It had been tradition for her and her father to spend the days leading up to her birthday at the village's summer fair, but on the day before her seventeenth, Sybbie Branson found herself alone.
She shoved her hands into her dress pockets as she wandered past the many stalls and even though she was always excited for it - after all, it had been the place where her parents had fallen in love - the fair didn't seem to be living up to her past memories. She thought that maybe it was because she had outgrown everything, all the amusements and stalls. After all, she was sixteen and officially 'in season', but she scoffed at the idea, grateful that her Da had allowed her to make her own decision on that custom.
Da. Just the thought of him made her sigh and she knew that was exactly why she was feeling down. Usually, he would be there by her side, playing games and eating the cheap overpriced snacks, but today, it was just her. She didn't blame him, of course. Ever since that morning when they heard word her Uncle Kieran was in a car accident, her father had been conflicted by the idea of leaving her, but she had pushed for him to travel to Liverpool. There would be more birthdays to come and she knew that if something were to happen to her uncle, her father would never forgive himself for not being by his brother's side. Naturally, she would have accompanied him, but they both knew that her Aunt Mary and the staff had spent days preparing for the feast tomorrow and so she had stayed behind. She had to admit that even though she was grateful her family went to great effort for her birthday, there was never one where she wouldn't remember that it was also the day her mother died.
"Miss Sybil," greeted a passing servant, and even though it was officially her name, she could never get used to being called by it. No, it belonged to her mother. Her mind began to drift to stories of her mother her family had told her - the fearless Sybil, the gentle Sybil, the spirited Sybil – that she didn't noticed the small, wooden stall until she bumped into it.
"You should be careful."
Sybbie rubbed her head, feeling utterly foolish by her actions and when she looked up, she found that the voice belonged to the woman standing behind the stall.
"I know," Sybbie stammered, "I've always been terribly clumsy." She smiled at the woman and was about to walk away when she heard the woman call out, "You should learn to open your eyes, Sybbie."
Sybbie stopped and turned around. "How did you know my name?" Of course, once she had asked the question, she realized that was foolish as almost everyone in the county was sure to know who she was by her family. Still, she had never seen this stall before and was certain that she would have definitely remembered the strange woman who seemed to know her.
The woman grinned, her smile ferocious like a wolf with golden teeth and curled her finger, motioning for Sybbie to come forward.
"You must know who I am," Sybbie said bashfully. "That's how you knew my name, isn't it?"
The woman narrowed her eyebrows. "This is only my second time here."
Sybbie gave a nervous laugh. "You're kidding, aren't you?"
"I never lie. I can tell you Miss Sybbie Branson, I've only been here twice in my life."
"And the first time was?"
"Nearly twenty years ago."
Sybbie gulped. Her brain told her to just leave the silly woman, but she was never one to trust her brain. If anything, it was a trait that she inherited from both her parents that she always listened to her heart rather than her head. She took a step closer to the woman and glanced up at the sign above the stall, 'The Mystic Marisol'.
"I can tell you what you what lies in your present, awaits you in the future or lingers in your past. I can tell you your fears and desires, your greatest dreams and the hidden wishes of your heart," Marisol said as though she rehearsed the lines.
"For a price though, right?"
The mystic woman raised her thinly drawn eyebrows. "You question many things, don't you?"
"My father says I have a thirst for knowledge."
"And your mother?" Marisol clasped her hands and leaned forward on the counter as Sybbie visibly stiffened at the last word.
"If you really are a mystic woman, you should be able to answer that."
Marisol rose to the challenge. "What would your mother say about you if she were still alive?"
Sybbie froze. It was a question that she herself had pondered many times but only in her head. A lot of people had told her that she was an exact copy of her mother with the same dark locks and thick lips, and even though it made her proud to hear it, she sometimes felt that she could never be as wonderful as Lady Sybil Branson.
When she was younger, she believed that her mother was her imaginary friend, always present whenever she needed her. They had had grand tea parties, explored the many rooms of Downton Abbey and whenever Sybbie woke up in the middle of the night, her mother would be there by her bedside, ready to tuck her back in.
As she grew older, Sybbie had tried to be the woman that Sybil was. Instead of learning French, she had Aunt Isobel teach her about the human body. Her father had never pushed her to do what 'proper ladies' were supposed to do, and instead he had been quite proud indeed when she had asked him to teach her how to drive an automobile at the age of ten. Not that, he did. No, in fact it took her four more years to convince him and when she finally had her hands behind the wheel, he was certain that she was natural and should've taught her earlier.
"I-I, uh," Sybbie mumbled, "I have to go." There was no part of her that could answer the question but as she was about to leave for the second time that afternoon, she felt Marisol's bony hand grab her arm.
"Let go of me," Sybbie said, struggling through Marisol's surprsingly strong hold.
"Listen to me, Sybbie," Marisol said in a low voice that was a stark contrast to her normal high-pitched one. Sybbie immediately stopped moving and stared at the woman.
"There will be a shooting star travelling over Yorkshire tonight like it does every twenty years," Marisol's eyes glistened as her lips turned into a grin. "Don't forget to make a wish."
The woman is mad, Sybbie thought, absolutely mad. Marisol finally let go of Sybbie's arm and when she did, Sybbie quickly left the stall and weaved through the stalls back to Downton.
They had never meant to stay at Downton for long, Sybbie and her father, but death had decided that it favoured their family. It had started, of course, with her mother's death, and then just a year after, her Uncle Matthew had passed away in a car accident. Both tragedies had devastated the family and as time came to pass, Sybbie and Tom found a rhythm with the family that unexpectedly seemed to fit. Even though, she was a year older than her Cousin George, they had grown up together, him becoming the sibling she had always wanted and after some time, her father had gone back to journalism, writing for the local paper. They were, against all odds, surprisingly happy but despite the life they had made in Downton, she knew her father missed Ireland desperately. At the breakfast table, he would often search through his newspapers for any mention of his motherland first and her heart would break with every sigh he gave as he read.
As she sat at the table now with dinner being served, she gazed at the empty spot where her father would usually sit. No matter how many times, her Aunt Mary would try to start a conversation or George would make silly faces at her, it was understandable to everyone that Sybbie had other things on her mind. When dinner was over, she politely excused herself from the rest of the family and headed straight to her room, or rather, her mother's old one.
It had surprised her family when she was seven that she asked to have it be her bedroom and even though they expressed concern, she stood her ground and by that night, all her things had been moved into it.
Tired, she made her way to her dressing table, ready to change into her night-clothes, when she caught sight of the moon and the stars, shining bright against the dark velvet night. It was an illuminating view, and as she stared up at the sky, she found Marisol's words creeping back into her head.
Make a wish, the batty woman had said. Sybbie rolled her eyes. She knew better than to believe in wishes. She thought back to those many nights when she was younger, making the same wish as she always did and never would it come true. Maybe, it was the new wine they had tried at dinner, but she was beginning to feel light-lighted and so, she decided to indulge in her old fantasies and closed her eyes, holding her breath tight as she held one thought – one wish – in her head.
A minute passed and when she opened her eyes, she found that nothing had changed in the room. She was still the same old Sybbie, wearing the same blue dress in the same room and nowhere was her mother in sight.
"I should've known," Sybbie said, exasperated by her foolish thoughts. For many years she wished she could meet her mother, the real Sybil Crawley, and she didn't know why she thought this year would be any different. Deciding she was far too exhausted to change, she decided to climb in bed, hopeful that somehow her father would at least be home tomorrow for her birthday. Unbeknownst to her, as she fell asleep, a shooting star indeed flew across the night sky and as midnight struck that night, there was a certain change in the air at Downon Abbey.
The next morning, Sybbie woke to a faint headache and a maid standing by the bedpost, watching her intently.
"What time is it?" Sybbie yawned as she rubbed her eyes open, only to her surprise, the maid was no one she had ever seen before. In fact, the young woman standing there was no maid at all as she was dressed impeccably with flowers in her hair.
"I should be asking you the questions," the young woman as she moved around to the other side of the bed so that she was standing at Sybbie's side. "What are you doing in my bed?"
Sybbie felt her heart race and palms sweat as she slowly raised her head to look the woman in the eye. There was no mistake about it. The same hair, the same eyes, but still Sybbie needed to ask, trying to determine if she was simply dreaming. "And you are?" she asked in a nervous breath, her throat growing dry.
The young woman tilted her head, surprised that the person seemed to have no idea whose bed she was in, and so she replied with the utmost certainty in her voice, "Lady Sybil Crawley."
AN: Sigh, I know I shouldn't be starting a new story when I have others to be finished, but once again, the plot bunnies have come out of hiding! This is very fresh and so sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. This one won't be a long one, maybe five or six chapters, and if anyone's wondering, I have Anna Popplewell in mind as a grown up Sybbie Branson. Hope y'all enjoy!