ceiling; where there were millions of lights. Longer stretches where there were no lights whatsoever. This was what she got for thinking the metal and the lights were everywhere.

Left-right. And her without Mum's ring. If she got properly, desperately lost the Doctor would come and find her, right? She had been so certain of that when she'd gone looking for the kitchen, and he'd been disoriented on the floor then. How could she be less sure now?

Dead end. One door. One closed door. No choice of corners, no hatch, no ladder. Just... one way.

She didn't have a particularly good feeling about this door, but the noise was actually hurting her teeth now. Sighing, she tried not to let annoyance win. Tried. She slapped her hand against the control, hoping for that swooshy sound that meant the path was clear.

There was no swooshy sound.

The door wouldn't open. Course it wouldn't. Not even after fifteen presses and her sliding her forehead against it. "Uhhh, great. Doctor! Where are you!" Again, it was as if the words were absorbed into the walls instead of travelling, echoing.

Time to throw in the towel and find her way back to the tea and her bag and no prospect of sleeping in her own bed tonight. Unless the machine could, like, move the doors so she'd end up somewhere completely different. It couldn't, could it?

Oh, it so definitely would.

She turned her back on the dead end, started humming Artie's current favourite song as noise-blocker, and set off down the corridor.

Just as she paused to make sure no walls had moved before she turned left and then right and then left again, there iwas/i the swooshy sound. Possibly. Or did she imagine it? Was it an echo of some completely different door opening somewhere else entirely? She was so not skipping back to check, all hopeful. Looking over a shoulder was okay – who knew, the Old god's alarm clock could be behind her, in addition to living forever in her nightmares.

The door was open. It really was. It really was and the Doctor was taking up most of it. Looking sad or possibly morose. "Come here!" he cried, beckoning her. "Come on."

Clara spun, put her arms behind her back, and approached him like she did Angie when she was late home. "You are not closing that door in my face."

"Never."

He didn't. He didn't close it behind them either.

They were in a ballroom. An empty ballroom. Talking completely devoid of things, here. No furniture, no carpets, no paintings. Just metal and blue lights, twinkling and making impressive light shows; shooting stars and constellations she'd never seen. The noise was decidedly less noisy, too. "This is better, as hiding places go," she said. "Next time, though, don't let me in."

"I'll remember that." He sighed. "Can't have you wandering around looking for me."

"There's a pretty simple solution to that."

"I know." He sank to the floor just next to the doorway, back to the wall, bending his legs with effort. "Sorry. I shouldn't..."

Great, now she'd have to jump over his legs to get out of here. Which felt downright easy, really, compared to the rest. "Shouldn't what?"

"I want to be alone. The TARDIS will guide you to the console room, or the library, or a bedroom, or the pool or wherever you want to go." Having said that, he pressed his face into the corner, accentuating the angular features almost too much.

Clara didn't have the heart for a chin joke. "You don't."

"Eh?" he said, muffled.

"Not really. You wouldn't have let me come after you if you really had." She sank down next to him, tucked her ankles under herself. There was a grey smear across her dress, dark blue base, fun pattern and all. Great. So much for the sensible clothes choice. Does Bold get out other planet dust? "I was looking forward to this. Yeah. I thought it would be just... the best trip."

"I know, I'm sorry. The Rings seemed like a good first time... A place to see."

"You keep leaving me."

"I'm taking you home. I'm sorry."

"Not ready." She rested her arms on her thighs, scratched the finger that used to carry the ring. "You can take me home in a bit."

What she could see of his face was full of oddly protruding bones and wrinkles in places people didn't usually have wrinkles, and his shirtsleeves were still stupidly white. What's your story? she wanted to ask. Because there was a child and a grandchild at some point.

He'd been better when Merry had touched him and Merry had Mind Powers that Clara definitely didn't. Couldn't hurt to try? Possibly? She couldn't come to stay and have another person die right in front of her. No-o, so not having that. Happy thoughts were the key, had to be.

"Could you turn towards me? Just a little? Talking to the back of your head really isn't improving the conversation." Best start with something human, she thought, and smoothed some of the hair from his face, tucked a few strands behind his ears. She could have gone for a hug, but wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't run away again. "That thing Merry did before we got back here? What was that?"

"A bit of psychic comforting. Like – like a handshake. A farewell."

"Can I try?"

He scoffed at her, but both mirth and fear danced in his eyes. Odd combo, really. Then he swallowed. "Why not?"

"Okay. Here goes." She wet her lips and took a breath. Trying to do it like Merry had, she touched the skinned tips of her three longest fingers to his temples. The Doctor obediently closed his eyes, but his lips were pressed together to the point of trembling. "Relax. I'm not going to suck the memories out of you. Not even if you ask me to."

She felt the pulses beat in his temples, and closed her eyes as well. Happy thoughts. Had to be happy thoughts, right... Psychometry, sentimental value, telekinesis, thinking happy thoughts... Dad pushing her on the swings Mum's hands cracking eggs 101 places to see her own hands making the perfect meringue the light of an alien sun I know where I am

"You're pressing your nails into my skull!"

"I'm trying to help!"

"Well, you aren't. Help how?"

"Thinky pat on the back?" She cracked on eye open, then the other. He stared at her. It suddenly felt really pressingly awkward having her fingers on his face. "Am I supposed to rub, then?"

Slapping at her hands like a two-year old batting the spoon-plane with mashed carrots away, the Doctor didn't seem overly keen on that. "Get your tiny, sharp fingers away from my head!"

"Again, very welcome."

"You're attempting psychic soothing without the proper training, without the right touch, with – with questionable intentions."

"Oi! Don't knock my intentions. Did I ask you about yours before you took me to another planet?"

"Yes, I thought you did?"

"Sorry?"

He waved everything away, still more two-year old than anything else. "Clara, I'm fine, I don't need you rummaging around in my mind."

"I wasn't going to do any rummaging."

"Then... let me do it."

In theory, she should probably worry about that sudden gleam in his eye – in reality, she was just happy he was warming to her idea. "You want to give yourself a thinky handshake?"

"I want to help you... help me."

She shrugged, folded her hands in her lap. "You're the expert."

"Okay," he said, getting that intense look that meant... something. "Your mind will touch mine, mine might touch yours, briefly. I might catch an echo of thoughts you weren't planning to share. Psychic overspill, completely normal."

"I'll still keep my thoughts, right? And they'll stay in my body, right?"

"Of course! Of course. Clara!" He wrapped his long fingers around the back of her head, smoothing her hair; leaning towards her, closing his eyes. For a fraction of a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he touched his forehead to hers. "Right, then. Just... relax."

She closes her eyes again; looking right then felt startlingly intimate. A jolt of fear rolled around in her stomach, because this wasn't like awkward physical contact where he could simply say "Time to let go" when he got scared and it'd be okay, but she really did want to help... He moved his head ever so slightly to the left and then to the right, and then slightly down so the tips of their noses almost almost touched. She could still see the many lights dance on the backs of her eyelids.

"Are you thinking?" he asked; the loudest whisper ever.

"Mm-hmm." I know where I am moving to London first bike could you help me with my homework Clara I love you

"Good. Keep going."

She felt a rush of solid reassurances – not just his words but something else – slipping down the back of her neck and spreading to every part of her; to her smarting fingers and aching toe and stiff back; to the roots of her hair and her kneecaps and the inside of her mouth. She could stop worrying... he'd be okay... she'd get home to Angie and Artie and her own room. Her bruised head and thigh and that aching tiredness behind her eyes all eased and floated above her, dissipated. Fresh flowers first sip of tea in the morning night out with Sasha and Caroline her Dad reading her the paper over the phone Mum dancing

"Good, you're doing great," he said, and he pulled away slowly, slowly, leaving her forehead feeling cold and full of pressure. "So... who are you, Clara?"

"Now you're being weird," she said, after forcing herself to open her eyes and form words with tongue, not just think them. His face was so close she was going cross-eyed looking at him, and he asked things like that? "Feel better?"

"Yes, actually, thank you." He did look relieved. And flushed. And curious.

Then he moved his hands, from cradling her head to smoothing the tips of her hair and she thought she'd never be able to hold herself up on her own but it wasn't a problem, after all, "Catch a whiff of my thoughts?" Her lips felt numb, tingly... tongue all slippery. She hadn't caught a thing of what he'd been thinking, which felt really, really great, honestly.

"One or two."

"Let's hear them, then."

"You're hungry."

"I know you can do better than that."

"You're excited," he said slowly, "to go back to your own bed." He sagged against the wall, looking like he'd just had a good run and was full of endorphins and all that good stuff. His legs looked all loose and limber, now, not at all stiff and creaky.

Clara felt kind of the same. "Yep. You've seen my bed. It's a nice one."

"Your parents..."

"My parents."

After keeping his mouth open for a bit too long, he obviously moved on. "You don't like my kitchen."

"Nope. You've got two terrible kitchens, unless you count the wet sack in a corner, in which case three and the wet sack was the best."

"I have dozens of kitchens, hundreds probably, we'll find you one you like. If you stumble on one with something cooking it's best to just let it be. Haven't got to the fire drill yet."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Anything else?"

"No, nothing. Nothing... apparent."

"Those were the thoughts at the forefront of my mind? Really?"

He shrugged. "Could be worse. How're you feeling?"

"Tired, sort of happy. We should do this again." Maybe not too often, but really, how much danger could his head be in on a daily basis? Next time they could do it in her room, though... she could weasel a chapter or two out of him. There was this eating of memories, as well, but it could wait. "Do the same for me?"

"Always. And... there's some chocolate and a very nice blueberry cordial in my pocket, if you want them."

"In your trouser pocket?"

"Yes. At least, that's where I put them."

"Oh, why not, give me." She patted his leg, a spot closer to the thigh and... less close to the knee than she'd intended. "I promised to tell you the story. Might as well do it in the giant empty ballroom overlooking the corridor."

"Story?"

"My leaf. Page one."

The Doctor turned slightly toward her, oddly wordless in his encouragement.

"It's the story my Mum and Dad told me, and it takes a while, so get comfy," she started, leaning her head against the wall and not on his shoulder, but near it. "I blew into this world on that leaf. Not much to hold on to, but I did it; it's in the grip, see. I thought my parents were lonely, so I decided to join them..."