Hey wonderful people, I'm back with a new chapter. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy reading it. However, I could not have done it without the wonderful encouragement of my reviewers – I can't believe so many people actually liked this story! A special shout out to lizzy384, Davy Tex, and Mary Austin. You guys rock!

Sparki: I own nothing!

I'm a valet. Again.

Sitting, cross-legged atop the splintering stack of wood, Thomas pulled his well worn coat tighter around his chest. The butt of his cigarette glowed, a small, pinprick of light, shining in the darkness. He could almost feel the heat singeing his fingertips, but his hand, unprotected by the warmth of a glove, was so very frozen, he hadn't the steel to discard even the tiniest source of warmth.

It was cold – so cold, that Thomas' body had begun to ache. But the thought of surrender was unbearable. Nothing – not the wind, nor rain, perhaps not even hail – could drive Thomas back to the mindless chatter and hollow joy of the servant's hall.

Thomas had spent the earlier part of the cold, wintery evening, sitting alone with his thoughts at the far end of the rickety dining table. As it was on many a night, he was ignored by the majority of his fellow employees, included only in conversation when someone felt the need to take a nick out of his carefully-composed, nonchalant exterior. This, Thomas didn't mind; in truth, he would rather eat alone in his dorm, than sit through meal after meal after meal, surrounded by merry maids and bumbling hall boys. He didn't mind being ignored.

No, it was Anna, sitting across from him at the old wooden table, watching him. During the meal, never once did her gaze leave his face. On the few occasions he dared meet her stare, Thomas came away feeling as though he had just been hacked with a knife. She glared at him, as though he was the devil incarnate. As though every terrible thing that had ever happened to anyone in the whole entire world was his fault.

All because Bates had been taken ill with abdominal discomfort.

Angrily, Thomas took in a deep, lungful of smoke. The intoxicating fumes filled his mouth, and sent warm, soothing fingers down his throat. What did the woman think? Thomas wondered. That he'd somehow poisoned the ageing cripple while no one was watching? He shook his head, and the smouldering cigarette bounced between his lips. The Bates no longer lived in the abbey; thanks to his 'close relationship' with Lord Grantham, John Bates had somehow managed to secure a little cottage for him and his wife. Thomas couldn't help but smirk. No sooner was the man released from prison, was he bombarded with food and wine, and a place to call his own. Thomas took another breath of pungent smoke.

"Perhaps I should take a trip to prison," Thomas mused, his voice shattering the night's silence. "Might end up better off."

Footman. It was such an unimpressive label. For all the time Thomas had lived and slaved at Downton abbey, it seemed a curse that remained unable to be lifted. He'd been a valet, to the Earl of Grantham, no less. At one time – a good time – Thomas had woken each day with a possible promotion to under- butler shimmering around his head.

But only for a short while.

With a sniff, Thomas let slide through his lips, a cloud of tumbling smoke. A short while, but a while enough for him to realize how much more he wanted than the miserable state of existence he'd been granted.

And suddenly, the weight of his disappointment, in his self, and those around him, fell upon his shoulders. In his moment of shock, the cigarette slipped from his shivering fingers. Thomas watched helplessly as his reprieve fell, its tip still burning brightly, to the cold, hard ground. There it lay, smouldering silently in the darkness. With a sigh, and with nothing left to occupy his troubled thoughts, Thomas turned his eyes to the heavens.

There were stars.

For the first time, the first time in ever so long, the night-time sky was alive and twinkling. The stars, no longer shrouded by the heavy clouds that had so jealously occupied the heavens of late, smiled down upon the earth. To Thomas, their light seemed not so very far away. Perhaps, if he were to reach – to really, truly reach – he could touch that light. Maybe, just for a moment, he could hold that beautiful, precious thing in his own hands.

And then what? You'll make a wish?

You're a fool, Thomas Barrow. You're a fool.

Chastened, Thomas lowered his gaze, and glared down at his mutilated hand, as though it were to blame for his momentary lack of reason. In the pale moonlight, his skin glowed a ghostly white. His hand, so often hidden from the cold light of day beneath a glove, was so grotesque, he had to look away. Unbidden, a wave of self pity – an emotion, as unfamiliar to Thomas as guilt, or compassion – coursed through his person, unsettling his gut, and causing his heart to leap for his throat.

You did this to yourself.

With a grim smile, Thomas lowered his head. The ground glared back at him, unsympathetic, uncaring.

You asked for him.

Thomas glanced once more at his hand, and again, gave an empty, mirthless smile.

"I know."

"You know what?"

Thomas froze. Never in his life had he so wished to be invisible. But it was too late. James had found him. A hardness settled upon his heart, and his joyless smile faded, until it was nought but a distant memory. Without turning, he answered the younger man's query in a simple, emotionless reply.

"Nothing."

Closing his eyes, Thomas waited, praying for the moment when he would hear James' retreating steps. Once upon a time – a long time ago – Thomas could have imagined nothing more wonderful than to be alone, in the dark, with Jimmy. But now... well.

Jimmy is James. I am Mr. Barrow.

Every now and again, when Thomas felt alone, and knew that no one was watching, he would gaze at James, and ponder what it would have been like, to feel the lad's lips against his own mouth, to take twirl their fingers together, and hold him close. But only for a moment. All the emotions, all the warmth Thomas had once attached to the very thought of James, had burnt itself into nothing. All that remained, was a faded memory of a spark. Like the wisp of smoke, after a candle had died.

Thomas sat very still, his breathing quiet. He could still feel James behind him, watching him. For a long while, they stayed that way: James waiting for Thomas to speak, Thomas waiting for James to leave. Finally, Thomas broke the heavy silence.

"Go back inside," he told James, tonelessly. "It's cold." Behind him, James scoffed.

"And your point is?" Thomas couldn't help but scowl. With a sigh, he turned to face James.

"My point is," he muttered, mimicking the younger man's blatant tone to perfection, "neither William nor I want to be stuck running around after your duties tomorrow, because you went and got yourself sick."

James was unconvinced. "You could just as easily catch a cold as I could," he pointed out. Thomas glared at him.

"I don't catch colds." Without another word, he turned back to the stars. But now his solitude had been broken, they no longer held the same majesty. Thomas held but a low, sad sigh. With his face hidden, he rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. It was his good hand, of course – his normal hand. The monstrosity remained motionless in his lap, veiled from all eyes, save for his own. God, Thomas wished he could hide it from his own.

"Maybe you should come inside," James suggested mildly.

Thomas snapped.

"For God's sake!" Angrily, he pushed himself from the wood. The splinters grabbed at his clothes, but he didn't care. He just wanted to get away; away from James, and away from the memory of the fool he'd shown himself to be. In the doorway, he pushed unceremoniously past James' slender frame. He hissed over his shoulder, "Would you just let it be?"

Before James could shoot back a reply, Thomas hurried away. Thankfully, he encountered no one on the long stretch to the sanctity of his dorm. As the door fell shut behind him, he let out a breath; long and laden with a sadness he didn't care to admit. Silently, he lowered himself to the cot. The metal frame creaked beneath him, but he didn't care. Without removing his coat, or hi shirt, or even his shoes, Thomas lay down upon the well-worn mattress. As his head fell against the old pillow, his eyes slipped shut. But he didn't sleep. He just lay there, still and silent. Hoping that the darkness would chase away his unshed tears.

Because there was nothing Thomas hated more than crying. Even when he was alone.

Beneath the thick bed clothes, Sybbie curled her small body into a little ball. Pulling her legs to her chest, she gazed down at the strip of moonlight that lay against the feather mattress. Burrowing deeper within the soft material, she laid her cheek against the light. It didn't feel any different, she noted. The mattress tickled her nose, but she remained still, peeking through the slender gap between blanket and bed. With one finger, she lifted the covers higher, so that she could gaze out the window. In the darkness, the stars smiled, their little eyes twinkling in the night. They laughed silently, gazing down at Sybbie as she lay, hidden from the shadows beneath the safety of her bed clothes.

Don't hide little one, they seemed to whisper. Don't be afraid. There's nothing for you to fear.

Where she lay, Sybbie smiled.

"Star light, star bright," she whispered, "first star I see tonight. Wish I may, oh, wish I might... have this wish, I wish tonight."

Hope you all enjoyed it! Remember, review make my day : )