Teasing another snarl of thread from the back of her needlework, Cora scowled and turned the embroidery hoop upright again to examine her progress thus far. She had made very little. Only a branch and the tail of one bird were cross-stitched and the outline of what would eventually be two cardinals was woefully uneven. Her stitches were not as smooth as the ones to which she had once been accustomed. Maybe she would pull out the threads and try again. She sighed. The Countess was already growing weary of this piece and there was so much left to do. Her delicately plucked eyebrows furrowed as she thumbed her shabby outline.

O'Brien had always taken care of the outlines for her. Baxter was an efficient enough maid but most of her stitching was done on that machine and her hand-sewing was nothing exceptional - not like O'Brien's. Cora let out another sigh and picked at the irritating threads with her nail. The outline was not the real trouble here. Cora simply didn't have the patience for such tedium. She never really had. In another time, the Countess would stitch as much as she had done now and then hand the composition off to O'Brien for "touching up." O'Brien would take care of all but the beaks or the eyes or some other small part then hand the hoop back to Cora to finish and claim as her own. Ninety percent of the embroidery she had passed along to family and friends at Christmas, and for which she had received so many glowing compliments, was the work of her maid. Yet, O'Brien never complained and never betrayed her secret. Cora could not trust Baxter so assuredly. A deep sense of nostalgia began to rise in Cora's chest. Maybe if she had given O'Brien the credit she deserved she would never have- Cora quickly laid the hoop beside her on the sofa and with a shake of her head pushed the old memories from her mind.

The Countess had grown bored with cross-stitching anyway. She was growing bored with everything these days. Her hours seemed awash with needlework, and bridge, and morning constitutionals, and afternoon teas and it all felt so tedious. Cora glanced around the room for anything to amuse herself. Her niece sat across from her quietly flipping through the pages of Vogue. The fire crackled behind the fender. The clock ticked and tocked above the mantel. The rain pattered against the windows. She looked to her husband sitting in the chair by his desk, a newspaper obscuring his face. Cora frowned. He really was getting more pudgy about the middle. Not that she cared. Even Robert held very little of her interest lately, and she very little of his for that matter. They rarely slept in the same room anymore and he was constantly slipping off to London for the night or a few days. Maybe he had taken a mistress. Cora found she didn't even mind if it meant he would not be bothering her, and so long as he remained discrete. The Countess concealed a yawn behind her delicate hand and returned her attention to Rose.

"So, dear, have you had any news of your parents' journey so far? They haven't arrived in Scotland yet, have they?" It seemed the Marquis and Marchioness of Flintshire found themselves unable to endure India for more than a year after Shrimpy's sudden transfer from Bombay to Calcutta. Robert's cousin had clearly committed some transgression to warrant such a swift and obviously punitive reassignment but Cora, in deference, never questioned her niece on the subject.

Looking up from her magazine, Rose opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by her uncle. Robert called from across the room, "Oh that's right I haven't told you. I've just had a letter from Shrimpy and, wouldn't you know it, he says O'Brien's gone and jumped ship again."

Cora winced at that name on her husband's lips but her interest was piqued. She returned her attention to him - though he hadn't bothered to lower his paper.

"He says less than a week before they set sail last month she quit without notice, to stay behind in India."

"To stay in India? By herself?" Cora's eyes were wide, the bridge of her nose crumpled in disbelief.

"No that's not what happened at all," Rose chimed in distractedly, "That's just what Mummy told Daddy so he wouldn't be cross with her."

Robert turned down the corner of his paper to look at his niece. Cora watched impatiently as Rose continued thumbing through her magazine. "it's just like her," the girl continued, "always lying when it suits her. She did the same thing with Nanny Weaver when I-"

"Rose," Cora said gently, hoping to redirect her niece from another angst-filled lamentation on the tired subject of Susan Flintshire's slipshod mothering techniques.

Finally looking up, Rose blushed to see all the attention in the room settled on her. She proceeded with enthusiasm, "Oh, since Mummy refused to take on an Indian servant like Daddy did and since they had already paid for passage twice for Miss Wilkens and another time for Miss O'Brien, Daddy said Mummy would have to provide for Miss O'Brien's passage back with funds from her dress allowance."

"So, Mummy - in her usual selfish fashion - told Miss O'Brien she would have to provide for her own passage. And- well- I don't think Miss O'Brien had the money because she quit right then and there without giving a week's notice."

"Isn't that typical." Robert smirked.

"Surely you don't think Susan's behavior appropriate," Cora scoffed.

"A bit uncharitable maybe but-" he searched for an excuse, "and I don't know why you're so concerned for O'Brien. It's not as if she's earned such loyalty, running out on you like a thief in the night."

Cora pursed her lips. Her husband's words stung. Crossing her arms, she said, "I just don't think it's right, leaving your maid behind in a foreign country like that."

"Darling, don't fret, it is crafty O'Brien after all. She probably had herself installed as someone else's duplicitous lady's maid the very next day." With this, Robert turned up the corner of his newspaper and absorbed himself in the stock exchange once more.

His suggestion had relieved some of Cora's concern until she noticed her niece biting her lip uneasily and avoiding eye-contact. "Rose, is there something else?"

Rose's brow creased with apprehension, "well-" she hesitated then continued almost inaudibly, "Mummy said she refused to write Miss O'Brien a reference and she said she was going to tell all of the other lady's she knew not to take her on."

Cora was aghast, "Why on earth- How could your mother be so cruel?"

"I suppose Miss O'Brien was very angry when she quit because she called Mummy horrid names." Rose's tone was mournful but a grin appeared faintly on her lips, "She told Mummy she was a tight-fisted harpy, and she called her a bitter shrew, and a miserable old b-" Rose stopped herself and blushed remembering her uncle's presence in the room.

"Hah! Said the pot to the kettle! The ill-mannered woman," Robert grumbled from behind his paper, "So typical."

"O'Brien was not ill-mannered. And she never once insulted me. She must have been very upset." Cora had tried to keep her tone stoic in the presence of her family but she was becoming unmistakably dismayed.

Robert finally lowered his newspaper again, squinting at his wife, "I don't understand you."

"It just-" noticing her husband's bemused expression Cora rose to her feet, "It just isn't right!" she said, "and now O'Brien is stranded and alone on the streets of Calcutta!" Tossing her needlework to the ground, Cora turned on her niece now, "and you should have told me!" With that, the countess stormed out of the room. Robert's mouth hung agape in bewilderment. Rose pouted quietly to herself.

Waking to a dark room at exactly 4:30 like she always did, apparently whether there was work to be done or not, Sarah stretched beneath her blankets. She waited in the predawn silence until she could hear the rumble of cart wheels on the stone street below, the prying open of wooden crates, the unfurling of canvas tents. She quickly snatched up her fags and matches from the top of the trunk beside her bed and seated herself on the perfectly positioned single wooden chair in her 2m by 2m square hotel room. The yellowing walls were cracked and pockmarked with age. The bare hardwood floors were in desperate need of a waxing, and by the door there was a scorch mark of unknown origin. Sarah could conceal the black spot with the prayer rug she had purchased in her recent travels but using the thing as doormat seemed a bit irreverent even if she wasn't an Islamist. The room also contained a small table to accompany the chair, a creaking single bed, and one electric lamp. What the suite lacked in amenities, however, it more than made up for in another way.

With her elbow on the window-sill, Sarah leaned forward into the cool morning air and lit a cigarette. The show was about to start. The city was still steeped in shadows but she could hear merchants below speaking what she recognized as Tamil, as well as some other languages she couldn't place. Now her nose told her the spice sellers must be opening their sacks and barrels and the flower merchants must be laying out their garlands of marigolds. That's how it always happened, the sounds came first, then the smells, and then- Sarah gazed across the Bangalore skyline. Indigo and fuschia began gradually seeping up from the horizon into the black ocean of stars. Soon, the darkness was being driven back into hiding by reds and oranges and yellows that made the city itself look as if it were being set aflame. Finally, Sarah could see a burning spark of sun peeking up from behind the silhouette of towering mosques and Hindu temples in the distance. As the Bengaluru Pete flooded with light, stalls exploded into colour on all sides. Sarah's eyes lingered on the textile merchants across the way. Their vibrant and extravagantly embroidered fabrics were like nothing she had ever seen.

Thinking back to the first night she had stayed in this hotel room, after choosing whichever train could take her the furthest from Calcutta in one day, Sarah remembered her exhaustion that night and her disappointment in the quality of her lodgings. Unable to sleep with the anxiety over her rash decision to stay behind, she had sat all night in this chair by the window, smoking and wallowing in self-pity and regret until dawn. Her thoughts had even skirted the topic of ending it all, when the sun rose up at last, illuminating the city below. It was as if the sunrise pushed the darkness from Sarah's mind as well. In the light of day she finally grasped the true freedom of her situation. She could go anywhere she liked, see anything she liked, wear anything she liked, eat anything she liked. Suddenly the tumultuous maelstrom of her soul settled itself. She was free.

Sarah had been traveling and sightseeing for three weeks since that morning and now returned for a night or two of rest. Mr. Ramachandra had agreed to store her trunk for her while she was away. She liked Ramachandra, he saved this room for her as well. The concierge had assured her he had larger rooms of much higher quality available, this room was meant for hotel staff and she was originally only lodged here due to the late hour of her arrival and the unavailability of any proper guest rooms, but she insisted this one was adequate. Though she wasn't sure she believed in any omniscient fate-maker, landing in this exact spot after her harrowing flight from the Flintshires, after sleepless nights plagued by dangerous thoughts, and seeing the view she was enjoying at this moment might be what faithful people call divine providence. She would not trifle with that.

The fruit sellers were setting out their mangos and pomegranates now. Sarah would have to dress herself soon and go down for some breakfast. Comfortable in her cotton nightdress she did not relish the idea of returning to the heavy, heat absorbing black linen which hung over the bedpost. She really should take some time from her traveling and sew herself something lighter. Surveying her old maid's frock from her seat across the room prompted memories of a conversation with Sarah's recently former mistress.

She had carefully broached the subject, with Lady Flintshire, of altering her uniform; a subject, by the way, which would not even have needed discussing with Lady Grantham. Sarah had only two frocks, one heavy black linen and one wool, both perfectly suited for a cool damp Yorkshire climate but neither appropriate for the oppressive heat of Calcutta. Her current costume was stifling. The rest of the Indian staff wore white cotton. Her Ladyship scoffed and Sarah knew that that last justification had been her fatal error. The suffocating heat had compromised her ordinarily unassailable faculties of persuasion.

"Stifling? Stifling?" Lady Flintshire derided, "Are you stifled, O'Brien? You appear to be breathing satisfactorily? Or were you hoping to go native as well?" The marchioness had been vexed for days since she found out his Lordship had taken up smoking a hookah and wearing sandals like the locals.

"No m'Lady." Sarah looked down at her clasped hands, "Only I thought maybe I could try a lighter material-"

"Only? It is a very slippery slope."

Sarah's jaw clenched but she willed herself to relax it before Lady Flintshire could notice hints of insolence in her expression.

"O'Brien I do sympathize."

She didn't.

"And I would so like to be lenient in this case."

She wouldn't.

"But, my dear, you must understand."

My dear, the condescending cow.

"As your mistress it is my responsibility to guard us both against the dangers of hybridity and assimilation in this godless land."

Christ, the woman was an imbecile. It was easy enough for her to preach self-sacrifice with her wardrobe full of flowing white silk.

"Don't you agree, O'Brien?"

Sarah gritted her teeth. This was the most galling thing about working for Lady Flintshire, a "yes, m'Lady" was never enough, her mistress always insisted on a full verbal submission. Sarah would be compelled to parrot back the woman's idiotic ideas and claim them as her own. "Of course, m'Lady, we must take care to-" Sarah seethed but she forced her tone to remain compliant, "-we must take care to preserve our English civility."

The marchioness smiled at her servant's submission and the subject was closed.

Sarah turned away from the hanging black frock, away from the bitter memories and back to the kaleidoscopic view of the Bangalore marketplace. She took another drag from her cigarette and snuffed it on the sill, wishing it was a Black Cat, her brand, but they couldn't be found here. Everyone back in England thought she manipulated Lady Grantham but she never had. They didn't give the Countess the credit she deserved. Like any intelligent woman she could be persuaded by a well-reasoned suggestion. Not Lady Flintshire though, she had been too stupid even for manipulation. Sarah twisted her lip in disgust then relaxed. Her thoughts drifted back to Downton again. She leaned forward resting her chin on her palm. With the time difference it would be late evening there. And Lady Grantham? Lady Grantham's daily schedule was still etched in Sarah's brain. She would be dressing for bed now. Someone else would be just tying up the braid in her hair and, with an ever gentle smile, her Ladyship would thank the new maid's reflection in her mirror. Sarah sighed and pulled another cigarette from the box.