AN: This chapter is probably more of a T than a K+. TW for threats of sexual assault. And also rodents.
Stroke of Midnight Plus Three Days, Four Hours, and Thirty-Eight Minutes
Just as the eastern rim of the sky was starting to turn a delicate blue, Sybil slipped into the house through the kitchen door.
Tom hadn't wanted her to go back. That was putting it mildly: he'd begged her not to, said everything he could think of to get her not to. "We'll find a priest and be married first thing in the morning, if that's what it is." He'd been holding onto her hand tightly. "Or a vicar, or whatever you want. It's going to happen anyway, might as well be straight away."
Sybil had smiled at his romanticism, and at the notion that propriety could so influence her decisions. "Nothing you say is going to persuade me to put you in more danger. You've already signed your own death warrant, if the prince were to find out what you've done."
"I'd do it again, a hundred times. And if they arrest me, I'll march to the scaffold shouting that I'm not sorry!"
"I won't let it come to that." The fire in his eyes had made her wish she could stay. Though her education in matters of love had been well nigh non-existent, she did know she had much less to fear in Tom's bed than out of it. But that would have to wait until everything else was settled. She'd kissed him lingeringly—despite the confidence that fortified her voice, she couldn't help the sneaking feeling that it might be the last time—and taken a different way back to the one she'd come by, a meandering path Tom had told her about. She might need the more direct route in the near future, and she didn't want anyone seeing her use it.
They'd decided that Tom would keep up with his deliveries, to allay any suspicions that might point in his direction. The worry in his eyes as she left had spoken his true primary purpose in planning to come to the house as usual on Wednesday: to make sure she was all right. She had no idea what to expect from her stepmother. It was only reasonable to assume that her movements would be monitored more closely than before; she might even be locked up. But did Lady Merton know about the glass slipper's mate? She'd probably be quite interested in its whereabouts if she did.
The house seemed to be asleep, which was a surprise; she would have expected her stepmother to revel in the opportunity to get the drop on her. But then Lady Merton was not accustomed to long nights, apart from those spent inside society ballrooms. Sybil took off her shoes in the kitchen and crept up to the attic, growing more nervous with each landing she reached unmolested. She edged down the corridor to her room, slowing when she saw that the door still hung slightly ajar.
She stopped just outside it. For a minute or more she strained to hear anything from within. Surely if someone were inside they must sense her here; her heart beat loudly enough to be heard all over the house, it seemed like. Finally she took a breath and pushed the door all the way open.
The room had been ransacked. Drawers dumped out, curtains pulled down, the washstand overturned. Her mattress leant against the wall, spilling straw through a jagged diagonal slit in the ticking. She didn't have much, but everything she owned seemed to have been strewn over the floor. Worse than that: deliberately destroyed.
Her eye moved downward. There was a doll that always sat on her bed: Camilla, whom she'd lovingly mistreated for years in childhood and was the only souvenir she'd been allowed to keep from happier times. Camilla lay on the floor by the bedside table, her porcelain head dashed to bits. It looked like someone had stamped on her.
Sybil crossed the room to pick the doll up, smoothing down its red taffeta skirt. There was a thick feeling in her throat. She should never have come back.
"Well, well, well. The prodigal daughter returns."
Sybil whipped around. Her stepmother stood in the doorway with a smirk upon her face, clearly getting ready to enjoy herself. But this time Sybil didn't shrink, didn't bother to hide her anger. She was done trying to keep the peace.
"I'm not your daughter." She took a couple of steps toward Lady Merton, holding the doll aloft like a club. "You didn't have to do this."
Lady Merton looked around the room with an amused air. "I should think it hardly looks any different than before. This, however, is not my handiwork. Larry was a bit...overwrought after you left." Her gaze sharpened. "And I did need to make sure you weren't stealing from me. Which you were, so it was a good thing I did."
Her mother's jewels. "That wasn't stealing."
"Sybil, dear, those jewels belonged to your father. And everything that belonged to your father, now belongs to me." She smiled thinly. "But let's let bygones be bygones. Shall we? Your future is a much more interesting topic of conversation." She came further into the room, closing the door and seating herself on the only chair. She gestured to the bare bedstead. "Do sit down." Sybil remained on her feet, regarding her stepmother with a stony look that seemed to bounce right off her. "All right, dear, suit yourself." Lady Merton was being awfully sunny, awfully free with her false endearments. "So it appears we have quite the opportunity before us."
Confusion made a crack in Sybil's brittle outrage. "Opportunity?"
"Why, yes. The prince is pining away for you, my dear. Pining. You could ask for anything and he'd grant it. And just think, one day—let's hope sooner rather than later—you shall be queen! If only your father could have lived to see this day." Lady Merton stretched her lips into a rather grotesque imitation of a confidential smile. "However did you manage it? When we left you, you were in tears over that poor excuse for a gown." She gave a gleeful little wriggle.
"I had help," Sybil murmured, her thoughts whirling.
"Powerful friends! I never would have thought it. Had you been seeing the prince even before? Was that your plan, to make it public at the ball? You sneaky minx." Lady Merton clasped her hands together. "It was a pretty spectacle, I'll grant you that. People will be talking of it for years."
Sybil felt dizzy. She dropped down onto the bedstead; her stepmother's clammy hand grasped hers, and she stared at it like it was an insect. "You...you want me to marry the prince?" She'd expected scorn, disbelief, scheming. She'd expected Lady Merton, like any bully, to do whatever it took to keep Sybil from rising to a more powerful position than hers.
"Well, not without some negotiation, of course. These things are always three-fourths horse trading anyway, especially the higher up you go. But the prince's..." she eyed Sybil with undisguised skepticism. "...infatuation with you gives us a better position to bargain from. I should think he'd hand over quite a hefty sum to get you." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "You are a virgin?" Sybil nodded numbly, too bewildered to be indignant. "Excellent. I shall write to the palace this very day—"
"No!" It came out before she could stop it.
Lady Merton looked like Sybil had spit in her face. "What?"
Sybil floundered. "I mean...if they know I'm the one they're looking for...what's to stop them from just coming here straight away and forcing me to go with them? Then we'll get nothing." You'll get nothing, she'd almost said.
Her stepmother regarded her with a hint of suspicion. She was not a stupid woman; she could tell that Sybil had an agenda of her own, though fortunately she seemed to have no idea of what it was. Sybil plunged ahead, hoping to distract her from any doubt. "That's why I came back. I…" She swallowed, fortifying herself for the big lie and the bigger one to follow. "I love the prince with all my heart, but I must think of my family. You...you are my family now."
Lady Merton broke into the complacent smile of someone who thought she'd got one over on her opponent. "Well, of course we are!" she cried, even as the words Stupid girl seemed to scroll across her face. She patted Sybil's hand. "And you must dine with us this very evening. We can wait on ourselves for one night."
"Oh, I couldn't." Sybil dropped her eyes, let a demure flush come to her cheeks. "I wouldn't feel right about it."
"But you mustn't feel that way. You're a bit rough around the edges, it's true, but your blood is every bit as noble as ours. And you'll need the practice with your table manners, won't you?"
At present Sybil's noble blood was boiling in her veins. "Let me serve you," she said, managing not to grit her teeth. "One last time."
-o-
Dinner had been excruciating, even if Sybil had been spared actually sitting at the table. Her stepmother was so jubilant she didn't even notice the lowering clouds on the faces of both her sons, but particularly Larry's. Obviously, they did not share her glee at being related by marriage to the future queen.
"We'll talk strategy in the morning, dear," Lady Merton had said when the meal was over, and sent her to the scullery without a qualm. Sybil wasn't sorry. It was peaceful below stairs; she could be alone with her thoughts, and that was what she needed: time to plan. Things would have to move forward more quickly than she had thought.
"So where'd you put it?"
The voice made her jump and whirl around, abruptly aware of being bent over the sink in a posture no doubt provocative to someone of a certain turn of mind. Larry was draped in the doorway, blocking her path out. The scullery suddenly seemed even smaller than it was.
She wiped her hands on her apron. "Where'd I put what?"
"Don't play innocent with me." He descended the single step down onto the sloping floor. He was an odd sight in this grease-spattered little hole of a room, in his crisp white shirt and tails. And yet Sybil could see the rot within him, more foul than anything that lurked in the drains. "Couldn't find your way back to the palace, could you? So you thought you'd just come back and sponge off us some more, wait for your prince to come to you."
She dropped her eyes as if abashed. If that was what he wanted to think, then let him.
"I know what your game is," he went on. "I didn't know you at the ball, but I should have. The way you were rubbing up against him the whole night, with that wide-eyed look like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. You've done it to me a hundred times. Little tease." Sybil's mouth fell open. "But you wouldn't dare tease His Highness the prince, would you. Where'd the two of you go off to, eh? What were you doing?"
Strolling the palace grounds in heavily romantic moonlight, mostly. Except for the kiss next to the reflecting pool, nothing had happened that would have been out of place in a storybook for children. But Sybil flushed anyway. Larry's face twisted in a satisfied way; he took her color for shame, when she was actually angry enough to take the heavy skillet she'd been cleaning and lay it across the side of his face.
Emboldened, he stepped nearer. "Don't think you're going anywhere, you little whore. Mother's got big plans for you, but I like you right where you are. One of these nights I'm going to show you how much."
Sybil's fingers twitched; out of the tail of her eye she made sure of the location of the skillet handle. If he took one more step…
"The prince won't marry you, once he finds out who you are. I'd bet my right eye on it. No one will ever marry you." Larry laughed humorlessly. "Your precious Papa's dead, your whole family's dead. You're nothing. Nothing but our maid, and gentlemen can do whatever they like with those."
He wouldn't, not right now. He'd know he was in for a fight, and he wouldn't want to spoil his clothes. But Sybil could hardly breathe. "You're my brother," she said, as the thing most likely to cool him off.
"Not by blood."
"But you could have been." Her anger, her fear, were draining away, and now she just felt a deep sadness. "You could have been a brother to me. You could have been kind."
Was that guilt she saw ripple across his face? Whatever it was, it only took an instant to pass, leaving her looking at the usual prideful mask. "Sweet, stupid Sybil," he said. "When will you learn that there's no profit in kindness? Now...where is that slipper?"
She lifted her chin. "Nowhere you'll ever find it."
He shrugged. "So that's how it's to be, then, is it? No matter." The attempt at nonchalance did not quite convince. She'd succeeded in deflating his ardor, though, and all that was left was for him to try and have the last word. Which he did, or so he thought: "But know this: you'll marry the prince over my dead body."
Once he'd gone, Sybil let out a little laugh. "That might almost be worth it."
-o-
"Open!"
The front-door bell nearly jumped off the wall of the servants' hall, where Sybil had been sitting and trying unsuccessfully to read, but she didn't need it to know someone was at the door. She could hear the pounding through the very bones of the house.
"Open! Open in the name of the king!"
Her heartbeat took off like a brace of pheasant flushed from the moor-grass. Dread pulsed in her stomach, her temples, it tingled in her fingertips and made her hands shake until she had to put down her book. Other than that she remained still, listening and considering her options.
She could run out the kitchen door. But she didn't know how many of them there were, or whether they'd be guarding the exits. She had nowhere to go except for Tom's cottage, and she would not risk leading them there.
She could wrap cloths around her foot under her stocking, so the slipper wouldn't fit. The king's men would go on to the next house, shrugging their shoulders. Another unsuccessful visit, but it was only a kitchen maid anyway, eh? Lady Merton could be dealt with later. But what if they made her try it on barefoot?
She could go up and answer the door, try on the slipper, be carried off to the palace. Marry the prince.
"Godmother," she murmured. "If you're listening, I could use a little help."
The pounding stopped, the bell stilled. The front door opened with a creak that Sybil could feel in her bones.
-o-
"Sybil!" Her stepmother's voice echoed down the stairwell with a hysterical note in it that was more than the three glasses of wine she'd drunk at dinner. "Sybil, there you are. Goodness, you're slow." She stood at the open baize door still dressed for dinner, a scowl on her face. So they were back to mistress and servant, then. "These men—" she gestured to the pair of dour faces ranked in the front hall—"Wish to speak with you."
Sybil smiled and bobbed a curtsy. She wasn't in a state to notice details, but she focused on the bulbous nose and reddened eyes of the shorter and rounder of them, who looked like an aging roustabout dressed up in epaulettes and gold buttons. "Gentlemen, you must be tired at this late hour. May I offer you some tea?" She allowed her gaze to flick to the door, but she could not discern whether there might be more men outside.
"No," said the taller, thinner one, his mouth opening just enough to let the word escape before snapping shut like a trout's. He looked like a clerk. "Thank you. Our business will not take long, Miss…?"
"Crawley," she supplied. "Sybil Crawley."
"Mm, quite." He barely seemed to have heard her. "No doubt you've seen the proclamation. We're under orders to try every maid in the kingdom." He gestured to the short envoy, who came forward, undoing the drawstrings of a small sack made of black velvet. "Now, if you could just sit down and remove your right shoe and stocking, we'll try this on you and be out of your way in a trice."
Her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way up her throat and out of her mouth. "Of course." She turned and started toward the far end of the room, walking slowly. "Are you sure you don't want tea?"
The door to the billiards room opened as they passed. "Mother?" asked Tim. "What's going on?"
"They're still looking for that girl from the ball," Lady Merton said, looking glum. "Gentlemen...may I ask what happens if the girl's foot fits the slipper? She is our only servant, and we're quite unable to do without her. Certainly there will be some kind of compensation offered, if His Highness is truly so attached?" The only response the envoys gave this was a pair of disgruntled looks.
"Mother, honestly! Surely they can't think it was Sybil!" Larry's voice was too loud. He pushed past his brother and out into the hall, glass still in hand. "Can you imagine her, dancing all night with the prince with her feet stained black from cinders!" He laughed strenuously.
The tall envoy pursed his lips, managing to convey the impression that he was rolling his eyes without actually rolling them. This was, apparently, not the first time he'd heard words to this effect. "Sir, we are under orders from the king to—"
"Oh, go on then, go on." Larry gestured with his brandy. "Though I don't know why you're bothering." He turned away, disgusted.
Sybil sat on the sofa and slowly removed her shoe and stocking. She was waiting for something to happen, to save her. But soon her foot was bare (quite pink, contrary to what Larry had said, and very nearly clean) and there was no firefly glow, no black-garbed woman, no influx of helpful bluebirds. There was no getting out of this.
The short envoy drew the slipper from its sack. The facets cut into it sparkled; it almost seemed to give off a glow. In spite of herself Sybil felt a pull toward it. "Oh," she breathed.
"Yes, it's quite lovely, isn't it?" A real, fond smile came to the man's face. "Amazing workmanship. Though I can't think it would be very comfortable for dancing, can you? Now then, we'll just…" He began to lumber to one knee before her, the slipper balanced on the pads of his fingers.
There was a swift movement from the corner of Sybil's eye, a dark something striking in front of her like a snake, and the envoy stared in horror at his empty hands. He actually let out a little yelp.
"It would be a travesty!" Five heads swiveled toward the fireplace, where Larry trembled on the stone hearth. The glass slipper was in his hand. "You might allow this to happen, Mother, but I won't!"
Lady Merton stepped forward, slowly, her hand held out. "Larry, darling, let's not do anything we can't—"
"It will not happen!" He half turned and drew back his arm. The envoys and Lady Merton leapt forward, the men shouting, a thin scream on Lady Merton's lips. But it was too late. Larry dashed the slipper into the fireplace, where it shattered with a crash far less impressive than the towering silence that followed.
Everyone seemed frozen in place. Larry, his mouth twisted into a half triumphant, half defiant sneer. Lady Merton, still reaching toward her son, eyes wide and beseeching. The king's envoys, who looked as though they were thinking this must surely be a nightmare from which they would soon wake up. Sybil, for her part, felt rooted to the sofa.
Tim, hanging in the billiard room doorway, was first to move. He strode toward his mother and Larry, picking up speed with every step. "Traitor!" He shouted at his brother, his voice breaking with panicky fervor. "You traitor!"
His mother's mouth rounded in almost comical surprise. "Tim!" She gasped.
"You know it's true, Mother!" Tim's eyes were rolling like a spooked mare's. He turned toward the king's men. "He acted completely alone! We had nothing to do with—"
"Guaaaaaaards!" the short one bawled.
The front door burst open and two very large men who looked like they'd actually earned their military uniforms goose-stepped into the hall. "Arrest this man!" The envoy's face was purple. He pointed a plump, accusatory finger at Larry. "Arrest him on charge of destruction of property of the crown! He has committed assault! He has committed larceny! He has…" He produced a handkerchief from somewhere and mopped his brow. "He has ruined our chances!"
The guardsmen asked no questions but stepped forward, stone-faced. Each took possession of one of Larry's arms, and they began to hustle him toward the exit.
Lady Merton's paralysis broke. She stumbled after them, crying "No, wait! Wait! We have the girl right here!"
The clerkish envoy gave her a withering look. "Indeed, madam. Are we to believe His Highness has fallen in love with your kitchen maid?"
"But she isn't! She's my late husband's daughter, Lady Sybil. The Earl of Grantham's youngest! The line died out with him...but she was at the ball, she danced with the prince! Sybil, dear, tell them."
"Yes, tell them, Sybil." Larry's eyes were wide, and his death was in them. "Please. Tell them about the other—"
The other slipper. A word from her could save Larry's life, the Greys' reputation, her father's house. It would also separate her forever from the one she loved, and imprison her in a life she would hate to the end of her days. It wasn't fair, she thought. To be asked to give up her happiness for people who had tried as hard as they could to destroy it. But if she didn't speak, would she ever be able to enjoy the freedom her silence had bought?
She feared not.
The king's men had resumed their march toward the door. Sybil stood up and drew in a breath, closing her eyes. Tom would understand, she thought. She hoped.
"Wait."
But a scream drowned out her voice: a man's scream, though it was as high-pitched as any girl's. Amazingly, it had come from one of the burly guardsmen. He let go of Larry's arm and began dancing about like he had spiders in his drawers.
"Good heavens, man, what's the matter with you?" demanded the clerkish envoy. But now the other guard had started up. He wasn't as beside himself as the first, but he was bothered enough to release Larry and start slapping at first one leg of his trousers, then the other.
"Something's crawled up me leg, Sir!" he yelled. "More than one of 'em, I think! Sir!"
"Don't be absurd, corporal! Your prisoner's escaping!" Indeed, Larry had wasted no time in sprinting for the door. But the envoy was soon distracted. "Oh! Ugh! Little bugger—"
Sybil looked around. Mice were shooting from the walls and across the floor in dark streaks. Dozens of them, more than she'd ever seen at one time in the kitchens. "What in God's name is going on?" Lady Merton wavered, backing toward the staircase. Her heel came down on a pliant little body and she shrieked. The squeamish guardsman's small tormentor darted out of his trouser leg, and Sybil saw that it had a notched ear and a loping stride, as though it had been injured at one time.
The mice seemed to be rushing the king's men; they left the family mostly alone, for the moment at least. "Madam!" cried the envoy in shuddering despair. "Your house is quite infested!" Lady Merton didn't answer. She was huddled on the first stair landing, having collapsed there in fright. Tim looked about and beat a hasty retreat into the billiard room.
Mice boiled from the baseboards, hundreds of them, thousands, enough to make even Sybil shudder. The floor was black with them; she couldn't take a step for fear of crushing one. She stood as motionless as she could, concentrating on breathing in and out. If this was her fairy godmother's doing, she thought, she'd be quite happy never to have her help again.
"Retreat!" bellowed the fat envoy. "We'll be eaten alive! We'll send someone to deal with them later!" Moments later the clatter of horses' hooves receded down the drive.
Sybil waited with her eyes closed while the scritch-scritch of tiny paws on floorboards and the chitter of rodentine voices went from almost deafening, to a susurration, to isolated scrapes and squeaks. She opened them to find four mice in a row before her. If dumb creatures could look something between smug and shamefaced, they did.
"That wasn't very nice," she told them sternly, and almost immediately dissolved in laughter. "Go on, now," she said when she'd recovered enough to speak. "You can have the run of the pantry, all of you. I doubt we'll be needing what's in there." They remained a moment longer, heads cocked as if they truly understood her, and then they were gone.
Sybil walked slowly toward the door to the billiard room and knocked upon it. "Tim, open up. They're gone." The door opened a few inches and Tim's pointy, haggard face peeked out. "Your mother's not well," she said, jerking her head toward the whimpering coming from the stairs. "You need to take care of her."
"Hang all that!" Tim snapped. "I'll go off on my own."
"She's your mother," Sybil impressed, gently but firmly. "And besides, do you know where she keeps the valuables?" That gave him pause. "Then I suggest you make her a pot of very strong tea and get her calmed down so you can leave before the king's men decide to come back."
He blanched. "Where are you going?"
"Off on my own." She turned and walked through the hall and out the door without a backward glance.
The moon was waning, but it was still bright enough for her to make sure Larry wasn't lying in wait for her behind a shrub. She didn't really think he would be; last time she'd seen him, he'd looked spooked enough to run halfway across the kingdom without stopping.
She was not going so far. Just down the road, to a little spur of a path that few people noticed.
She was going home.
