Edith had watched her best friend and her younger sister on and off for most of the afternoon. They seemed to be getting on so well, she didn't care to interfere. She was so pleased for them both. Each of them had had altogether too much bad luck. It was time they found some happiness. Only at the very end of the event, when Edith had to go and fetch Tom so that they could get going on the long drive back to London, did Edith suffer a pang of jealousy which she quickly fought down.

I don't begrudge them their happiness. I really hope it all works out well for them both. But, just once in my life, I'd like to know what that happiness feels like.

"Tom, I hate to cut your day short but we really ought to be leaving if we're going to get back to London before bedtime!"

Tom's face fell, but he continued to look at Sybil.

"You couldn't give me a lift to the station, could you?" Sybil asked.

"If you're going back to London, we could give you a lift all the way if you like" Tom said as nonchalantly as he could.

"Oh that would be great! Thank you. Let me just go and get my things."

Sybil's expression had been one of utter joy as she almost skipped back to the house. Tom looked at Edith sheepishly.

"I'm sorry. I've rather left you alone today. But I am grateful that you brought me."

"I'm very glad of that, Tom Branson. Now, while I have you all to myself, I will tell you that Sybil is the sweetest spirit you are ever likely to meet."

"Yes, she is" he smiled.

"And she is my favourite sister, which means that if you ever hurt her, I will castrate you with a rusty penknife without anaesthetic. Understood?"

"Loud and clear, m'lady."

"And don't call me that!"

.

Anthony Strallan got up early, as he always did. He woke around dawn from the nightmares these days. He often found Isis pawing at him, worried, and spent some time cuddling and consoling her and himself. Then he forced himself to go through the motions because it helped to have a routine: shower, shave, dress himself as well as he could. He could have afforded a carer or even a valet, but he was fiercely independent and hated the thought. He picked at some toast and gave the rest to Isis, as usual. Then he took her out for a long walk. He preferred to do this before the rush hour, before there were too many people about.

Getting back to his house, he settled down to thinking about his new project: returning to his ancestral home, Loxley Grange in Yorkshire. It had been shut up all the time he'd been in the army and would need a lot of renovation and money throwing at it. It was the beginning of the end for him, he acknowledged. He would get the house running again, move to Yorkshire, and die there, sooner or later, it didn't matter to him which. There was nothing else in his life, nor was there likely to be.

His phone rang: he didn't recognise the number. He almost didn't answer.

"Hello."

"Major Sir Anthony Strallan?" said a bright, but silky voice.

"Yes."

"Edith Crawley here. You were kind enough to leave a message for me."

Two hours later, Edith was waiting for Anthony in the lobby of The Sentinel. She saw the dog first. Isis was a rather beautiful yellow Labrador, in lovely condition except that she limped slightly on her rear, right leg. The man with her was quite distinctive. He was well over six feet tall, broad and slim, with blonde hair made even blonder by the Asian sun and incredibly blue eyes. She was about to extend her hand to him in welcome, when she saw the sling around his right hand. While she was deciding on whether to forgo a handshake or try offering her left, the building's security officer approached him.

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't bring your dog in here."

"Why not?" Anthony asked in a weary but polite voice.

"Dogs aren't allowed, except assistance dogs."

"Why not?"

"Er…"

"If assistance dogs are allowed, why aren't other dogs allowed? And why don't you know the answer to that question?"

"It's alright, Ken. He and the dog are here to see me."

"Okay, Lady Edith." The guard moved away.

Edith winced, but Anthony raised an amused eyebrow.

"So you are the Lady Edith Crawley. I wondered."

"Please don't tell me you looked me up in Debrett."

"Why not? I expect you looked me up, didn't you?"

"That was merely professional preparation. And it doesn't tell you anything useful like whether you prefer tea or coffee."

"First of all, I need a bowl of water for Isis, but if it's going to cause problems for you…"

"I know a lovely little place about two streets away that is very dog-friendly, and they do great coffee. Is that alright?"

Anthony was grateful for Edith's diffusion of the situation. He didn't like being assertive about Isis, but he didn't like the way she was refused entry to almost everywhere either. She was a much more valuable member of society than so many humans. They walked to the café, took a comfortable seat, and ordered. Anthony was impressed that Isis's bowl of water was brought without him having to ask.

"You know, Isis and you could write a blog about dog-friendly establishments. I know lots of people would read it."

"Really?" Anthony took a sip of his coffee. "Mmm…I don't think Isis is ready for a second career in journalism yet."

"Is she alright? I saw she was limping."

"Her back leg and pelvis were shattered in the same attack that did this to me. She's much better now, but it'll take a little while longer until her muscles build up and she's fully recovered."

"And you?"

Anthony looked at the pretty young lady sitting next to him. Nothing he could say, nothing he could do would ever change the horrid truth he was about to put words around.

"Paralysed by a sniper's bullet moments before the mortar went off that killed the rest of my team. If I hadn't been on the ground because of this, I would've been a goner too. That might have been for the best." He stared into his coffee cup, unaware that his words had touched Edith's heart.

"Not for Isis. What would she have done without you?" murmured Edith.

She was looking up into his eyes with friendliness, yes, but with something else that he couldn't quite identify.

"You're a very perceptive young lady, aren't you? Yes, Isis is the only person who keeps me going. And without me there to look after her, I suspect the Veterinary Corps would've put her down."

"That would have been a tragedy. She's a heroine. Just as you are a hero. So, are you really happy for me to interview you about this. I can see that you're not comfortable discussing it."

"Not here, in public. But perhaps we could meet somewhere more private? Somewhere Isis is allowed?"

"Would you like to come to my place for dinner this evening?" Edith couldn't help the nervousness that leeched into her voice.

"I'd love that." Anthony allowed himself this, knowing that Edith was only thinking of the most convenient way to accommodate his dog. Yes, that was it. This wasn't a date or anything.

.

Tom Branson was in the office looking at the desk phone as though it had just grown there. Eventually he picked it up and dialled the number written on the back of his diary. It went to messages.

"Erm…Hi! Hi, Sybil, it's me, Tom Branson, Edith's friend. We met at the car do last weekend? Erm…I was wondering if I could talk to you about your idea…you know, writing about the Troubles. It's just that, I only know it from a civilian point of view and I'd be really grateful for a bit of guidance on the military perspective and what the pitfalls might be…I'll buy you dinner in exchange? If you're interested. Okay, well, hope to hear from you. I think I gave you my number, but just in case here it is again. Right. Well. Bye."

He put the phone down and muttered to himself You're supposed to be a journalist…you know, good with words…you fecking eejit.