‘I can’t play your music any more, Karl,’ murmured the Doctor. ‘I don’t forgive you, I understand you. I know the ferocity it took to throw open those floodgates and drown your enemies. But my passion is for something different. Not for vengeance.’ He ran his fingers through the grass, through the soil and flowers and ants. ‘For life. Inexorable, relentless, dogged life.’

He threw his head back and looked at the sky, at the clouds sailing the high breezes above the city of tigers. ‘I’ve already played my concerto.’