Jimmy hid under the bed, every unfamiliar noise and scent in the house chilling his blood.

He knew the creature could come back for him at any moment—the spirit, or fairy, or whatever force which had magicked him into a cat's body—but if it were watching him, it never showed itself nor gave any signs of its presence. Jimmy would almost rather have it appear and attack him then to lie in wait for it any longer. Only his mother's death, and the war, had produced more dread than this.

Because even if the supernatural being never returned, never came back to harm him further… he could still be stuck like this for the rest of his life.

I'll never play piano again. I'll never travel the world or go to the flicks, or speak or laugh or smoke or dance. I'll never do anything I was meant to do, and no one will know where I've gone.

I'll have disappeared.

Eventually these thoughts had Jimmy's stomach rolling. Trembling miserably, he crawled out from under Thomas's bed and looked around for a bin to be sick in. Right at the last possible moment he remembered the one in the corner, and made for it as quick as he could before his stomach emptied itself.

Retching was retching, no matter what kind of body you were in, Jimmy discovered.

When he was finished he felt hollow and weak, inside and out, as if his emotions had left his body just as surely as last night's dinner had. Wearily he turned back to the chilly darkness under the bed, but found he could not make himself return to it. If the faerie queen or the devil himself were looking for him, he didn't suppose hiding under the bed would make any difference— he might as well be comfortable while he awaited his doom.

He climbed onto the bed despite his weak and shaking limbs. The Thomas-scent that permeated the room was stronger here, almost covering up the smell of his sick. It was so comforting that he couldn't help following the scent up to the pillow, where it was stronger than anywhere else. Without thinking about why he burrowed under the coverlet and curled up so he could rest his head on the corner of the pillow.

Perhaps if I sleep I will return to normal, Jimmy thought again, desperately. It was the only hope he had left to cling to.

It was obvious as lunchtime approached that Jimmy wasn't at Downton at all. Thomas wanted to throttle him.

Last night he must have gotten so sloshed at the pub that he'd lost all good sense. Perhaps he'd even gotten into trouble, too, and was now sitting in a cell somewhere with an angry bobby on his case. Thomas only prayed Jimmy hadn't been hurt in any way, or been accosted by brutes… of course, running into that sort of trouble wasn't likely in the village, of all places, but then again, Jimmy was exactly the kind of man who had the peculiar talent of finding trouble where none had previously existed.

Worry tightened Thomas's stomach for several dark minutes before logic reasserted itself.

It's much more likely Jimmy met a girl he fancied last night, he told himself firmly. He's perfectly safe physically— except for the very real danger of unemployment… even now he's probably asleep, lying naked in some woman's bed.

Thomas felt pain at the thought, clean and neat as a knife to the ribs. He wished for Jimmy's happiness first and foremost, he truly did—even if that happiness wasn't with him— but he still couldn't help but feel ill at the idea of him with someone else. It was ridiculous, of course— he knew he had no right. And yet, all the logic in the world had never been able to stop him from feeling anything when it came to Jimmy Kent.

…But that was neither here nor there.

With an effort he pushed those thoughts down and locked them up tight. He had real work to be getting on with, he didn't have time to be reflecting on his entire life's trials and tribulations, or the pathetic love still burning away in his heart. Jimmy was almost certainly losing his job now whatever the reason, and it were his own bloody stupid fault. Thomas deliberately focused on his anger, his frustration with Jimmy's irresponsibility, and let it carry him away from fear.

When the clock chimed the hour he looked up from his ledger and realized he had no idea if he'd done anything correctly since breakfast. He'd been working blindly all morning while he churned over Jimmy's absence—churned over it, fumed over it, worried over it… while simultaneously working out ways to help Jimmy keep his position at Downton.

Thomas was beginning to get a stress headache; it felt like a week had passed in the space of three hours. He was famished,too,and he badly needed a smoke—

Damn, the cat!

He'd forgotten all about the stray in his room, he'd been so focused on Jimmy. He'd meant to return straight away, give it some water at the very least. Now the poor thing was likely suffering—and pissing on the floors, no doubt. Thomas sighed unhappily and stood up, making a quick trip to the kitchen first.

When he opened his door he didn't see the cat anywhere—until a lump under his blanket quivered and the cat's head emerged. It looked at him and gave a very plaintive, sorrowful meow.

"Bit dramatic, aren't you…" Thomas muttered. His sheets and pillow were likely soiled with cat hair, now, but he supposed he deserved it. He set the tray of food and water, courtesy of Mrs. Patmore, down on the floor beside the wardrobe.

He paused, sniffing the air with a grimace. "Bugger. What is that smell?"

The cat shrank back into the pillow as if he'd threatened to whack it with a stick. Thomas pursed his lips at it, then glanced around the room for the source of the stench. He didn't see anything. Sighing, he looked under the bed, then the wardrobe and bureau, but found nothing.

Finally he let the smell guide him to the bin in the corner. The cat had been sick, all right—but had known to vomit into the bin?

Thomas stared at the cat in astonishment. "Escape from the circus, have you?" he asked it, incredulous. The cat seemed fascinated by the coverlet and would not look at him.

Shaking his head, Thomas lifted the blanket off the cat and gestured towards the tray. "There you are."

Mrs. Patmore had been only too pleased to serve their new friend, and had given it a spare bit of smoked salmon from the Crawley's own table, plus a bowl of water and a small dish of cream. The bloody thing was eating better than he was and had only been at Downton for a day. Still, he hoped the sustenance would perk the cat up a bit—it seemed to have a sickly attitude despite its gleaming golden coat.

The cat sniffed the tray delicately and looked back up at him as if to say thank you. Thomas had never seen a cat so expressive before, and he found himself wanting to stroke it again. But there was his livery to think of, of course.

"Go on, then," Thomas told it.

The cat did as it was bid. It lapped at the water more messily than any cat Thomas had seen, as if it didn't know what it was doing—its whole face was dripping by the time it was done—and then it began to eat the salmon with a bit more care. Thomas watched the cat eat while he had a quick smoke at the window, trying not to worry over Jimmy any more than he had been.

He failed, of course.

This here is a taste of what it will be like, a voice inside Thomas informed him. You've always known he'd leave eventually—he's too lively for a life in service, too talented and beautiful to waste himself at Downton forever…now you know how you'll miss him, and worry about him for the rest of your days.

Thomas had never been much of a drinker before but he badly wanted one now.

The cat chose that moment to finish with the tray and pad over to him, looking up at him beseechingly with its dark blue eyes. Its expression—for this cat had expressions and no mistake—was now less sad, and more… hm. Thomas couldn't tell exactly, only that it seemed to be asking him for something.

"Stop that, would you," Thomas sighed. He was self aware enough to know he'd get attached to the cat if he spent too much time around it, and he didn't want that at all. He knew the cat likely wouldn't stay.

But the cat nudged its head against his leg, very pointedly, and went over to the door where it began to pace impatiently. When Thomas made no move to open it, the cat put both front paws on the wood and pushed, looking at him with narrowed eyes as it did it. It was a little uncanny.

Then Thomas realized it probably just needed the toilet.

But he couldn't just open the door, the cat might take off down the hall and end up causing trouble. But he couldn't pick it up either, and ruin another uniform with its claws and fur. Thomas thought about it for a moment and found a solution. He took one of his towels off the clotheshorse by the fire and wrapped the cat up in it like a small babe. Surprisingly the cat did not protest or struggle to escape; instead, it only gave him a sour look and put its ears back in displeasure.

He carried the cat downstairs for the second time that day, but this time the gossip machine downstairs had done its job. People no longer looked shocked but instead seemed collectively amused and interested. It was more than a little insulting—why should it be a such a great joke that he was caring for the cat? He wasn't some sort of devil who was cruel to animals— although he supposed the cat itself did look funny, wrapped up in a cloth as it was with its head peeking out. Perhaps he and the cat made a droll picture after all… O'Brien would have a thing or two to say about it, if she were still here.

Anna saw them at the bottom of the stairs as she was going up. "Oh, I see you've made a new friend," she said, smiling. "Hope Jimmy won't be jealous when he returns, he's had you quite to himself for ages now."

The casual mention of Jimmy stung Thomas, though he knew Anna were only trying to be funny. "Don't be silly Mrs. Bates, there's more than enough of me for the two of them."

As he walked away he heard her laugh. The cat wriggled a bit in his arms.

Sighing, Thomas took the cat into the courtyard so it could do its business, and he could finish his half-gone cigarette. He put the cat down, wondering if it would run away home and solve all their problems, but it didn't. Instead it shuffled over to the furthest corner of the yard and hid behind a bush. A minute or two later it reemerged, and Thomas could swear it's small cat-face looked embarrassed.

Thomas raised his eyebrows at him. "Funny one, aren't you?"

Then he scooped the cat up in the cloth and took him back inside.

The verdict on the cat (courtesy of Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson) was that he was to be Thomas's charge but that he would sleep in the kitchen at night, to better facilitate the hunting of mice. If anyone from the village claimed the cat in the meantime, then of course he would be returned to them, but for now everyone downstairs seemed keen on keeping the feline at Downton. Whether this was due to the mouse infestation or because everyone secretly wanted a pet, Thomas wasn't sure. He did have serious doubts about the cat's abilities as a mouse hunter, though. Privately he thought the cat looked much too clean and fluffy to seem very fierce, and besides, it had the most nervous disposition he'd ever seen in a cat before. It had probably spent its entire life lying in some lady's lap, and was now utterly terrified of anything unfamiliar. Of course that didn't explain why it had attached itself only to him, but then, cats were mysterious creatures, even ones that looked a bit silly.

Thomas protested weakly at his role as primary guardian, but it was mostly for show. He was already growing fond of the cat despite himself, and was secretly gratified when the cat hissed and cringed away from anyone who wasn't him. He knew it said something pathetic about his life that a cat's opinion should matter to him, but there it was.

And Thomas was doubly glad of the cat's presence for a far more important reason—it provided a distraction. What with the business of finding a box and filling it with earth for its toilet, procuring a bed for it to sleep in, and other such miscellaneous chores in addition to his everyday work, it helped keep Thomas's thoughts from dwelling too deeply on the ticking clock, and Jimmy's continued absence.

As soon as his official duties were done that evening, however, he felt his anxiety rise to a peak and spill over.

"Something must be wrong, Mr. Carson," Thomas said. "Jimmy wouldn't disappear like this, not for nothing."

For once Carson didn't disagree. Instead he gave Thomas a heavy look and said, "I believe you're right. Let's telephone all the pubs, the theaters, and any other place you think he may have gone. Then I suppose… the police and hospital."

Thomas swallowed, and nodded.

So they phoned. They called half of Yorkshire, it seemed, but no one could give them any information about Jimmy.

"Perhaps I should go into town myself," Thomas said at last. "I may be able to find him. Just give me two hours, Mr. Carson. Please."

The old butler pursed his lips, and agreed. "But I shall have to inform his lordship in the meantime."

Thomas left Jimmy with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

"I'm going into the village to look for Jimmy," he said. "Watch the cat, would you?"

Jimmy ignored the two women's reaching hands and crawled under the table instead, his stomach sick again. He hated this.

"But Jimmy didn't go to the village, he went to Ripon to see a picture," Daisy said. She looked worried. "He asked me to go but I thought he was up to his old tricks, so I said no…"

Jimmy could see some emotion cross Thomas's face, briefly, before he smoothed it down. "I'm sure it's something silly, is all," he said tightly. "A mistake or little accident of some sort. I'll be back tonight. And watch over our new friend and make sure he doesn't cause any trouble."

"Oh, he'll be fine," Mrs. Patmore said. Jimmy wasn't sure if she were talking about him, or… well, him.

Thomas nodded and left without another word, not sparing Jimmy another glance.

After a short silence Mrs. Patmore bent to look at Jimmy under the table. "Now then, Puss, what shall we call you? If I have anything to say about it you're staying right here. This place needs a cat—"

Jimmy tuned her out. Instead he resignedly pretended to sniff out the mice, stalking the edges of the room and going into the pantry as if a scent had led him there. In truth he wasn't sure what he was smelling—there were thousands of scents layered on top of each other—but Mrs. Patmore was pleased with the show in any case. If he wanted to stay here while he was like this, he needed everyone to think he was necessary to them. The last thing he wanted was to be given away to strangers, and separated from his only home and only friend. He hated that Thomas was out looking for him. Hated it.

When he exhausted his pretend-stalking, he tentatively approached the table again.

By now Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were having tea and toast, chatting about visiting Mr. Mason later that week when the Crawleys were away in London. Jimmy considered trying to be affectionate with the two cooks—they'd likely stroke his back as Thomas had done—but he found the thought humiliating and vaguely disturbing, so he didn't draw any closer. Instead he examined a spot of jam Daisy had let fall onto the table near her elbow.

Could he…? He badly wanted something to eat again, something sweet. Sweet foods had always comforted him—not that all the pastries and tarts in the world would do him much good now.

But still… maybe no one would notice?

Bunching his muscles, Jimmy silently leapt onto the chair beside Daisy. When she didn't glance at him, he licked at the jam on the table, expecting the familiar sweetness to burst across his tongue—but it didn't. It didn't taste right at all, there was no sweetness, only a bit of tart and berry. It was not good at all.

"My my, look who likes the raspberry jam!" Mrs. Patmore said, grinning. "Maybe that's what we should call him."

"What? Jam?" Daisy wrinkled her nose, and rightly so. Jimmy did not want a bloody stupid cat name.

Mrs. Patmore snorted. "No, how about… Mr. Jam. Or Jammy… Jam-Jam?"

"Jaime? James?" suggested Daisy thoughtlessly, then both women's faces fell in dismay.

"I hope he's alright," Mrs. Patmore said with a sigh. "He may be a silly sort but I am fond of him. I just can't imagine where he's been all day."

Jimmy scowled inwardly. He was not silly… thought it was gratifying to know Mrs. Patmore cared for him. He hadn't really thought anyone besides Thomas did.

"What do you think happened?" Daisy asked. "It's like he's vanished, just like Lady Edith's beau."

Jimmy wondered if Michael Gregson had also been transformed into a cat. He rather doubted it, but then, what did he know? The world had ceased to make sense.

"I don't know," Mrs. Patmore said. "Jimmy's a bit of trouble, right— maybe he's just gone and done himself a mischief and Thomas will find him and sort it out."

Daisy agreed, though her face was grim. Absently she tried to pet Jimmy but he dodged her hand and leaped over to the rocking chair in the corner, the one Mr. Barrow preferred. He curled up in it and tried to prepare for whatever came next.

Jimmy watched as the other servants trickled into the hall as the sky darkened, most of them going about their business as if nothing were amiss. Many cooed over him and tried to pet him, but he dodged their humiliating overtures until they gave up, and he could return to the rocking chair to wait.

The worst thing about it, Jimmy thought—apart from being a cat, of course—was listening to everyone discuss him as if he weren't there.

Some were genuinely worried and their concern touched him: Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, Anna, and even Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Molesley expressed some concern for his wellbeing. Others, however, thought he'd run away with a girl or some other stupid thing. Some of the maids and hall boys were having a grand time of it, snickering and thinking up increasingly silly scenarios to explain his absence. Eventually Mr. Carson caught wind of it.

"I will hear no more gossip out of any of you," he said darkly. "James is still your superior."

Jimmy was immensely grateful for the reprimand— he'd been about a heartbeat away from clawing their smug little faces off. It was horrible not to be able to defend oneself from ridicule… but then it occurred to Jimmy that if Carson were defending him, then the man must actually be worried about him, too.

At least if I ever get back to myself, Jimmy thought dully. I'll know a lot of things I didn't before.

Jimmy heard Thomas slogging through the rain long before the others did. When he finally reached the door and came inside, dripping, Jimmy could see immediately that he was distraught beneath the mask of calm he projected.

"Any sign of him?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"No," Thomas said. His voice was brittle and Jimmy wondered if the others could hear it.

"But you must have some clue, or—"

"No," Thomas said shortly. "No one remembers seeing him, not at any of the usual places in Ripon or the village."

Mrs. Hughes looked to Mr. Carson.

"This may be a matter for the police," he said reluctantly. "But first—perhaps we should search his room, see if he's packed his things. It's possible he's left of his own free will."

Even with his limited vision, Jimmy could see Thomas blanch. "I—yes, of course."

Don't be stupid! Jimmy wanted to shout at him. He couldn't believe Thomas would think he'd leave without a word—he wasn't bloody Miss O'Brien! He'd never go without saying goodbye. He'd never…

The silence in the room was glacial. Thomas and Mr. Carson left together, their footsteps on the stairs sounding obscenely loud in the quiet. Jimmy felt he would be sick again, but with an effort he steadied himself enough to slip out the door after the two men with no one the wiser.

He followed Thomas and Mr. Carson from a distance, silent on his soft new feet. He only drew near when they were already in his room.

He watched numbly as Mr. Carson opened his wardrobe while Thomas searched his nightstand.

"All his clothes are still here…" Carson observed.

After only a moment of digging Thomas made a rough sound in his throat, like a sob quickly disguised as a cough.

"I've found his ticket to the pictures last night," he said unsteadily. "He likes to collect them. So he did go to Ripon after all, and then he came back here—"

"Then where is he now?"

"I—I don't know."

After a moment, Thomas tilted his head at Jimmy's bed. Jimmy knew what he was seeing—the bizarre way the blankets were mussed, and the empty pajama sleeve tossed across the pillow…

Mr. Carson noticed it too, and pulled back Jimmy's wrinkled bedclothes with a jerk. Jimmy's pajamas were there, laid out beneath the sheets, empty and posed like a sleeping man.

"It's all too strange," Thomas murmured. He sounded like a small boy, suddenly. "We have to inform the police. We—we should have done this morning, now we've wasted all this time and it's dark—"

"Now, calm down, Thomas," Carson said heavily. "Lord Grantham wishes to handle such a call himself, let's go now and tell him what we've found…"

Thomas nodded, looking more pinched and helpless than Jimmy had ever seen him. The sight of him like that split a crack through Jimmy's chest, like the crust of the earth pulling apart, and again he wanted to scream. He could feel it all building up inside him, trapped and too big for his tiny body to contain.

I'm here, I'm right HERE you stupid arse! You don't need to look like that, I'm not dead and I didn't run off—!

Overcome with the frustration of it, Jimmy jumped onto Thomas's lap and pressed his head against his belly.

It's me who's gone, not him, Jimmy told himself. So why do I feel I miss him so badly? It didn't make any sense. Perhaps he was going mad already.

To his surprise, Thomas heaved in a shaky breath and caught Jimmy up in his arms, pressing him tight to his chest as if he needed the comfort. Jimmy buried his face in his jacket, drawing the Thomas-scent into his lungs.

What followed was some of the longest hours of Jimmy's life.

Lord Grantham phoned the police and ordered them to Downton right away. Mr. Carson, Thomas, and Jimmy waited for them in the library with Lord Grantham, but only Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham said a word—Thomas remained silent, his jaw tight, and Jimmy lay still in his arms, silently wishing again that it were all a bad dream.

When the two inspectors arrived, there was much talking and pomp from Lord Grantham and the police asked question after question, each more invasive and insulting than the last. Thomas even confessed to finding Jimmy—that is, a cat—in Jimmy's empty room that morning.

Eventually the detectives made their way into the men's quarters to investigate, and they searched Jimmy's room and took statements from most of the household staff—even the maids and hall boys.

By midnight they were finished, promising to get in touch if any evidence presented itself. It was obvious they thought Jimmy was a runaway servant—they'd asked a lot of questions about theft, and if anything had been found missing lately.

Bizarrely Jimmy himself felt let down by the police, but not about the accusations of theft. Some illogical part of him had hoped they'd find him somehow, the real him, and that he'd magically reappear in his proper form with no memory that he'd ever been a cat.

So I have gone mad, then, Jimmy thought numbly.

Thomas held Jimmy throughout the whole ordeal, and Jimmy listened to his heartbeat and his breathing, and felt the fear in every line of his body. Thomas was afraid Jimmy had been carried off and murdered, or that he'd had a shell-shock episode and had wandered off onto the moors or into the forest, and were lost. He told his theories to the police and then got terribly angry when they didn't respond in the way he wished. Mr. Carson had to tell him to leave until he calmed himself.

"Those goddamned—those bloody foul—!" Thomas hissed to Jimmy, tightening his grip on Jimmy's fur until it hurt. "They don't care about finding him, they don't—Lord Grantham looked for his sodding dog better than he's looking for Jimmy! I'll kill them if they don't do something, I will."

Jimmy felt a drop of warm water fall on his back and didn't dare look up at Thomas. If he saw him weep he might not be able to survive it, not now when it was like watching his own death happen in front of his eyes. He couldn't feel like this and see that, too.

Finally the police left, and Mr. Carson ordered Thomas to bed. He never said a word about the cat in Thomas's arms, but of his own accord Thomas took Jimmy back to the servant's hall and placed him in his makeshift cat-bed: an old hat box with a blanket stuffed in. Jimmy did not want to be left alone anymore than he had that morning, but when he looked up and took in Thomas's drawn countenance—the haunted eyes over white cheeks— he knew he couldn't bring himself to trouble his friend with any further protests.

Please, please let me wake up as myself again, Jimmy prayed.

But Jimmy couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion. There were sounds in the house, little creaks and scratchings and whispers, tiny noises magnified in the silence. Jimmy could see in the dark, now, but it didn't make it any less frightening. This was the room that had produced the enchanted tea—how was he supposed to sleep here?

When he heard thunder rumble in the distance, he took it as permission to be a coward. He darted out of the box and raced up the stairs to Thomas's door, his heart pounding as if he were being chased. He meant only to curl up in front of the door and not bother Thomas, but instantly he knew he could not do that because—because Thomas was weeping. Behind the door Jimmy could hear Thomas muffling his tears into his pillow.

So Jimmy clawed at the door, batting at it with his paws, until Thomas opened it and let him in.

Jimmy's new vision allowed him to see the tears streaking those angled features, see the depth of pain in the pale eyes and the vulnerable wreck of his mouth. It was possible, wasn't it, that Jimmy had been wrong all along..? It was possible a man could truly love another man, in the way poets talked about, because… what was this, if not love?

Jimmy followed Thomas into the bed, heartsick. He desperately wanted to tell him he was sorry, so sorry, and that he didn't think him a deviant anymore. He wanted to apologize for every cruel thing he'd ever said or done to him, to tell him he was his dearest friend in all the world, and that he would never leave him, not for anything. He wanted to weep with Thomas and tell him he was right here, right here, don't cry anymore.

Nothing had ever pained him so profoundly, and the only way he could bear it was to press as close to Thomas as he could, to try to sink down into him through pressure alone. The feeling of missing him came back, too, so strongly and sharply Jimmy felt his small cat's body shake with the misery of it.

Thomas reached up and held Jimmy painfully tight in return, choking something out about a stupid bloody cat. Jimmy pretended Thomas's tears were his own, and found some small relief in them at last.

And finally, he slept.

The next morning, Jimmy woke as a cat, tucked under Thomas's chin.

Thomas came awake unwillingly to the sound of his alarm, and Jimmy watched him remember the day before and clench his fists in his hair. Then he drew in a shuddery breath and got up, and Jimmy burrowed under the blankets as Thomas dressed and washed his face. When Thomas left, Jimmy heard him open his door across the hall, and then close it again a silent moment later.

Still hoping I'm there, Jimmy thought. That makes two of us.

As Thomas's footsteps receded down the stairs, Jimmy saw it: a familiar steaming teacup had appeared on the nightstand, painted with blue and yellow flowers. Jimmy's insides shrank in horror— he couldn't move.

Minutes ticked by, and when nothing else happened he dared to move closer— had to, to read the tiny script on the paper sticking out from under the cup. It read:

Well done,

You have learned lesson one,

And one gift you shall receive:

Drink from this cup and you shall have

One single night's reprieve.