Mr Molesley sends word by Daisy that he has checked the attic door, but Phyllis finds that it preys on her mind anyway. She spends three days trapped in her room with little else to think about, except when someone will be along to bring her a meal or help her hobble to the lavatory. Anna brings up her workbox, a heap of mending, and the remainder of the glove buttons, so at least her hands are busy, but the hours still feel very long as the sky lightens and darkens and lightens again in the window high above her head. Clouds pass over and rain spatters the glass, and she thinks fondly of her rainy-day meeting with Mr Molesley, who has not been able to visit in person again despite his good intentions.

She asks Anna about him on the morning of the second day, hoping it sounds like a casual enquiry, and Anna giggles and tells her that Mr Carson turned to Mr Molesley at breakfast and said that of course they all hope Miss Baxter recovers quickly, but Molesley has more important things to do than running up to the servants' quarters every other hour to bring her a cup of tea. Anna does a fair impression of Mr Carson's gruff voice and scowling eyebrows as she says this, and Phyllis can't help laughing too, even though she misses Mr Molesley rather a lot.

Later that afternoon, Mrs Isobel Crawley visits the family for lunch, and upon learning that Cora's maid is out of commission with a sprained ankle, insists on being taken up to see her. This is embarrassing, but like the rest of the staff, Phyllis knows Mrs Crawley doesn't truly understand the way things are meant to be done, so she receives her with as much dignity as she can and patiently answers questions about what happened and how she feels. As Mrs Crawley leans in to examine the rainbow of bruising that now extends partway up Phyllis's shin, Phyllis looks at the older woman's smoothly coiffed, genteelly greying head and wonders what Mrs Crawley would have to say to the real story of how she was injured. Probably something along the lines of 'stuff and nonsense,' she thinks, and keeps quiet.

Mrs Crawley does leave her with a piece of useful advice, which is that exercising the damaged ankle will help it to heal faster. That gives Phyllis something else to do: now in addition to sewing, watching the sky and thinking about the ghost, she can sit in her chair and trace the alphabet on the floor with her foot, which Isobel said was the best way to work the joint in all directions. By the end of the third day, she thinks she must have traced all the letters enough times to spell out the complete works of Shakespeare, but her ankle does feel better and the swelling has gone down. With tight strapping and a few aspirins, she expects she can go back at least to dressing Lady Grantham and doing her hair, even if someone else has to do the fetching and carrying for a little longer.

Deciding to test out out her recovery, she slips out of her room and goes for a solo walk in the corridor, and finds that she can go all the way along it twice before her ankle starts to throb, and she has to stop and rest, leaning against the wall. There's no one coming in either direction—at this hour, the staff will either be serving dinner to the family or preparing the library for them to retire to afterward—and Phyllis wishes she could sit down on the floor, just for a minute, but that sort of inelegant sprawling about is not something either Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes would approve of, if they were to catch her at it.

Instead, she reaches down to feel gingerly of her injury and make sure she hasn't done any additional damage. Years ago, long before Peter Coyle or prison or ghosts entered her life, she was taught to perform a graceful dip at the knees to do such tasks, rather than bending over crudely from the waist, and it is this position she is in when she catches sight of the attic door from the corner of her eye.

Ever since the night the ghost spoke to her, she has refused to look at the door—when Anna or Daisy or Julia helps her to the bathroom to wash, she keeps her head turned resolutely forward to avoid it—but now she is looking and she can clearly see that the door is standing ajar. The sight of the narrow black gap strikes an instant chill through her entire body, as if it's an open grave. She straightens up at once, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain it creates, and edges toward the safety of her own room with her back pressed against the corridor wall. The lights burn steadily on, and she can't feel the ghost's warning tingle on her skin, but somehow she knows it is there all the same.

She has left her own door open, and when she reaches it, she backs in as fast as she can, pulling it shut as she goes. The room is just as she left it, tidy and softly lit, with the covered dish that had held her dinner still sitting on the bedside table, but now it feels as if the shadows in the corners are reaching out for her. She sits down on the edge of the bed and covers her face with her hands, trying to slow her breathing. Mr Molesley would not have lied to her about the door, of that she is certain. Has one of the maids or footmen opened it since then and forgot to close it again? Or has it been opened by something else?

Someone taps softly at the door to her room, and she nearly screams, but collects herself and calls for the visitor to come in. The door opens, and Anna puts her fair head round the corner. She's smiling, but the smile fades as soon as she sees Phyllis's face.

"Good heavens, Miss Baxter, what's the matter? You look—" She falters, clearly torn between honesty and politeness. "A bit upset."

"I'm fine," Phyllis tucks her hands under her legs to keep them steady and hopes Anna won't notice. "I—I went for a walk, out in the corridor, and I think I may have overdone it."

Anna clicks her tongue, gently disapproving. "You should be more careful. You won't heal if you push yourself too hard."

"I know. I'm just anxious to get back to work, that's all." She tries on a smile, and Anna seems to accept it.

"Of course you are. I would be too. And I know her ladyship is missing you—not that she said so, she'd never want to make me feel bad, but I can tell."

"I thought I would go up and do what I can for her tomorrow," Phyllis says.

"Well, you had best wait and see how you feel when tomorrow comes," Anna says. She picks up the empty dinner plate. "I don't mind covering, so don't worry about that. Now, is there anything else you need? I probably won't come up again before Mr Bates and I go home for the night."

Even in her black uniform dress, Anna looks like a holy angel on a Christmas card, and Phyllis wants to cling to her and beg to be taken to the Bateses' cottage, where surely she would be safe. But she takes a steadying breath and says "No, thank you," and Anna nods.

"Well, goodnight, then. I'll ask Daisy or Julia to look in on you when they come up. Sleep well, Miss Baxter."

"The same to you," Phyllis says, and watches desolately as Anna leaves, balancing the plate on one hand. She sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, thinking, and then gets up, undresses—an easier task now that she can put weight on both legs—and crawls under the covers, again without switching off the light, even though they have all been strictly admonished by Mrs Hughes not to waste electricity.

There's a round wind-up clock on her bedside table, in a pale-blue celluloid case with a design of flowers and vines, and she watches its hands move around the face from ten to eleven, click click click, until she feels her eyes growing heavy. Shortly before midnight, Daisy knocks on the door, sent by Anna, and Phyllis rolls over and pretends to be asleep. Soon enough, she really is.

When she wakes up again some time later, the ghost is in her room.