They were sitting on a worn sofa in the darkened parlor of the farmhouse. The electricity wasn’t working, but Marie showed the Doctor where her uncle kept some kerosene lamps and camping lanterns. While the Doctor was lighting the lamps, Marie started a fire in the fireplace, to keep out the nights chill. Neither of them spoke very much, each absorbed in thoughts of their own. The Doctor sat with his head bowed, hands clasped together, deep in thought. Marie sat beside him, looking forlornly out the window at the moon, which seemed to be caught in a single beckoning branch of a long dead elm tree. It hung suspended in the crook of the farthermost part of the skeletal limb. How was she going to get on without her Chauncey?

Sighing, Marie tore her gaze away from the window and looked at the Doctor. “Mister? You want me to make you some tea?” After a moment, The Doctor tore himself away from whatever problem he was pondering. He smiled at her. “You know, I have no clue what my real name is…“ He made a face. “Gahh–, I hope it’s not something really awful, like Egbert or Moe, or Ricky or something like that …but I’m pretty sure it’s not “mister.” He snapped his fingers as his eyes lit up. “I know!” Why don’t you just call me Fred? That’s as good a name as any.” He looked at her and grinned mischievously. “What do you think?” He tried it out, “Fred. Fred. Frrred. Yup. Like the sound of that. Neat, clean, easy to say, eh?” He nodded his head in the affirmative, answering for her. “Fred it is, then.”

“Okay, Fred. I’ll go make us some tea…only we’re out of milk…the cows all disappeared this afternoon.” Picking up a lamp, Marie went through the swinging doors into the adjoining kitchen. “Did they, then?” The Doctor muttered to himself. “Isn’t that interesting? Well, that might account for the blood in the barn. Hmmm–then again, it might not.”

Minutes later, Marie returned holding a tray supporting two bone china cups with saucers. She set the tray down on the worn pine coffee table and sat next to the Doctor. The Doctor picked up his cup and admired it. “Hmmm–Antique Staffordshire china–very fancy.” He grinned at her. “What’s the occasion, then?” Marie smiled shyly. “They were my mom’s favourite. They belonged to her great-grandmother she told me, once. Uncle Tobias tried to sell them, but I hid them away in the secret space behind the pantry. Mom always kept them for special company. They’re the only thing I have left of hers. She especially liked the pattern. She loved roses, you see.”

The Doctor examined the pattern on the cup. “Ah yes—little tea roses, on a tea cup. How sharp is that?” Unexpectedly, a series of dazed, confused and incredulous expressions ran across his face. He stood hastily, nearly spilling the hot tea in what would have been a very unpleasant place. He put the cup down and raised an eyebrow, saying, “Roses..roses…why roses?” His eyes lit up, and grinning like an idiot, he slapped his forehead. “Of course! Rose! Dear, sweet Rose!” His face fell just as quickly. “Rose…oh my dear, dear Rose…” Marie sat still as a statue, alarmed at the Doctor’s antics. Tentatively, she tugged on the Doctor’s sweater. “Fred? What’s it mean, what’s happening?” He whirled around, and kneeling down, hugged her. “It means, sweetheart, that you can stop calling me Fred. My name’s the Doctor.”