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"I can't believe it. It's time. It's really, really time." Clara stared at herself in the tiny, cracked mirror over the sink. Oh please, just let that be normal broken glass and not some kind of...fissure in the universe or something. Small, damp, church basement bathroom aside, this was going to be the happiest day of her life. If she had to kill aliens barehanded at the altar, it was going to be the happiest day of her life.
Her mobile buzzed, nearly vibrating off the edge of the porcelain sink. She slid her thumb across the screen and, without preamble, snapped, "Doctor, you know you're not supposed to talk to me before the wedding!"
"I'm not supposed to see you before the wedding," her husband-to-be protested. "I can't see you from here."
Clara cast her suspicious gaze to every corner of the cramped bathroom, her long skirt winding around her feet. "Define 'here'."
"Just at the top of the stairs. Your guards won't let me down."
"They're not guards," she reiterated for what had to be the millionth time. "And they're not letting you come down because, as I have stated numerous times since midnight, it's tradition."
"Clara. It's important. One might even say..."
"Say what?" Maybe she would end up killing an alien at the altar, after all. "Spit it out!"
"Dire." Usually his tone, that specific tone he reserved for very serious, very, well, dire situations, would have immediately alarmed her.
Not today. We will not save the universe today. If anything unusual starts to happen, I'll just hide in the coat closet until it all resolves itself.
"It can't be any more dire than Meredith not bothering to show up." Clara's face flushed hot under her carefully applied makeup. She took what should have been a calming breath, but it was difficult to relax when one of your bridesmaids had vanished into thin air.
And that could have actually happened, which didn’t make the situation better. It was far more likely that she’d just had too much to drink at the rehearsal dinner. The thought of her cousin slumbering under hangover no alarm tone could penetrate filled Clara with rage again.
“About Meredith—” The Doctor began.
Clara interrupted him. “You know, I only picked her because my aunt insisted. God, I can’t even particularly stand her—”
“Then I may have good news after all—”
“Honestly, she was a complete disgrace last night. And she constantly tried to one-up me at my own hen party. Sure, I got a bit wild, but trying to steal the attention from the bride—”
“Wild?” he asked cautiously. “What do you mean by ‘wild’.”
Clara froze. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything. What was that about Meredith and good news?”
“Good is relative. Do you remember last night, at the rehearsal dinner, when you asked if my sonic screwdriver was in my pocket or if I was just happy to see you?”
“Yes.” She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “And you said it was neither, it was just a particle inverter you’d left in those trousers.”
“Well, somewhere between the restaurant and the TARDIS, I may have…misplaced the particle inverter.”
Clara stamped her foot. “No. Please, please tell me you did not particley invert Meredith.”
“Particley?” He scoffed, interrupting himself. “Don’t be childish, Clara, that isn’t even a word.”
“Where. Is. Meredith?” she ground out. Why am I marrying this infuriating man? Why?
“I’ll need paper and pencil to explain it to you. Unless you want the short version?”
“Doctor, we don’t have much time!” Odd. She’d used that exact sentence more than once since she’d met him, and it had never felt so urgent as it did now. Daleks she could handle, but getting married? That was scary.
She stepped out of the bathroom, fussing with the full skirt of her ivory satin gown. Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and she rather unceremoniously saw her almost husband for the first time that day. In an instant, her annoyance and doubt faded; why on Earth—or any planet—should she have cold feet about marrying her best friend, her mysterious stranger she still hadn’t quite figured out, a man who astonished her more every day?
She thought back to his proposal. Standing under the purple stars of a Trithorgan sky, on a glittering crystal sand beach, moments after the Rashatken had restored his memory, he’d asked her to be his wife. “Clara. My Clara,” he’d said softly. “I have loved you, and every echo of you, since the moment I saw you with my first eyes.”
Now he stood before her, a man as ageless as the universe, who’d fought for her for billions of years and billions of heartbeats, until the moment she’d lost hers forever…
Clara felt every ounce of his boundless love as he gazed into her eyes now and said, “Meredith may be trapped in a parallel universe.”
All right. Cold feet are back. “When you say parallel universe, you mean—”
“When unobserved, particles can move from one dimension to another, like they’re popping into the kitchen for a snack.” He added, “Not that Meredith is anyone’s snack. It would be premature to assume that.”
“Point. Get to it.”
“The particle inverter can transport matter remotely. It’s essentially an inter-dimensional postage stamp. Meredith must have found it and activated it. She’s essentially mailed herself to another time and space.”
“Can we get her back?” Not that it would be a great loss if they didn’t.
“Yes. But we have to do it now. The TARDIS will only be able to use the tracking information for roughly twelve Earth hours.” His gaze snapped to the clock on the wall.
Clara covered her face with both hands. “Why? Why on our wedding day? We’re supposed to be standing in front of the vicar in twenty minutes! Guests are arriving. There’s no way we can rescue my horrid cousin from an alternate universe and get back in time!”
“We have a time machine,” he reminded her.
“Right.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll walk down the aisle with some kind of quantum algae in my hair, then?”
“No. I’ve had plenty of women in wedding dresses in the TARDIS,” he assured her. “Always turned out fine. Well, fine with a chance of giant spider woman.”
Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh. We are definitely going to have a discussion about this.”
Plenty of women in wedding dresses, indeed.