*note on the last chpt: Edith driving and the calendar/Christmas day off (I think) are straight from the show- Edith offers to drive Sybil to York in 02x01. And I haven't seen it since it aired, but I think Sybil does leave in November 1916? If anyone knows better, please correct me.

York, 1917

Sybil couldn't stop beaming as she walked back from the classroom. It was four o'clock, already dark, and far below freezing. Her mood could not have been more at odds with the atmosphere. Her pace, quick and purposeful, pumped her blood and warmed her inside her coat. She walked with accomplishment. What a truly excellent feeling!

She reached the stone archway- yes, that one. She couldn't walk through it without thinking about him and she had to walk through it several times a day. So present was Branson to her in this place, he might as well have chiseled his name into the wall. She wondered if she would ever tell him how not a day went by without... yes, York was strangely close to the garage. For the first time all afternoon, she felt a little deflated, realizing that she had no one to share her news with.

Sybil entered the dorm and picked up her mail. There were several envelopes from Downton, but none without a return address. There were letters from Edith, Mama and Mary- and she opened them in that order, the order of desirability. Edith's letters were always perfunctory: Dear sister, this, this, that, hope you're well, love Edith. Mama, bless her, always included a cursory question about her classes- was she doing well and was she learning a lot?- but she knew Mama was just fishing for gruesome details to gauge how much of her innocence her daughter was losing.

She relished Mary's letters. Mary never had to ask about school or nursing because Mary never would, and Sybil understood that and never held it against her. She was closer to Mary than anyone in the world, even Branson. For every hour of the day she spent into the garage, there were four or five or ten hours she spent into Mary's room. When she was younger, she used to sleep in Mary's bed at least twice a week- giggling into the pillow as Mary performed perfect and devastating impressions of people they knew and caustic monologues about the monotony of manor life. Sybil knew her eldest sister loved her more than anything in the world and would take a bullet (or more likely, fire one) to protect her. Their bond was unbreakable and there were no secrets between them.

Until now.

If it weren't Branson, she could have talked to Mary about it. Mary wouldn't approve, of course, but she would advise and above all, listen. But it was Branson. She knew Mary would never betray her confidence, but she didn't want to make her complicit. Because what they were doing was wrong. Not that they had done anything, but it was wrong, all of it was wrong. That's why cards were just initialed and books were posted from nowhere. But still, just keeping a secret from Mary felt bad, like a lie.

Contrary to most people's goody-goody impression of her, Sybil was incredibly sneaky, which she considered an essential survival tool at Downton Abbey. She lied to parents, especially her father, often and with ease. But only once had she ever dared involve Mary in her deception.

"Come on," Sybil pleaded. She was dressed in her riding outfit, the horses were saddled and ready to go; all she needed was Mary to take her. But Mary was seated at their father's writing desk, pen lifted in contemplation, with very few words on the paper.

"Be quiet," Mary snapped. "I'm almost finished." Sybil sighed and flung herself on the chair in exasperation. "Just a few more minutes!."

"You said that a half hour ago!" Sybil reminded her.

"Don't be such a baby!"

"Don't be so stupid," Sybil threw back. "Agonizing over every word to some silly boy! Honestly, it's so tiresome."

"You're so tiresome. You can't understand. You're only nine."

"And you used to be fun. Before you turned fourteen," Sybil pouted, punching at the pillow. "Remember when we used to pretend we were cowgirls, living on our own in Mama's country?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Women don't marry horses." Mary went to back to her sentence and uttered a shriek of displeasure. "Damn!"

Sybil's mouth fell open, shocked and impressed. "Does Papa know you swear?"

"The ink's bled and it's ruined!" She shook her head, furious. "I'll have to start again."

Sybil stood up and implored, "Can you please do it when we get back?"

Mary whipped around in the chair. "Would you like to ride with old Mr. Martin on your old pony?" she challenged. "No? Then pipe down." Sybil was crestfallen. "Why don't you wait outside? It'll be easier without you bothering me."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Fine."

"But don't you dare start off without me," Mary warned. "Papa will have my head."

"I won't. I promise."

Sybil went outside into the sunshine and mounted her horse. She turned him around in the driveway a few times and then, feeling that she had waited a proper eternity, kicked him and started off. "Lady Sybil! Lady Sybil!" she heard Mr. Martin call after her. "Lady Sybil, you're not allowed to ride on your own!"

"Mary is right behind me!" she shouted back.

Of course, that would be the day when the horse startled as she took the jump she was not supposed to take, and fell and broke her arm. The doctor was so worried that it hurt, but the pain was not nearly as bad as the fear that gripped her about what Papa would do when he found out. She braced herself when he came into her room that night, but he only kissed her on the head, full of concern. She was so happy to have escaped punishment! When he left and put out the lamp, she slipped out of bed and went to Mary's room, like she always did, to discuss the day's events and to celebrate another victory over authority.

The door was locked, unusually, and Sybil used her free hand to knock. But when Mary opened the door, Sybil knew immediately not everyone had escaped punishment that day.

"Don't ever lie to me again." The door slammed in her face and the lock turned back. Sybil went back to her room and started to cry. But as she contemplated the unthinkable future filled with Mary's hatred and only Edith and Pharaoh as companions, it occurred to her that Mary had not told. Mary had taken a punishment she did not deserve to spare her little sister.

The next day she waited for Mary in the hall outside her room and when Mary came out, Sybil rushed toward her and wrapped her arms around her waist. "I'll never lie to you again, I promise. Really promise, I swear it," Sybil sniffled. "And I'll tell Papa the truth after breakfast and he'll know it was my fault not yours."

"Don't worry about Papa, I can handle him."

Sybil looked up at her. "Don't hate me, Mary. I couldn't bear it."

"You silly thing, I could never hate you," Mary replied, tousling her hair. "Besides," she added, "then I would have to start liking Edith."

Sybil smiled, remembering the relief her nine-year-old heart felt in that moment. Life at nine had been pretty uncomplicated. Mary had reminded her of their conversation in Papa's library sometime around her fourteenth birthday-"Do you understand now? Do you understand why I couldn't explain to you then why, one day, a letter from a boy would be the paramount desire in your life?" They had laughed. Mary was nineteen, with black eyes, dark curls and swan-like grace, charms and confidence overflowing; Sybil, unsure and still in her awkward phase, confessed she didn't think she would ever catch up to Mary. "Oh you," Mary reprimanded lightly. "I don't worry about you. Now, Edith..."

Revisiting that conversation in her head sparked an idea. She put her latest letters from home in a box and pulled her exam out of her bag. Her trainee class had just passed the one-month mark and had been given a comprehensive test of everything they had learned so far. The instructor had handed it back to her with a "Well done, Miss Crawley." It was a perfect score. Not one missed answer! She had studied hard (and lucked out because there were no questions on the staph infection lesson, which she had fallen asleep re-reading) and she thought she would never stop looking at the "100% - A." She wanted to share it. She had to share it.

Her roommate Hazel had been granted a leave day in order to attend the wedding of her brother, who was about to be sent to the front in France. "Hazel, could I ask a favor?" Sybil inquired that night. "Could you post a letter for me from Sheffield?" She handed her the envelope, which was blank.

"From Sheffield?"

"And I'll need you to make it out. Here's the information," Sybil continued, handing her a piece of paper that read "Mr Tom Branson" followed by an address in Downton- an address which Hazel knew from the letters Sybil received to be her own.

"Of course." Hazel smiled and did not ask any more questions.

Several days later, at breakfast, Mr. Carson was handing out the post. "There's a letter for you, Mr. Branson."

"From Sheffield," Thomas remarked. "Who do you know in Sheffield?"

"No one," he replied truthfully.

O'Brien leaned in to Thomas. "It's a woman's hand that wrote it."

He leaned into O'Brien. "Can you blame her?" he winked. "I couldn't and wouldn't try." The whole table started to snicker and O'Brien scowled at him, the nosy cow. He pushed out his chair and left the kitchen. When he was outside of the prying eyes of the terrible twosome, he opened the letter which he was indeed curious about. There were several pages hinged together. At the top of the first page, it read:

Mid-course Examination
S. P. Crawley: 100%- A.

"That's my girl," he said under his breath.

He walked to his cottage and hid her exam in a locked drawer. Mid-course. One month to go.