Wilfred stood by the window, looking out at a bay. Torchwood paid for his accommodation – a cold, modern apartment, with a wall made of glass, which was letting in the cool blueness of the sky and greyness of the water. There was an antique merry-go-round swivelling on the embankment; people kept crowding there; a water sculpture, towering over the Hub, invisible from where he was standing now, but always present, was twinkling with reflected sunrays from under constantly flowing waves. There was life there; some form of life; even if to Wilf it reminded a film watched on a screen of a newfangled, plasma TV. In his apartment there was just standstill. He didn't even try to overcome the frigidity of a designer interior – just one look at aggressive combination of colours on the walls; at exclusive, modernistic furniture; at incomprehensible appliances behind the kitchen island – and Wilf gave up without a fight. Whatever it was supposed to be – a safe harbour, a waiting room, a hotel apartment, a weird dream – such interior could never become a home.
"I've made you some tea." Martha came closer carrying two mugs, and handed one of them to Wilfred. "I've checked your fridge. Do you eat at all?"
"There's a chip-shop by the pier," Wilf said. "Sometimes I order pizza."
"Pepperoni? Ianto always orders pepperoni for me."
"Hmm? Yes. I guess."
"Wilfred," Martha gently touched the old man's shoulder. "Starving yourself won't help Donna. I'll pop in tomorrow, and cook a real dinner, yeah? Well, all right, I'll nuke something in the microwave. Cooking's not my strong suit."
"Oh, you doctors and scientists." Wilf gave her a pale smile. He finally turned his gaze away from the bay. He walked to a sofa and sank in its brown, leather softness. "You can extract an appendix, but you can't peel spuds."
Martha sat in the armchair opposite him. She had longer, softly curling hair now. Her beautiful eyes were full of concern.
"A gorgeous girl," Wilf thought. "This gorgeous girl could have smashed the Earth into one million pieces; all she had to do was use that Oster-whats-his-name key. Such a tiny and fragile, gorgeous girl. My Donna had never been so fragile. But it was Donna who pulled a short straw."
For a while Wilf was almost angry at Martha. She had travelled with the Doctor too, but unlike Donna, she was reasonable enough to say "no" just in time.
"How did you manage last Friday?" Martha asked. "Any damages?"
"All the light bulbs shattered, and I think the TV bought it; it's either that or I can't set the blooming digi-box." Wilf shrugged. "I got the wind up, that's all. Do you know that waves were reaching my window?"
"A lot of rubbish washed on the shore," Martha said.
"Alien rubbish?" After all he witnessed, Wilf still found it hard to believe in presence of the Rift and in signs of alien life.
Martha nodded.
"We had our hands full with it." She smiled. "You know what's really annoying? Most of this rubbish will turn out to be... I don't know... hairdryers and fryers. Or weapons," she added hesitantly. "Ninety percent of all our finds proves to be a useless trash. But then there are real treasures. Take the universal decoder; it will decode anything; let it get into some thieve hands and he could empty all the accounts in all the banks around the world and not leave a single trace. And the day before yesterday I found this."
She reached out and on the glossy surface of the low table she put an item reminding an exotic shell, made of a green mellowed metal.
"No idea," she sighed. "But when I touch it, very gently, it gives away light and scent. Both absolutely harmless."
"Why are you telling me this, girl?" Wilf asked. If she wanted to distract him from his granddaughter, she'd chosen failing strategy.
"Give it a try," Martha said.
"What?"
"Touch it."
Wilfred shook his head. The shell was beautiful, its spiralling outgrowths glimmered with sapphire and pastel green. Still, he could see no reason to touch it.
"Wilf," Martha leaned forward in her armchair. "Just hold it. Please."
With a puff of irritation Wilf put the tea mug aside and picked up the shell. It was heavy and pleasantly cold.
"Move your fingers across, like that, very gently," Martha directed.
The shell began to glow. Light radiation surrounded it like a cloud – gold and turquoise, flowing into deep purple, darkening and then exploding with spirals of crimson and gold. It smelled of freshly mown grass and something sweet; maybe apple-pie.
"Yeeeeaaah..." Wilf said. "That's... nice... but..."
"Just wait," Martha interrupted. "That's a default, a factory setting. Don't stop stroking it."
"Martha..."
"Oh, please, do it for me."
The light was now rusty, changing into that faintest shade of approaching night on a lovely, summer dusk. And the smell was familiar – water in the lake, weeds by the shore, a bonfire's smoke, jasmine? Somebody's presence; somebody's warm skin, fresh and pulsating with life and youth? Martha was watching Wilf with her huge eyes. Embarrassed, he put the shell down and reached for his mug. Tea was stone cold.
"What?" he stammered. "How... how long...?"
"Half an hour," Martha answered. "How are you feeling?"
"I... ehm... I feel fine... very good!" Wilf gave the shell, sitting innocently on the table, a distrustful glance. "What is it? Really."
"An Air Wick." Martha shrugged. "An equivalent of a mood candle or of those diffusers you plug to the wall socket. It's just a bit more advanced. It tunes itself to your mood and produces fragrances and colours best suited to help you relax and calm down. At least we think so."
"That's... lovely..." Wilf murmured. "Why did you bring it here?"
"You have a weak heart, Wilfred. I know, 'cause I've scanned you... oh, sorry, I shouldn't have, but you looked so miserable I started worrying. No, no, no, you are all right," she said immediately. "You are not sick, just overtired and overstressed. And stress and tiredness are killers in your age. I can't order you to rest, to eat better, and not to think about Donna, so I brought you the Cornucopia."
"Corn-nu-whata-who?"
"We've named it a Horn of Plenty. Cornucopia," Martha gave him a wide smile. "It's Ianto; he names those... gizmos all the time. He could be writing comic books scenarios, our Ianto. Well, Mickey wanted to call it a Smell Shell, so you can see why we've chosen Cornucopia."
"Ye...ah?"
"Every night, before going to sleep, a séance with Cornucopia," Martha said in an unmistakable tone of a doctor talking to a patient.
"You don't want me to think about Donna?" There was anger in Wilfred's voice.
"Wilfred," Martha rubbed her forehead. "It may take a while. It may take a very long while. We're doing our best, but, so far, we don't even know what we're looking for. Each and every item in that pile of rubbish that washed on a shore last Friday may help us cure Donna. But then again, maybe hairdryers and fryers are all we've got. You have to be patient. And you have to take care of yourself. Regain your strength."
Momentarily, Wilf felt an urge to throw Cornucopia through the huge window; to sink it in the waves it came from.
"Doing your best, are you?! Martha Jones, even he doesn't know what he's doing! I remember what he said when he brought her home. One second of memory and Donna's mind will burn. But what if... if her mind's burned already? What if there's no my little girl anymore... just... just that strange person... a bit of a Time Lord, a bit of a human...? What good can all those... gizmos do?!"
"I don't know," Martha said. Her mouth twitched dolefully. "None of us knows. But we're not giving up."
"You have enough on your plate!" He turned away, upset. "All them hellish storms, and underground tremors, and them shadows, shadows on the streets, and new diseases and what else. You've shelved Donna, that's what; you've put her away on top of that deal with in the second instance pile of cases. And the Doctor did the same! You say all of you're doing your best, but it's only you Martha, my child, it's just you! And he won't even call; won't even ask about her. Won't even..."
"Wilfred," Martha whispered. "Please."
"All right. I can play with that Corncobia of yours before I go to sleep, what does it matter? None of you knows what else we could do. And if even the Doctor doesn't know... What're the odds you'll find that one, special gizmo in all that junk? And what're the odds you'll even understand what it'll be for?"
Martha bit her lips.
"I went with Donna and the Doctor to Messaline," she spoke suddenly, her voice strong and clear. "And I had met her during the ATMOS crisis. I know her. Your Donna is a great woman, Wilfred. A strong woman. Do you realise how much I wanted to hate her for... you know, for taking my place... and all that? But it's impossible not to love her. She's my friend. Trust me, I won't stop trying to help her, even if I had to sieve through all the bottom of the bay in search of something, that would help me. And Jack won't stop. Or Mickey. I spoke with Sarah Jane yesterday. Luke, her son, had a few ideas; they are trying to analyse them together now. Harriet Jones popped in earlier today. She's backing up Torchwood with funds and support, even though the government had never interfered with the Crown's enterprises..."
"But the Doctor didn't call?"
"No." Martha's lips twitched again.
"You know, child, maybe my daughter was right," Wilf said with a sigh. "When she judged the Doctor. Maybe she was right."
"I'm sure that the Doctor..." Martha began, absolutely refusing to admit that Sylvia could have been right in anything at all.
"Doesn't matter." Wilf shook the Cornucopia. "Are you sure it won't make my brain pop out?"
Martha got up from her armchair, smoothing her two-piece dress.
"No. I'm not." She laughed briefly. "And you better not tell Jack I've given it to you. He's terribly jumpy about taking objects out of the Hub."
She nodded her head at Wilf.
"I've to go, I've pushed it already; it was supposed to be a lunch-break. I'll pop in tomorrow, as promised. D'you like Chinese?"
"I like Englishese, child."
"Bangers, mash and peas, then," laughed Martha. "And then, hmmm, bread and butter pudding?"
"Wonderful," said Wilf, showing her out. "I'll be waiting."
"Right, it's a date." She winked at him and closed the door. The elderly man smiled weakly. He walked back to the lounge, shoulders hunched, dragging his legs, put the Cornucopia in the middle of the table top and sank in the sofa. He was looking at the shell with a crestfallen expression on his face. All his life he watched the stars and would give away his right hand to come into possession of an alien artefact.
He'd give away his right arm, not Donna. Not Donna.