‘Are we going then?’ Alf asked impatiently. She had stood up when the Doctor had said her name, clearly ready to move out.

The Doctor held the door open for her. ‘After you,’ he said. She gave him a sardonic look before striding out. The Doctor paused to look back at the writer before following. ‘No need to worry, Oscar. We’ll sort everything out.’

There was a pause after the others had gone, and then Nick looked up at Wilde. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Now what do we do?’

Oscar paused for a moment in thought, and then a smile broke across his face.




‘I really don’t think this is a good idea.’

Oscar Wilde locked the door to his hotel room and turned to face Nick. ‘I don’t see why not. Your Doctor friend wanted you to find out anything I might remember about these people claiming to be characters of mine, but there is no need to do that in a small room when we have the whole City of Light just outside! Besides, I know a charming little café close by.’

‘Well, I suppose so. I could mur…’ Nick paused, remembering what happened last time he’d said he could murder a drink and decided not to tempt fate. ‘I mean, a cup of coffee would be… good.’

Outside, it was a sunny afternoon. The sky was clear apart from some high, wispy clouds. A few people wandered languidly, seemingly with all the time in the world.

A short walk from the Hotel d’Alsace, the pair sat at a small, open-air table outside a café (‘À la belle étoile’, insisted Oscar). The patron attended them, and soon two steaming coffees arrived, the rich smell dissipating into the Parisian air. Nick took a large mouthful of his and swallowed manfully, and then opened his mouth and inhaled, waving his right hand at his scalded tongue. Oscar sipped lightly, smiling indulgently at his young companion’s antics.

Nick wasn’t sure how to start a casual conversation with a famous dead author, and kicked himself when he realised he was thinking that way. Oscar Wilde was still alive! ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Wilde…’

‘Call me Oscar, dear boy, and I shall call you Nick. And you will always call me Oscar, won’t you?’

‘Isn’t that a line from your play?’

‘Ah, so you are familiar with “Earnest”, then? You show good taste, and I trust that you enjoyed it almost as much as I do myself. I had a feeling when I first saw you that we would become good friends, and my first impressions are never wrong!’ Noticing that Nick was fidgeting nervously, Oscar reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a silver case, which he deftly flipped open. ‘Cigarette?’

Nick reached forward and took one. He’d had cravings for ciggies ever since he had become human, but had only taken up the habit after it appeared that the Doctor had died in the destruction of Nova Mondas. ‘Ta. Yeah, we saw the play just before coming to Paris.’ He inhaled and frowned at the odd taste of the tobacco, a bitter edge to it that he had not previously encountered. He wondered whether the on-going cultivation of tobacco would later remove this?

‘Ah, it’s still in production?’ Nick decided against correcting Oscar, as he didn’t really know if it was still in production this year or not. ‘It is a great pity that no one ever sees themselves clear to send me any royalties. Some ready money would be useful.’

They sat for a while, and talked and smoked and drank coffee. Small birds flew overhead and perched on the rooftops, their songs trilling out and echoing away down the alleyways.

Nick relaxed, feeling very comfortable and slightly euphoric. Must be the good company, or something in the Parisian air, he thought.

‘And now,’ said the writer, ‘la Fée Verte.’

‘The “green fairy”?’

‘Indeed.’ The patron appeared again at Oscar’s shoulder, the fingers of his left hand balancing a small tray holding two glasses, a jug of water, a dish of sugar cubes and a bottle. He set the tray upon the table and bowed himself away, back into the café.

Oscar poured a small shot of a vibrant green liquid into each of the glasses, and balanced a slotted spoon over the first. Nick sniffed suspiciously, and breathed in a strong herbal scent with undertones of bitterness. As he watched, Oscar placed a sugar cube on the spoon and slowly dripped water from the jug onto the cube. As the water ran into the glass, it mixed with the green liquid and the result was an opalescent green concoction. When the glass was nearly full, and the sugar cube almost dissolved, he passed the glass to Nick and repeated the procedure with the second glass.

Oscar took the second glass in hand, and raised it in salute to Nick. ‘To your very good health!’ he cried, and took a large draught from the glass. Nick, following on politely, also took a mouthful. The taste was like the smell, flowers and herbs, a strong taste of anise, and a partially hidden bitter bite. When he looked into his glass, Nick found that the liquid seemed to have acquired an inner glow, and looking around the street he saw odd highlights, sparkles and flashes that he was sure hadn’t been there before. What was this stuff?

Oscar saw his gaze return to the glass. ‘Coloured like a peridot, isn’t it? Imagine, drinking liquid gemstones in Paris! It’s almost magical, and one could almost believe tales of characters leaving books to walk the real world, in a world such as this!’