We live in an era of tremendous dishonesty where people, even nice people, will say things they know are not true because they want to be perceived as someone who thinks they are true. But I think this is dangerous. I think personal dishonesty in a society is as dangerous as it is in an individual. For most of us the biggest journey in life, and certainly the toughest journey, is towards self-knowledge.
–Julian Fellowes
Baxter wended her way along the narrow corridors. Every few feet she passed a door. All of the doors were closed. Most seemed to be perfectly plain, rather ordinary doors. One or two had what appeared to be multiple locks near the frame. Baxter wondered what The Author might need to guard so fiercely within His own mind. She marveled that the corridors, and she had made many turns from one passageway to another, were all well-lit. As yet she could find no source of the light, no windows, no candles, no lamps of any kind. She mused that perhaps the light was a sign of a well-ordered mind.
Or perhaps she had brought the light with her. Was she really in The Author's mind, or was this all happening within her own mind? How was she to know the difference? The water had been relatively tasteless, but could Mr. Bates have poisoned her in some way? He had certainly seemed sincere in his desire to change, not only his own storyline, but hers and others' as well. And he had agreed to do something about Thomas . . .
Each of the doors was labeled with a small card. Bates had told her which doors to look for, but she hadn't seen either the "Series 5" or "amazonkindle" door yet. Would seeing those doors confirm that she was actually inside The Author's mind? Or just further confirm her suspicions that she was wandering in some sort of dream? Perhaps it was all a dream, from her first encounter with Mr. Bates in the courtyard. Still, she had never dreamt about Mr. Bates before. There was most definitely another who occupied her dreams.
She passed doors labeled "Fauntleroy," "Pauper," and "Investigates" on her left. On the right was a larger door labeled "Acting." It was slightly ajar. Cautiously, Baxter nudged the door open wider only to reveal yet another corridor with yet more labeled doors. Holding the doorknob tightly, she leaned into the corridor and could see labels such as "Monarch," "Shadowlands," and "Chuzzlewit." She shook her head in confusion and backed into what she thought of as the main corridor. She closed the door to the "Acting" corridor, carefully leaving it as she had found it.
The next door on the left was labeled "Gosford." Baxter wondered if it bore any relation to the town in Australia her cousin had moved to. Curious, she opened the door and came face-to-face with the Dowager Countess. Baxter blinked and retreated into the doorway. The Dowager, who looked a bit more modern than Baxter had ever seen her, said, "The time to make up your mind about people is never." The Dowager then vanished and was replaced by scenes of people at a dinner party. Baxter quickly retreated.
She passed doors labeled "Young Victoria" and "Tourist" before arriving at an oversized door labeled "Downton" on her left. "This seems promising," she said aloud and opened the door. This door also led to a corridor filled with yet more doors. Baxter could glimpse doors bearing cards with familiar names on them – "Grantham," "Bates," "Dowager," and "Lady Cora" among them. Curiouser, she opened Lady Cora's door and was suddenly presented with an image of a very young Lady Cora standing stark naked in a room with two young men, neither of whom was Lord Grantham. Baxter ducked back into the hallway and firmly closed the door. She leaned against it, gathering her wits.
Sure she would regret the choice, she peeked inside the "Dowager" door and again saw a vision of Lady Grantham who simply could not be the Lady Grantham she knew. This Dowager Countess was dressed in flowing black robes with a conical witch's cap perched on her head. She was striding down the steps of an ancient castle in commanding form, surrounded by dozens of young people. When the Dowager-who-was-not-the-Dowager raised what looked like an actual magic wand and sent a blue electric arc in Baxter's direction, the lady's maid sought refuge in the corridor again. Cracking the door open once more, Baxter saw that the old witch had vanished, replaced by a grandmotherly figure standing at the base of a stairway in town home clearly decorated for Christmas. Standing near the woman, who seemed to be simultaneously both an older and younger version of the Dowager, was a family with two young children. The elderly woman looked at the father and said, "So, Peter, you've become a pirate."
Back in the corridor, Baxter eyed the other doors with trepidation. What might she find behind Mr. Bates' door, or His Lordship's? Or worse, suppose there was a door with Thomas' name on it further down the way? These alternate versions of both Lady Granthams were disturbing enough. Still, she was curious. But then, how much time did she actually have available? How much time had passed in the attic room before she had stepped through the rabbit hole, as it were? She did not expect the Lord and Lady back much before midnight; Mr. Bates had insisted that Mrs. Bates go home without him when she finished with Lady Mary for the day. And odd as they were, the scenes behind the doors were a bit intriguing. Did The Author have dreams about His characters? Did He imagine them in other storylines? Baxter certainly hoped she never saw old Lady Grantham whip out a magic wand. She touched the door that said "Bates" hesitantly and glanced further down the passageway. Could there be a door with her own name? What fantastic sights might she find there? Or, she paused self-consciously, behind Mr. Molesley's door?
Pulling herself from her reverie, Baxter opened the Bates door. Relieved to not be faced with Mr. Bates covered in blood or escaping from an insane asylum, she took in much calmer surroundings than she had expected. She was in yet another corridor, but this one was wider and clearly illuminated by overhead lights. A hotel, she thought, and a very nice one. She turned, intuitively looking for Mr. Bates. Instead, as she turned, she was all but bowled over by a woman barreling out of a room, lugging a suitcase behind her. As she stumbled, the door behind her closed and vanished.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" the woman exclaimed. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
"I'm quite all right," Baxter said, smoothing the front of her dress. The woman before her was about her age, blonde, and seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. Baxter looked about frantically, seeking some sign of the door which had been just behind her.
"Do you work here?" the woman asked quizzically. "It's only that I'm checking out, and I need a taxi. Can you help me?"
"I may need some help myself," Baxter replied. "I'm trying to find The Author . . . well, actually, I'm trying to not find him . . . but I need to get back to where I belong, or at least where I was." She took a deep breath in hopes of settling her nerves. "Where am I? Is Mr. Bates here?"
"I don't know anyone named Bates," the woman replied, "but there are dozens of authors downstairs. I've been here for a writer's seminar."
"Are you an Author?" Baxter asked, incredulous.
"I'm not sure I'd use a capital 'A,'" she answered. "I just dabble in children's stories. Do you need to sit down?" The woman seemed very kind, taking time to help a stranger when she was obviously in a hurry to be somewhere else.
"I . . . I . . . perhaps I should sit down," Baxter agreed, suddenly feeling unsteady. The woman took her hand and led her back into the room she had just left. Baxter braced herself as they crossed the threshold, but it was just an ordinary hotel room. Well, Lady Grantham would find it ordinary, she supposed. The room was quite grand. The woman gestured for her to sit in a chair near the fireplace and stepped into the next room. A dressing room or a bath room, Baxter wondered. She returned with a bottle similar to the one in the attic room. Baxter eyed it suspiciously.
"You really are knackered, aren't you?" the woman asked. "Here, I'll open it." She handed the bottle back with the cap removed. Uncertain, Baxter nevertheless took a careful sip. She closed her eyes as she swallowed, surprised at how parched she had become without realizing it. Opening her eyes, she wasn't certain if she was relieved or disappointed that she remained in the hotel room with the blonde woman, sitting by the empty fireplace.
"Thank you," Baxter whispered. "I'm so sorry to keep you."
"I'm Jan, by the way, Jan Starling," the woman smiled and held out her hand.
"Baxter," she answered. "Phyllis Baxter. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
"Oh no, I'm not nearly as grand as this room might suggest," Jan waved off Baxter's deference. "It's just Jan."
"But you are an Author, Mrs. Starling?" Baxter's ingrained sense of propriety would not permit her to be so informal with The Author's equal.
Jan Starling looked at her with something like understanding. "You're not from here, are you? I mean, you're not from this story." The last was clearly a statement, not a question.
"No," Baxter coughed to cover her squeak. She needed to recover the boldness that led her here if she was to find a way out. "I'm from Downton Abbey."
"I'm afraid I don't know that one," Mrs. Starling replied, "but if you come with me I can introduce to our Authors. They live with me, and maybe they can help."
"Your Authors live with you?" Baxter did not understand how that could be. Perhaps Mrs. Starling did not really understand.
"Well, they don't go around saying they're our Authors," she went on, "but I know they are. One of them is my nephew and the other is my brother-in-law. Maybe that's why I write; maybe being an Author runs in the family," she began to muse aloud to herself. "If Fergie can do it, maybe I can to. All I have to do is write myself into the story."
"I'm sorry," Baxter interrupted, "can you help me get back to The Author's mind? I was in the corridor, and there was a door that said 'Bates' on it. I know Mr. Bates. We work together at the Abbey. I need to get back there so we can . . ." Baxter caught herself. "Well, I was trying to find something."
"I was trying to find something, too," Jan said. "But then my husband sent me a picture of himself and I realized that I already had it."
"A picture?" Baxter asked, looking around.
"Well, it's a little embarrassing," Jan said, reaching into a bag beside her. She pulled out a small device similar to the amazonkindle in the attic room. There was a small screen and only a few buttons with odd symbols on them below the screen. The device was smaller than Mr. Bates' artifact. "Here, this is him," Jan said as she pressed a staccato sequence of buttons and taps on the screen. She held the device out to Baxter who took it.
"That's Mr. Bates!" Baxter said, blushing. Because it was Mr. Bates as she had certainly never seen him before, and likely never would again. The very small screen showed a strikingly clear and colorful image of a very relaxed Mr. Bates in a suit jacket and tie, but with no trousers on. He wore only a very short pair of blue and white striped boxers beneath his shirt and suit coat. Baxter was certain she would never be able to look Mr. or Mrs. Bates in the eye again after seeing this odd photograph.
"No, that's Terry," Jan said. "My husband, Terry Starling."
Baxter gripped the device more tightly. "This is worse than the witch and the naked Lady Grantham," she muttered to herself. "But this is a connection to Mr. Bates." She took another deep breath and ventured further into unknown territory. "Mrs. Starling, do I understand that you are both an Author and a character?"
"I suppose so," Jan replied. "I've never thought of myself as an Author, just a writer, but I guess to my own characters, I am an Author."
"Have you ever tried to change your own storyline?"
Mrs. Starling's eyes widened. "You mean, highjack the story from Fergie and Loz? I could never do that! It's their story, too. I mean, it is their story. They write it, but they're in it, too. Even though sometimes I think they don't realize that we know they are the Authors. Although, you know, Terry might not see it. Always very literal, my Terry."
"Do you think it could be done, though?" Baxter pressed on with her question. "If a character wanted to change their storyline, could they?"
"If I really wanted to change my storyline, I would just ask Fergie," Jan replied. "I've been a little uncomfortable with this business of my teacher having a thing for me lately, but it's worked out all right. I know that Terry's worth ten Stephens."
"Mr. Bates thinks he can change our storylines," Baxter confessed. "I'm trying to find where they are so I can get them to him. But somehow, I ended up here and I don't know how to get back."
"I just write stories about invisible blue rhinoceroses," Jan explained. "I have no idea how to help you get back to where you belong."
"Do you have any other pictures of your husband, Mrs. Starling? Maybe something a little more . . . complete? You've given me an idea."
Mrs. Starling took the device from her hand – Baxter's grip on it was still deathlike – and tapped the screen several more times. Then she swiped her finger across it, first rapidly, then slowly. "Here's a good one," she said. "Terry doesn't wear a suit very often, but he sure does wear one well." She sighed and handed the device back to Baxter. "That was taken at a funeral for my father-in-law's friend."
Baxter nodded even though Mrs. Starling's words were slightly confusing. How could a photograph so lifelike get into such a small device? "This is more like Mr. Bates," she said when she viewed the picture. "Hopefully, this is good-bye, Mrs. Starling. Thank you so much for your help." Baxter took another cautious sip from the bottle of water and swiped the screen as she had seen her new friend do. She began to think of herself as invisible to Mrs. Starling. She stared at the picture of Mr. Starling/Mr. Bates and focused her thoughts on Mr. Bates' name, just his name. She mentally drew back from his name spelled on the card and envisioned the door she had stepped through. She closed her eyes and felt the same thinning sensation she had felt when she stepped through the amazonkindle window.
When she opened them, she stood in the corridor before the door that said 'Bates.' With a forceful sigh of satisfaction, she glanced about at the other doors. All the doors near her bore the names of others that she knew – "Mrs. Hughes," "Mr. Carson," and "Daisy" were followed by those she had heard of but never met – "O'Brien," "William," and "Lavinia Swire." After her experiences so far, she was not about to open any more doors than were strictly necessary to complete her task. Even the door that said "Molesley" was now only a passing temptation. She continued down the passageway until she noticed a door labeled "Series 1."
"This looks promising," she muttered to herself as she trailed her hand along the door and the wall beyond it. "Series 2" and "Series 3" followed shortly. Baxter shuddered as she passed the third door; a feeling of death seemed to emanate from within. Finally, she stood before the "Series 5" door. She turned and saw the door across the hall read "amazonkindle." Uncertain of what she might discover within, she slowly turned the door knob and entered the Series 5 room. It struck her only briefly that Mr. Bates had said the room was locked. Perhaps it was locked to him because The Author had been aware of Mr. Bates' past attempts at changing the storyline. Or, perhaps The Author was just as fooled as her previous employer and trusted her implicitly. Then again, maybe The Author wanted the storylines to change and needed their help to do so. Maybe this was all a part of the story. If The Author wrote her to be a thief, intended for her to be a thief, and she stole, did that make it truly wrong, if she was only doing what she was created to do?
The room was disappointingly bare. There were nine desks in the room, each facing the wall. Upon each desk was a book. Two of the books were closed, while the others remained open. She ran her fingers over the spine of the first volume and tried to open it. The book refused to open. Likewise the second. Mr. Bates had said that it was hard to change the past, so perhaps the events in these books were unalterable. As she approached the third desk, the book gracefully closed itself as though an unseen hand had reached out and gently pressed it shut. The fluttering pages sent a slight breeze toward Baxter. She quickly picked up the fourth volume and kept it carefully open. She wasn't sure if the book would stay closed if she shut it, but she was not about to find out. With equal care, she stacked the five remaining volumes together, and carried them out the door and across the hall.
Bates realized he had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed as though Baxter had left only moments ago, and yet it seemed as though he had been waiting a lifetime. He had long since watched Anna make her solitary way home to their cottage. He hated to send her home alone, anything could happen, after all, but she was now safely ensconced in their bed, hopefully dreaming of him.
To occupy his thoughts, he reviewed his list of possible storyline alterations. A child for Anna and himself, first and foremost, though just how to arrange it he wasn't certain. If Mother Nature had taken her natural course instead of The Author's odd dictates, they should have had a child within his first year of being released from prison. There was just no reason, no reason, he muttered to himself darkly. And perhaps it was time for that rich dead uncle, after all, and time for them to make an old dream come true. What, exactly, to do with Baxter and Molesley's storyline? Carson and Mrs. Hughes? Anna would like that. But then again, maybe it was too soon for that. Mr. Branson certainly deserved to be happy, settled, and at ease with his surroundings. His Lordship needed to wake up and come to appreciate the changes the world was going through. And then there was Lord Gillingham, who was most definitely not the hand Bates wanted to see guiding Downton and the Crawley family into the next generation. No, young Master George would need a much more selfless mentor. And then there was Thomas. Bates smirked as he considered the ubiquitous under-butler. Thomas' storyline would probably be the easiest to arrange.
A soft tone caught his attention. There was a small blinking symbol on the artifact. Bates picked it up and scrolled through the files contained inside as he had painstaking learned to do. And there they were, six scripts of upcoming episodes. He opened the first file and settled down to read.
Author's Note: I really had hoped to have this all finished before this week's episode (S5E3). However, Baxter (and Jan Starling!) sort of got away from me. Characters do that sometimes, you know. I am posting this about half an hour before S5E3 airs. So we'll see what happens tonight and then see what Bates chooses to do. As ever, I don't own DA, or Starlings, or any other copyrighted material referred to above, however obliquely. If I did, Jan would be commiserating with Anna, because then I would own Terry as well as John Bates, and well, what more could a girl ask for?