"I'll tell you what though, Ma'am, I bet you're not amused now," says Rose, earning herself a really scary look from the Sovereign of the Commonwealth: "Do you think this is funny?" Um, kinda. It's a ninja werewolf cult in the Highlands of Scotland. What is, with all due deference, not fucking funny about that? Rose is contrite; Victoria turns her regard away again: "What, exactly, I pray...someone please...what exactly is that creature?" The Doctor "explains" that it's technically not a werewolf (those are fantasy, true neither of his world or ours) but a "lupine wavelength hemovariform." Victoria is still awesome, for now: "And should I trust you, sir? You who change your voice so easily? What happened to your accent?" And she's right: the Doctor dissembles, and in doing so he becomes less. He is now a lie inside another thing that takes him further and further from the truth. The Doctor manages not to give a discreet "oh fuck" at this, but like: she's the Queen of England. She's canny. She seems to have completely disregarded the whole "feral child" story, which is a way bigger lie than the Doctor dropping his Scottish accent. He apologizes, obscurely, but it's the perfect response. "Forgive my grief for one removed, thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved." It's not Albert she'll find here, just more lies and fear and loneliness. The Queen: "I'll not have it. No, sir: not you, not that thing...None of it. This is not my world." It never was, and that's what's killing her. Because if this is real, she never knew him at all, and never could have done. I promised I would never say the whole "it's about intimacy" thing again, and I won't, but come on: Apostate theology : classic British literature :: the search for God : the loss of glory. Queen Victoria is Cassandra and a thousand we're still to meet; and she's a few women we know already. (But is the Doctor the Wolf? No. He's the diamond: the Property. The thing that makes the engine of God keep running; the thing that picks you up in London or Manchester and sets you down again in Arizona.)