Phyllis falls asleep with the fond hope that in the morning she may be fully recovered, but when she wakes up in the grey pre-dawn light, she knows even before trying to get out of bed that she won't be performing her usual duties. Her ankle feels hot and puffy and tight, and when she pulls back the bedcovers for a look, it's twice its normal size and at least four different shades of black and blue. She wonders how she is even going to hobble far enough down the corridor to let anyone know, but Mrs Hughes, whose job it is to anticipate such things, stops in to tell her that she has already arranged for Anna to wait on Lady Grantham today.
"As for you, Miss Baxter, you had better stay in bed," she says, regarding Phyllis's ankle with a mixture of sympathy and distaste. "And I'm not sure we shouldn't have Dr Clarkson come out to see to that. It looks dreadful."
"Oh no, I'll be all right," Phyllis says hastily. She doesn't want to tell Mrs Hughes that she has had more than enough of being poked and prodded by doctors in prison, where all the inmates had had to endure a humiliating monthly examination for signs of pregnancy and venereal disease. "I can wrap it myself, if someone can bring me the bandages to do it."
"Well, if you insist, I'll send Daisy up," Mrs Hughes says. "She can bring you your breakfast as well. I don't suppose you'll be able to manage the stairs for a few days at least. Do try to get dressed if you can, though. It'll make you feel better."
"I will," says Phyllis, who is thinking, with a sort of guilty relief, that if she can't manage the stairs, then no one can expect her to go back up to the attic and face the ghost again just yet.
She decides that she will use this reprieve to consider how best to approach the problem, and she does exactly that while she dresses in obedience to Mrs Hughes' command, standing beside the bed and balancing awkwardly on her good leg. How is she to find out who the ghost might be? She was a competent enough pupil at school, but there was no suggestion that she should stay on once she was old enough to go out to work, and she has never really felt it as a loss: she likes to read when she has the time, but her tastes tend toward popular novels, not the dense, heavy stuff that Mr Molesley is always stuck into, and she has certainly never done any sort of formal research. She can't imagine herself combing through musty old records in a library, looking for the name of someone who might have died a hundred years ago or more.
Still mulling it over, she smooths out her quilt—making the bed properly is out of the question at the moment—and lies down on top of it, wishing she had a spare pillow to prop up her foot. Suppose the ghost had meant what it said literally, she wonders, and its lost name really is in the attic, inscribed on a scroll or written in an old Crawley family Bible. Finding such a thing might be easier, but the idea of spending hours upon hours digging through boxes and trunks, with the ghost ready to swoop on her if it thinks she isn't working quickly enough, is a horrifying one. Her mind fills with a sudden, unwanted memory of being penetrated and invaded and filled by its substance, and the burning pain that held her transfixed, and her hands start to tremble in response.
Just then, there's a tap at the door, and she calls "Come in," relieved at the prospect of human company. Her visitor turns out to be Daisy, carrying a jug of water and a drinking glass, and just behind her, Mr Molesley, with one of the varnished four-legged trays they use for the Crawley ladies' breakfasts.
"Oh good heavens," Phyllis says, embarrassed, "I wasn't expecting it to come like this. I don't need a fuss."
"Mrs Hughes said to," Daisy informs her a bit tetchily. She deposits her burden on the bedside table and bends down to pour Phyllis a glass of water. "And Mrs Patmore said that Mr Molesley should help me. I'm sure I don't know why. I can carry a tray all right."
Phyllis looks over Daisy's shoulder and meets Molesley's gaze. As usual, he's blushing, but gives her a little shrug and a sheepish smile, and she has to stifle a giggle. Considering that last night she felt as if she would never laugh again in her life, this feels like an improvement.
"Perhaps Mrs Patmore doesn't want you to wear yourself out for me," she suggests. "You are very important in the kitchen, after all."
This appears to mollify Daisy somewhat, and she stands aside and lets Mr Molesley place the tray over Phyllis's lap. It's the ordinary food the staff have every morning, toast and tea and porridge and egg, but someone who knows how to put together a breakfast tray—Anna, probably—has arranged everything nicely and added a flower in a blue bud vase.
Molesley steps back to join Daisy, and Phyllis is briefly afraid that the two of them are going to stand there and watch her eat like a pair of proud parents, but Daisy has other ideas.
"Well, we'll leave you to it, Miss Baxter," she announces. "I'll come for the tray later. Oh, and—" She reaches into her apron pocket, pulls out a roll of gauze bandage and sets it on the table next to the water glass. "I can help you with it if you like. I did loads of bandages during the war, when we had the soldiers here. All of us did."
"Oh, that's very kind," Phyllis says. She finds the notion of being bandaged by Daisy rather unnerving, though she can't explain why. "I think I'll try it myself first, but then can you look it over and see if I've done it right?"
Daisy grins, suddenly all dimples. "Course I can. I'll be back after we finish clearing up from upstairs breakfast. Come on, Mr Molesley. You know Mrs Hughes said you weren't to hang about on the women's side."
She heads for the door with a hint of Mrs Patmore's busy bustle—whether it's a conscious imitation or just the effect of the years they've spent working side by side, Phyllis can't say—but Mr Molesley lingers just for a moment.
"How are you feeling this morning, really?"
"Well, my head is better, but my ankle's worse, so more or less the same on balance," Phyllis says, smiling. "I'll give you a progress report next time I see you, whenever that may be. I don't think even Mrs Hughes can convince Mr Carson to let you deliver every meal to me in person."
"We'll see," Mr Molesley says mysteriously. "Can I bring you anything else? A book to read?"
Phyllis wonders what he would say if she asked him to fetch her the county birth and death registries for the last two centuries or so. She is touched to think that he would probably try to do it.
"Perhaps the newspaper, later," she says. "And...if you could do one other thing for me?"
"Anything."
"When you go out, could you check that the door to the attic is closed? I don't like to think I might have left it open last night."
Mr Molesley looks mildly baffled by this request, but he nods. "Of course."
"Thank you," Phyllis says, and picks up the spoon to knock the top off her egg. "Mrs Hughes really ought to keep it locked. You never know what might be up there."
