"Of course you've been a waitress, I think I'd remember th-" But her introduction makes him stop in mid-sentence, his hearts suddenly pounding in his chest.

Maybe it's a coincidence. There are plenty of people named Clara out there. The entire nineteenth century is practically full of them, and that's just on Earth. But there's something hauntingly familiar about her, something that stirs the bits and pieces of memory stew in his mind and sets it to bubbling.

"Clara," he breathes, making it sound almost like a prayer.

But if this is his Clara, then she doesn't recognise him - maybe she's with Chinny, or maybe she hasn't met him at all yet. Or maybe it's the wrong Clara. He runs long fingers through his hair, a nest of wild grey curls - with the odd stick and bit of grass in it, thanks to their unknown kidnappers.

"You know," he says, back to his previous brisk and dry self, "that whole rubbing sticks together to make fire nonsense doesn't really work, if that's what you were intending to try." Because talking about making fire will at least keep his mind off the mystery of Clara - or he can pretend it will, anyway.