The Wolf screams, pushing against the bars of his cage and his body; Rose pulls the chain and orders the household to continue pulling the chain. Two very different kinds of freedom: the already-lost and the perfectly fine. The feral and the timorous. Who will win free first? I'm guessing the humans, but at the last second. I am guessing this because I have seen not only this show, but also many episodes of many other television shows.
"Lupus deus est, lupus deus est, lupus deus est." So nasty; so wrong after what we -- alone, beyond the new Doctor perhaps -- have seen. Reynolds demands to know the Brethren's intentions, and Fr. Angelo stops chanting long enough to grab the gun, knock him out -- very satisfying -- and inform the Queen that they're after the Throne. Her eyes widen.
The Doctor and Sir Robert run down a corridor for some reason. Oh, I see: the Wolf stands in his new form, stretching and flexing claws, growling at them in his cage, as Rose's team just at that second, of course, gets themselves free -- and the Doctor kicks down the cellar door. (Cellar door!) Rose asks the Doctor what the hell he's been up to; the Doctor's too busy staring wetly at the Wolf and thinking about how beautiful and alien it is, smiling quietly in wonder. Robert is less interested in the wonder of the universe around us, and more worried about Isobel's welfare; he is human. He sends the lady out into the house, and around them all the staff are having a bit of a Great White; the Doctor suddenly snaps to, remembering that he's immortal but that these people don't even have aspirin, and begins ushering them all out the door they were already headed out of. Rose is similarly helpful. The werewolf stands, free. Hollowed out. Something came down from the heavens and hollowed him out; too much strangeness. Maybe it's a choice: maybe you take the light in and send it out again, or you become like this: hollowed out by stars. The opposite of retentio, or maybe just its natural conclusion, unless the Doctor makes a house call, and kisses you sweetly. The werewolf's head arcs up, like the Doctor not too long ago, and he does not sing. He howls.
Victoria looks evenly at Fr. Angelo: "I take it, sir, that you halted my train to bring me here?" He's almost shivering with excitement and completion: "We have waited so long for one of your journeys to coincide with the moon..." She pulls out a gun and tells him that he should have caught her six assassination attempts ago. "I am hardly unprepared," she says, pointing the gun at him. Her hands are shaking. Fr. Angelo smiles a tiny bit, still high on culty craziness: "Oh, I don't think so, woman." And she stands tall: "The correct form of address is: 'Your Majesty.'" And she pulls the trigger. Bad-ass! I'm sorry I called you an old bitch! But more so I'm sorry that this is still the story of how you die, hollowed out, victim of grief and too much strangeness. I'm so, so sorry.