It comes when she is dreaming, one of the sorts of dreams that make perfect sense as they're happening, but none at all upon waking. She's in a rowboat in the middle of a vast, choppy grey lake, clutching an enamelled box that holds something she knows is very precious, and that she must not lose. The lake lies at the bottom of a valley surrounded by high, craggy hills, wild and beautiful, and there are heavy black storm clouds rolling in above, swallowing up the sky. She can see flashes of distant lightning and smell the ozone in the air, and she knows it isn't safe to be on the water at a time like this, but the boat has no oars and the shore is too far away to swim, even if she knew how. The waves are getting rougher and the boat is rocking, rocking; it's making her sick, and then she's falling and sinking and drowning—

She opens her eyes, and at first she thinks she isn't really awake, but in a new part of the dream. The scent of the oncoming storm is still there, sharp and green and faintly chemical, and she's tangled in something that is as heavy and suffocating as fathoms of murky lake water. She struggles mightily, not caring that the thrashing hurts her half-healed injury, and finally manages to throw off her quilt and sit up. She knows she left the lamp switched on, remembers thinking that Mrs Hughes would have something to say about it later, but now it's as dark as a pocket in her room. In that darkness she can clearly see the glow of the ghost at the foot of her bed.

All the breath leaves her lungs in a rush; she scrambles backward until she's pressed against the bed's low headboard, and the ghost begins to follow, clearly meaning to perform the same rough invasion it inflicted on her the other night. The thought terrifies her so much that she digs down inside herself and finds a previously undiscovered reserve of courage.

"Stop!" she orders, and the ghost pauses, flickering rapidly the way a film does when the projectionist cranks it at the wrong speed. Phyllis doesn't know whether that means it's confused or alarmed or angry, and at the moment, she doesn't care. All she wants is for it to leave.

"I know why you're here," she says to it.

The ghost inclines the part of itself that represents its head, as if to say, Oh?

"I haven't been able to look for your name yet. I've not been able to do my work either, for that matter. It's a lucky thing for me that the Crawleys are a kind family, or I might have been dismissed for it. I've been here in this room for three days because I've been hurt, and it happened because you frightened me, so you have no one to blame but yourself."

At this, the ghost surges forward until it is nearly touching her, and she steels herself to keep her eyes open and not turn her face away. She can feel the fierce heat of its substance, and in its depths she can see the brightness of its glow ebbing and flowing, growing warmer in some spots and cooler in others. The hum of its presence fills her ears, her brain, her body, until it feels as if the small bones of her spine are vibrating with it.

"Go away," she says. She hears the quiver of tears in her voice and despises herself for it, but presses on. "If you don't I'll scream the house down and bring everyone running. I'll make them believe me. I'll let them tear your attic apart. I promised I would help you, and I will, but I need more than three days to do it, and I need you to leave me alone while I do. Can you understand that?"

In her heart she knows this is mostly a bluff—that the ghost has locked doors and muffled screams before and can no doubt do it again if it cares to—but she is counting on the force of her will to make it listen, and it does. It pulls back, hesitates, and then it's gone and Phyllis is alone in the dark, scared and sore and shaking, but safe, at least for the moment.

With a soft click, her bedside lamp comes back on, filling the room with warm light, and she looks at the clock and sees it is nearly six in the morning. Daisy and Mrs Patmore will already be down in the kitchen beginning the breakfast preparations, and if she means to go back to her work, even at a reduced level, she must get up and bathe and dress, no matter how she feels. She thinks of waiting, asking Anna to help for one more day, but she may really go mad if she is trapped here alone any longer. She needs movement and activity and people. More than that, she needs to speak to the one friend whom she knows will always try to help her.

Holding fast to that thought, she gets out of bed, wincing a little as her bandaged ankle takes her weight, and begins gathering up her clothes.

She is hoping to snatch a moment alone with Mr Molesley before breakfast, but he's busy serving upstairs, and she doesn't see him at all until he comes rushing in, looking harried, and slides into his seat on the other side of the long table. He doesn't seem to notice she's there at first, more concerned with whether Mr Carson will reprimand him for creating a disruption, but then he catches sight of her and his face lights up.

"Miss Baxter! It's good to see you back."

"It's good to be back," Phyllis says, and means it. Sitting here in the light of morning, surrounded by the familiar faces and rhythms and sounds of her ordinary daily routine, she can almost pretend nothing has happened and there is no ghost upstairs waiting for her. "I'm much indebted to everyone for helping me, and especially to Anna for doing so much extra work."

"She wouldn't have had to if you hadn't been so clumsy," Thomas says, half into his dish of porridge. Phyllis doesn't think he means it for anyone but her to hear, but Mrs Hughes has keen ears and catches every word.

"Anyone can slip and fall, Mr Barrow," she says sharply. "Mind your own breakfast and let Miss Baxter eat hers in peace."

Thomas makes a small, scornful noise at the back of his throat, but he turns his attention to his food, and Phyllis gives Mrs Hughes a grateful look across the table. The housekeeper doesn't quite smile, but the corners of her mouth quirk a little with sympathetic humour before she turns and asks Mr Carson a question about Lord Grantham's schedule for the afternoon.

When the first bell rings and the meal ends, Phyllis leaves the table as fast as she decently can, and mainly by virtue of having a seat nearer the door, manages to intercept Mr Molesley on his way into the boot room.

"I've got to go up to her ladyship in a minute, but—"

"Can you?" His face is full of concern that warms her. "I saw you're still wearing a bandage—er, not that I was looking at your—I just happened to notice."

"It's all right. I'm only going to dress her and do some tidying in her wardrobe; Anna will go up and down the stairs for things until I'm a little stronger. Only I wanted to ask—do you know how I would find out about someone who used to live in this house? I don't think her ladyship knows, not having been born here, and I wouldn't want to bother her with questions anyway. But I thought maybe at the church..."

"Well, that would be a good place to start." Mr Molesley moves out of the way to let a hurrying hall boy pass, lugging one of a pair of andirons. "They'll have all the records for baptisms and weddings and funerals going back ages. That's assuming whoever you want to know about lived here all their life, though. People do move away; not the lords, of course, but the younger sons, and the daughters when they get married."

"I don't know if they'll have lived here always," Phyllis says slowly, considering. All she knows about ghosts comes from those long-ago stories she shared with Thomas and the other children, squeezed together into a dark corner of someone's shed, but she thinks they are meant to stay near the place where they died. "But toward the end of their life, yes."

"That's something to go on," Mr Molesley says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking awkward. "Can I ask why you're wanting to know? I don't mean to pry, but..."

"You're not prying," Phyllis reassures him. "And I'll tell you what I can, when I can, but for the bits I can't tell, just know that it isn't anything wrong or bad."

"I didn't think it was," Molesley says. "Would you like—I mean, I could come with you, when you go to the church. I might be able to help."

"I was hoping you would," Phyllis says, and his face relaxes into a relieved grin. "I think it won't be for a few days, though. I may be on my feet again, but I'm not quite up to walking that far yet."

"Just tell me when you're ready and I'll find a way to go."

"I will," Phyllis promises, and parts from him feeling a pleasant glow that almost counteracts the lingering fear of the ghost.