Rose and the Doctor have hitched a lift back to the TARDIS on the back of a farmer's humble cart. They hop off, and the Doctor thanks him; they wave. "You know," the Doctor TARDISodes at Rose, "the funny thing is, Queen Victoria did actually suffer a mutation of the blood. It's historical record: hemophiliac. It used to be called the Royal Disease. But it's always been a mystery because she didn't inherit it: her mum didn't have it, her dad didn't have it. It came from nowhere!" So it was a bite from the Wolf, Rose asks. "Maybe hemophilia is just a Victorian euphemism," says the Doctor. "For werewolf?" Or maybe "werewolf" is just a Doctor euphemism, for the simple truth that everything ends, because he can't see the Wolf for what it is: the end of all beauty, which always ends. "Queen Victoria's a werewolf?" Could be. Her kids all had the Royal Disease. "Maybe she gave them a quick nip," he suggests. ("For merit lives from man to man, and not from man, O Lord, to thee." We're all alone down here. This is our world.) Maybe it spread though, down into Parliament, into Maggie and Cool Tony, into Bush and anyone who ever thought you could divide a raindrop into its constituent parts and say, "This is not my world," and think the other worlds don't matter. (Victoria banished her body and yours and mine, and we're still reaping the consequences of that. At least Elizabeth kept her shit on her side of the line. At least she was faking.) Maybe it could take two hundred years to manifest. Maybe 9/11 looks different to everybody, give or take two hundred years or more. Maybe Harriet wasn't as right as I thought.