Chapter Text
Never Judge A Book By Its Cover
Clara Hartley stood in the queue, Insular Romance: Politics, Faith, and Culture in Anglo-Norman and Middle English Literature tucked under her arm. She tapped her foot impatiently, shooting barbed glances at the treacherously ticking clock. The early morning rush at Starbucks was always a nightmare to navigate, and today was no different. No matter how early she arrived to grab her usual Caffè Misto, she was always last in line.
As the queue edged forwards, she flipped open her cellphone, checking for non-existent text messages. Clara didn't even know how to text, even though she knew how to speak Occitan. Her social life was as extinct as the dinosaurs, but she liked to maintain the pretence she was a party animal. But the closest she had ever got to chaos was when Chaucer's Constance and Accused Queens was shelved under the wrong subject.
Time ticked slowly on, Clara's foot tapping with it. Then miracles of miracles, she was at the front of the queue, only for a man wearing a tweed jacket to appear out of nowhere and take her turn. "Hey!" she protested, stepping forwards.
"Ninjas," he fired over his shoulder at her. "A Pike Place Roast please. With extra kick to boot," he then said to the barista. "Though I'd really prefer a Fanta…"
"Ninjas what?" Clara exclaimed, bewildered.
As though in answer to her question, several whip-wielding ninjas suddenly stormed Starbucks, led by a woman with choppy, dark hair. Clara experienced a moment of the ridiculous colliding with the sublime. The queue dispersed, everybody heading screaming for the exits. The barista ducked behind the counter, leaving only Clara and the tweed jacket wearing interloper to face the music.
"Hello," the woman sneered as she advanced upon Clara, cracking her whip. "So not nice to meet you."
"Oh, you're not here for me?" the interloper said, pointing to himself, sounding disappointed.
"Not this time, Flynn," the woman said, "though I shouldn't be surprised to see you here."
"Well, I was just getting a coffee," Flynn shrugged.
"Yes, by skipping the queue," Clara retorted despite herself.
"Oh, she's British," the woman gasped, clasping a hand over her heart.
"What of it?" Clara tried to say coolly, even though she was quaking inside.
"Your accent is just so cute," the woman gushed.
"Look, who the hell are you people!?" Clara snapped, her last nerve snapping at the same time.
"Never mind us," the woman smiled coldly. "What about you, Clara Guinevere Hartley?"
Clara stared at her in disbelief. "How do you know my name?" she whispered, taking a step back.
"Likes illuminated manuscripts, voltas and Clarice Cliff pottery," the woman continued, as though Clara hadn't spoken. "Ideal man, Indiana Jones. Shame he doesn't do online-dating, huh?"
"What do you want?" Clara asked, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.
"I want your death, little lady," the woman leered, "and I'm going to get it, as of now."
She suddenly lunged forwards, pulling out a dagger, but Clara was quicker, smashing Insular Romance: Politics, Faith, and Culture in Anglo-Norman and Middle English Literature across the woman's face, knocking her flying. Then a hand suddenly grabbed hers and Clara found herself being dragged sideways, the heels of her knee-high boots skittering wildly across the floor as she went. Head spinning, she tottered to a halt, only to find herself in the alleyway outside, the sound of their pursuers' pulse-racingly close.
"You're a fast mover," Flynn said, making Clara swing round, "I'll give you that."
Clara stared at him, realising he'd been the one to haul her out here. "I guess terpsichore has its advantages in the twenty-first century as well as of the sixteenth," she snapped.
"You don't exactly look like a pavane kind of person," Flynn observed, his gaze flickering over her red and black tartan mini-skirt and pussybow necked blouse.
"I'm going to look dead unless I get the hell out of here!"
"Never judge a book by its cover," Flynn muttered under his breath, before turning to face the brick wall before them.
Clara glanced at him, before doing a double-take. Where there had been no door before, there was one now, bright blue with a highly polished brass letterbox.
Flynn rolled his eyes before reaching over and turning the handle. "After you," he said with an exaggerated bow.
"But where - where are - are they - they?" Clara stuttered, looking behind her instead. "The ninja people, I mean, they were right on top of us!"
"I slowed them down," Flynn said, pulling awkwardly at his cravat.
Clara just stared at him, bewildered.
"Never mind," Flynn sighed, before steering her by the shoulders through the impossible blue door.
Tell me all about your foreign wars
And all about the photographs that line your drawers
Cause I know a lot about closing doors
But not enough about what opens up yours...