A/N: As promised in the last chapter of Lux Facta Est, there is much, much more to this universe and I've finally got the chance to put pen to paper and write some of them. This work will be a series of one shots (in no chronological order) detailing missing moments, befores and afters of Lux Facta Est stopping before World War II although references will be made to it.

This OS was originally meant to be the Chapter Four of this work, the first one being a fluffy piece on little Sybbie and little George. Thing is, my cousins and I (quite spontaneously) ended up lying on deck chairs on the beach after dinner on Christmas Day and city kids that we are, brought out our inner romantics and watched the most beautiful star-studded night sky that we have seen in a while, so as soon as we got back to our hotel room, this little baby was born.

This is set some time before the Branson twins are born, so Sybbie would be around ten in here. Enjoy and don't forget to review!

Disclaimer: If I owned Downton Abbey, Sybil and Matthew would obviously still walk the Yorkshire earth.


étoiles

25 December 1930

It was a contrast awe-inspiring to behold – the whiteness that sprawled beneath them and the inky hue that shot above them, dotted with numerous yet minuscule shocks of white dancing in their places. In the distance the lights that glowed in the big house extinguished themselves one by one. His arms were around her shoulders and her head rested against the crook of his neck as they sat in the motor, parked on a clearing that gave them a clear view of the night sky. From nearby, the perfume of various pines and firs mixed with the chill of the evening winter air.

"I've done this quite often with Mary and Edith when I was Sybbie's age, you know," she whispered, burying further against his neck.

"What, sneaking off in the motor in the dead of winter to hide behind the trees?" he teased.

"No," she laughed, "to watch the stars."

His lips buzzed with silent laughter as he pressed a kiss to her hair. He knew that was the country girl in her talking. Their life in London gifted her independence, the ticket to a life so different from the one she had been raised in, free from her family's judgment; that life very much became her and he rejoiced in the certainty that such a life gave her so great a happiness, but city life did have less pleasurable aspects, however small, and the shining lights and heavy smog that was the London atmosphere ensured that stars, so numerous in Yorkshire, were a rare sight in the capital.

"They were already in their teens then, Mary and Edith," she resumed, "they had already renounced games so I was often left to my own devices but watching the stars was always something we three did together. Mary and Edith even stopped fighting during those moments; Mamma proclaimed it was a miracle!"

"Was Lady Grantham part of these escapades?" he asked, thrilling as he always had in hearing stories of the little Sybil from many years past. Even after almost eleven years of marriage, it delighted him to no end that there remained so much more for him to hear and learn.

"Sometimes," her eyes glazed in reminiscing, "Papa too. But it was always the Crawley sisters' special thing, I suppose. It was us three and everyone else only joined in as our guests."

"Would they have their own special thing, do you think?" he asked minutes later, his eyes and thoughts far away, his free hand lying absently atop her expanding abdomen.

"Who would?"

"Sybbie…and the baby."

The smile that graced her features could have lit the entire world. It was a rare phenomenon, in the months that have passed, for him to remark about the future, or their coming child, as if afraid that fate should hear and finally accomplish what it had failed to do the day of their firstborn's birth. She let out a breath she did not know she held and her hand found itself entwined with his on her stomach. "Your Da will love you whatever happens," she wanted to tell their child, "If the worst happens, at least you will have him and Sybbie."

"They would have that. I'm sure of it," she responded, her thoughts returning to the present, "They would build snowmen in winter, dance in the garden in summer, watch the stars in whatever season, be such hellions that Granny would chastise us for letting them run wild and Carson would be so scandalized – and we would be part of some of that fun."

"Only some?" he questioned, confusion in his voice. Contrasting his wife's childhood, their daughter's own was never found wanting in parents much willing to be covered in mud, be improper and noisy to join in the children's fun.

"Yes," her laughter rang like bells, "Because even when we join all their romps and mischief, we would only be guests in others. Mary, Edith, and I have only welcomed Mamma and Papa as such and our girls will no doubt do the same to us. It would be the Branson sisters' own special thing."

"Sisters?"

"It is only a feeling, Tom. But I feel quite certain the baby is a girl… Would you be terribly disappointed if it is?"

"Not at all," a smile graced his features as he thought of their first little girl, an easy happiness that surprised him mingling with the anxiety that was ever present. Another little girl would be an indescribable delight, "Only there would be three Sybils going against me, love."

"She may become just like you, you know," her smile grew brighter if that was possible, "Sybbie is already too much like me, darling. I would love for our next little girl to be just like you."

"She would be stubborn then, and impulsive," he laughed.

"And full of herself," she teased, her voice spoke of love and affection.

"Exactly! Imagine the havoc she and Sybbie would inflict!"

Today, he allowed himself to let go of a small amount of paralyzing fear. If only for today, he allowed himself to dream of a future where their girls would run wild, as his wife's grandmother would say, and both she and he would be there to watch, standing by the sidelines, laughing at the antics of children so like themselves. It was his Christmas present to himself.

"But she would also have an unwavering sense of justice," his wife added from his side, "she would be a hard worker and she would have drive and ambition that would allow her to rise beyond status and circumstance. She and Sybbie would raise hell but they would be our little hellions."

He marveled at the image that formed in his mind of their two beautiful little girls, a big sister and a little sister, dresses dirtied and hands clasped after a day of mischief, as they gazed into the stars in the garden of their house in London, in a clearing in Downton, in a beach in Ireland.

"She and Sybbie would be just like you and Mary," he stated, looking into her eyes. His sister-in-law had once balked at even the mere idea of them but she had protected their secret until his Sybil had decided to bet on him and they had been ready to tell the world of their love. Mary had always sought to protect her baby sister, after all – amidst her own disapproval, she had also gone to Dublin for her sister's wedding when their parents had not, during the dark and lost days marked by the helplessness and terror following Sybbie's birth, Mary (and Matthew, of course) was their strongest ally – she still was. Wifehood and motherhood had only strengthened the attachment between the sisters and it was further fortified by the need to fill the gap and pain that Edith's unexplained distance had brought about. He wanted such a bond for his daughters, "They won't agree over everything but Sybbie will be her protector and ally even when we are not."

"Do you think so?," a hopeful smile was in her voice.

"I do."

A comfortable silence descended upon them as their gazes returned to celestial bodies still and dancing above them – Sirius, Orion, Betelgeuse, Andromeda, Cepheus. A cold breeze blew past them and he held her tighter against him to keep her warm. He raised their enlaced hands and kissed the one which belonged to her before returning them to their previous position on her stomach.

"We have also watched the stars together before, do you remember?," her sweet tones penetrated the mélange of darkness and light.

"It was our first Christmas as man and wife, love. How could I forget?" he joined her in the world of reminisces, "we were poor as church mice, living on your father's allowance with no money to buy each other presents and we spent the evening after mass on a blanket on my Mam's yard looking at the stars."

"We were expecting Sybbie then," their child moved beneath their hands as she spoke, "eleven years later, here we are again."

"Promise me that we will do this again next year with our girls," his eyes were back on her. He could not keep the worry from his tone as he implored, "Promise me, Sybil. Promise me that we will both be here. Please."

"I promise." There was strength in her voice, one that was colored by certainty.

He cupped her face in his palm and their lips met in a sweet rapture. For many minutes, the world was only them and no one else. A swift kick from one side of her stomach was followed by another and their hands fell back on their previous places, ensuring their daughters (although neither had known yet) that their presence had not been forgotten.

His arm returned to be enlaced around her shoulders and her head burrowed once again into his neck. From the distance, the last light of Downton Abbey's upstairs had been extinguished, letting them know that their eldest daughter was now sleeping soundly. Beneath their entwined hands, their youngest daughters danced, telling them exactly how they felt of the hypocrisy of bedtimes when their Mamma and Da were still awake. Against their gloved hands, a snowflake fell, cold and beautiful and enchanting.

"Happy Christmas, love."

"Happy Christmas, darling."