"A parlour scene?" The Doctor drifts again toward Clara. Again, Lizzie's clutching hand draws him back. "That's now how I would describe this at all, Mrs Lees." He glances at Elizabeth. Her brow is knit, thoughts drawing her deep into herself. That won't work. He needs her here. After all, she's the one with the mysterious plan. She's the one who told him everything would be alright, that she knew what to do. He needs her right here next to him. He needs her here because, looking small and perplexed and distant, she is a sign of weakness. It might not be true. In fact, he is steadily coming to believe that Elizabeth is stronger than ever. But Sieverts and Lees might not be so attuned.

"Oh, of course," he says, with an eye roll, chiding his own stupidity. He nudges Elizabeth, trying to jolt her back, "Of course, of course, you wouldn't know what a parlour scene is. A bit outside of your experiences yet. A parlour scene, Elizabeth, is what happens at the end of a detective story. It's the part where the nice investigator, which would be me, stands in a room full of villains and red herrings, and lays out exactly how things really happened and at the end he points at the killer. Big gasp, big arrest, big finale."

She's not listening. She's not any nearer to him than she was before. Hard to blame her, really. It must be so fresh to her, the terror of Sieverts' touch. To be back in the room with him. To have him staring at her the way he is…

The Doctor unwinds Lizzie's hand from around his arm. He takes her by both shoulders and takes her to the second couch. Lees is sitting up now, making space for her, stroking the velvet all in one direction. Lees welcomes her, guiding her down when the Doctor has to let go.

Her dress is white now. She wears the wound in her shoulder with pride, like a corsage. There is meaning to it, and though the Doctor doesn't understand it right away, he notes that her hair and lips are redder, that her eyes sparkle, that her skin is pale and pure. A damned bride, those are the words that cross his mind, the phrase that makes her fit again, and it is the damned bride who is winding one of Elizabeth's curls around her finger.

By now Sieverts is on his feet. He's at the Doctor's shoulder. The Doctor can feel him there. It is nothing like the sense of Lizzie's power; this makes him want to run very far, very quickly in the other direction.

He manages to crush it down to a slightly quickened shuffle in the first few steps he takes towards the twin beds. He also, and this he is very proud of and you must pay attention and give small applause and pat his back, picks up the thread of what he was saying. "But there can be no parlour scene here. We all know how the crimes were committed. Mrs Lees uses her not-inconsiderable powers to offer a target their heart's desire, in exchange for what you, Mr Sieverts, want to take from them. Whether this is your business or your pleasure or some form of sustenance, I neither know nor… nor care. Isn't that odd? I can't remember the last time I didn't care about something. Especially about a motive. But it's funny, isn't it, what a situation will do to you…"

For just a moment he is standing in between Adam and Clara. From the nearest post of each bed hang small glass vials on gold chains. He could have cared why Sieverts does what he does. He could have cared, even though he's unlikely to ever have a straight answer or be in any position to figure it out. But all his caring is sapped, eaten up in the overwhelming relief of seeing that Clara's vial is full, and the overwhelming guilt of privileging that over his pity for the other man. There is barely enough glimmering dust in the other vial to cling to the corners.

He sits by Clara, touches her cheek. Her skin is cool.

"No, this isn't much of a parlour scene at all, is it, Mr Sieverts?"

With a slowly splitting grin, Sieverts shakes his head. "No. No, this is barter-and-trade, Doctor. It's hard to say where my dear Toffee got that idea from. As if anything could happen here but what I had anticipated."

The Doctor picks up Clara's vial on its chain. "Mine in exchange for hers."

"Oh, come now. It's not as bleak as all that. The old heart's-desire clause applies. For the sake of tradition, if nothing else. Toffee can provide you with any dream you care to name. World peace might stretch her, but I'm sure with sedatives and calming music, she m-"

"No, thank you," the Doctor snaps.

His eyes are still on Clara. Sieverts' hand is faster than he can flinch and grabs the back of his neck.

There's no pain. He might have expected that, if he had questioned Elizabeth more thoroughly on the experience. If he'd had a chance to speak to Jessica, he wouldn't have doubted it. But there is no pain. There is, in fact, nothing. Nothing at all. Shock is the closest thing to a description he can give. It is quite as though the world has fallen out from beneath his feet. One breath frozen in his lungs, one beat of blood frozen in his veins. He finds himself trapped wholeheartedly in a moment which he remembers, oh so very clearly. That moment, he felt at the time it would never end. It didn't, not for days, not for weeks. Eventually, slowly, he started to move out of it. His hearts beat again, he drew in new air. He remembers those staggered pieces of returning to the world, and thinking that the moment was over. But now he knows. He knows. That moment he thought would never end, it never did. It just lives inside him, waiting for him to go plunging back into it, into the dark and the absolute loss, and the terror of standing in perfect silence at a place where the very walls ought to have been singing.

"What about your wife?"

Clara has faded into grey. Seeing nothing but his own emptiness and grief, a yes hovers behind his lips. The sound of it seeps from him, only wanting his lips to give it form.

A squeal, a screech of crazed laughter.

The Doctor snaps to attention. Sieverts, distracted, releases him. He falls next to Clara like a puppet with cut strings. Who's laughing? Who could possibly be laughing at a time like this?

Please, that laughter, don't let it be anything serious. Please. Please, just let me stay where I am, just a second longer, please.

As it goes on, he starts to realize it belongs to Elizabeth.

Oh, heavens, she's cracked. Maybe that's what that touch does. Delayed reaction. I've got an hour, tops, to save myself. I have to get up. No…

"Oh, Mrs Lees," Elizabeth cries, the moment she has breath to do so, "you are a bloody inspiration! He's your husband, isn't he? The one we call Adam, that poor, doomed thing over there, that's why you're here? He sold his soul for you. And now this powerful, terrifying creature – please, Mr Sieverts, don't take it as a compliment – why, he must be in love with you too!"

Clara's breath, the only warmth left to her, pools on the Doctor's skin. He holds to it and tries to let it draw him back.

But it's not happening fast enough. Elizabeth watches him struggle and knows it's too much. Next to her, Toffee starts to stand up. Elizabeth reaches across her, grabbing her wrist, holding her down in place. "Louis," the woman begins, "I think we broke this one."

"No, but he must, he must!" Elizabeth finds Toffee's too-green eyes and holds them. "What does he need you for? In a minute, in an instant, he could take everything from you. Keep your abilities for himself, sell on your wicked heart-"

"No. No, he can't take the power-"

"Oh, he can."

"No!" Toffee shakes her head, clutching Elizabeth's hand in desperation. She can't say that. Louis can't know that. "No, he wouldn't be able to use it, it would hurt him and-"

Another scream of laughter tears up from Elizabeth's stomach, crippling her. It leaves her sunk in the couch, barely able to lift her head. Her mouth hangs a little open, "Mrs Lees, you're very clever, but you're not that powerful. I am. There is too much going on in my head. Mr Sieverts felt that in the courtyard. Too much of me would break him right open. But you… No, love. You're not that powerful."

"No…" Toffee mutters again. But Elizabeth can't hold her gaze anymore. This last plea wasn't addressed to her, but over her shoulder. Sieverts is crossing the room, leaving the useless Doctor and the sleeping bodies. He passes Elizabeth with barely a glance. She's right, after all. He felt it. It was very strange, to feel pain again. It's been a long time. He couldn't decide if he liked it or not, only knowing that too much of it might have been fatal.

But Toffee… Toffee… His dear girl. She always told him, and with such conviction, that he couldn't take her. It made sense, the way she spun the tale. His reality would fall to pieces if he took on her power. He wouldn't have her control, and every thought would manifest. It would drive him to madness, she told him. It made sense when she said it.

But doesn't he touch her every day? He has spent so many nights holding her wrapped against him, her shaking and cool with sweat, but he himself has never felt any ill-effect. He's found her trembling rather pleasurable, in fact.

Toffee has never hurt to touch.

He approaches her with both hands held out, reaching for her. She staggers up out of her seat, backing away from him.

"Louis, don't listen to her. Christ, she is trying to kill us both, of course she is!" But her voice cracks, thickens with tears. Her fear tells him everything he needs to know. Toffee rages, stabbing a finger into the air past him, pointing at Lizzie, "I'll end you for this. Evil, that's what you are. All I ever wanted to do was save him! My Henry and me, back again, my life back again, that's all I ever wanted." Elizabeth is only looking at her, mildly smiling,

Toffee's panicking eyes flash to the slumped Doctor. He might be beginning to move or it might be wishful thinking. Either way, she screams at him, "You will never know what happened to Jessica Apple without me!"

The Doctor stirs. It won't be enough. Toffee finds her backward steps have brought her to the wall. Louis' approach continues, unhindered, no faster or slower, still reaching. In mere seconds, those hands will close around her head. He can do it in seconds, maybe it will be quick, maybe it won't hurt.

But then, she's spent all those nights, and suffered him so often, and maybe, maybe…

She sinks against the doorframe, creeping towards the ground to give herself extra inches, extra moments of life.

And Louis Sieverts sinks in front of her, buckling first before sinking to his knees.

It doesn't sink in right away, but his hands have dropped back down by his sides. Toffee looks up slowly and finds Elizabeth standing over him. Her palm looks tiny, pressed to the bald expanse of his head. Undeniably, though, it is doing the job.

He was ready to take Toffee, switched on, ready to absorb. Elizabeth has done no more than touch him. Now his eyes have rolled back in his head, his breath comes in shallow gasps. He's suffering, the way so many have suffered by him, under the weight of her infinite knowing.

Toffee crawls away before he can fall against her. "Oh, Miss Goode… Miss Goode, I did not mean it when I called you a witch, I didn-"

"Shut up!" The exchange, currently, is working in both directions. Lizzie is speaking through pain and tears and roars over her shoulder, "Doctor, I can't hold him forever. Get up and settle this with her." He stirs, trying to press up from the bed. "Do it now!"

Very little else has made it through. When he finally does stand up, he's going to have some catching up to do to get on top of the situation. But the Doctor hears the strain that makes Elizabeth so sharp, the urgency. This is the moment. The current one, not the all consuming one. This is the one that exists in the rest of the world. It is the one with the potential to kill or to capture or to unchain more than just his own selfish hearts.

He darts a tiny peck of a kiss to Clara's forehead and shoves against the bed-springs, letting them throw him to his shaky feet. "Yes! Too bloody right. You and me, Missus Lees, need to have a little chat-e-roo, and make some very quick decisio-"

"Can you save my husband?"

Not that quick. He would have liked his head to stop spinning before the tear-stained, silk-clad creature came storming towards him, pointing at Adam. But one can't always have what one wants. The question is asked. It is her only demand.

How things progress, whether they progress at all, will depend entirely on how he answers.