It doesn't occur to Phyllis until later, after she is safely back in her bed, that the ghost may appear in her room again and try to exact some sort of revenge for Mr Molesley's presence in the attic. The idea is a frightening one, and on another night it might have kept her awake, but she is so weary that she can't find it in herself to care. Let it come if it wants to, she thinks, drifting on the surface of sleep, let it come—and then she is sucked down into an unconsciousness so black and heavy that not even the dream of the box can penetrate it. In that void there is no sense of time passing, and so it seems only an instant goes by before she hears someone calling her name.
"Miss Baxter." It's Mrs Hughes, sounding both far away and very close at the same time, like a voice in a telephone receiver pressed to the ear. "Miss Baxter, wake up."
Phyllis makes a thick, incoherent sound and tries to open her eyes, but they're sticky and gritty, as if her eyelids have been pasted together. At last she manages it and blinks at Mrs Hughes' familiar face in light that is too bright and at the wrong angle for six o'clock in the morning. The housekeeper has drawn the straight chair up to her bedside and is sitting bolt upright in it, watching her with an expression that Phyllis is too groggy to decode.
"Do you know what time it is, Miss Baxter?"
"No." Phyllis clutches the quilt up around her neck, suddenly terrified. She truly doesn't know, but the very fact that Mrs Hughes is in her room and asking this question tells her that whatever the time is, it is the wrong one. "Is it—is it late?"
"It is indeed," Mrs Hughes says. "It's half past nine, Miss Baxter."
"Oh," Phyllis says faintly. In addition to the sick, spinning sensation of being woken too abruptly, she begins to feel the creeping shame of a child who has arrived at school tardy and unprepared. "I didn't mean to—I'll go up to her Ladyship right now—"
"Don't worry about her Ladyship. Anna's looking after her." Mrs Hughes' brow is deeply furrowed; the vertical lines round her mouth more pronounced than usual, and for the first time Phyllis realises that she is not angry, but concerned. "You've given us a bit of a fright this morning. Daisy couldn't rouse you no matter how hard she knocked, so she came and fetched me to unlock your door because she thought you might be ill, and then the both of us together tried and failed to wake you. I would have thought you were the worse for drink, but you don't smell of it, and anyhow you're not one to overindulge in that way."
"No, no, I wouldn't..."
"I know, Miss Baxter. Don't upset yourself." Mrs Hughes makes a small, calming gesture. "I was afraid it might be something to do with what happened a few weeks ago, when you fell on the stairs, but you seemed to be breathing well enough, so we left you to rest and got on with the morning business. I'm afraid you'll have to see Dr Clarkson this time whether you like it or not, though. I sent for him after breakfast was over, and he should be here any minute."
"Yes, of course." Phyllis readjusts her grip on the quilt; it's poor protection, but it's all she has at the moment. "I am so terribly sorry about this. I truly didn't mean to. I just—I've had trouble sleeping, these last few weeks, and it must have caught up with me. I mentioned it to Anna recently; she'll tell you..."
"She already has," Mrs Hughes says. "I expect Dr Clarkson will have something to help with that, but we'll see what he thinks after he has a look at you. Ah— that'll be him now," she says, as Julia raps at the half-open door and then pushes it open for the doctor to enter, black bag in hand, with his silver hair neatly combed and his bow tie in place. He brings with him a sharp smell of disinfectant that makes Phyllis shudder, remembering those invasive prison exams, but Mrs Hughes is still in the room, and she knows that Mrs Hughes will not allow anything unnecessary or improper to be done to her. At any rate, it seems all Dr Clarkson is interested in doing is shining a light in her eyes and listening to her chest, which he does swiftly and efficiently.
"There's a bit of tightness around the lungs," he says at last, folding up his stethoscope and packing it away, "but nothing too serious, and I don't see any signs of a lingering head injury. I'd say it's simple exhaustion. You said you haven't been sleeping well?"
"Not for a while now," Phyllis admits. "Someone mentioned a sleeping powder..."
"Yes, I think that's a good idea." He scrawls something on a slip of paper, hands it to Mrs Hughes. "You'll need to be sparing with it—it's easy to take too much—but as long as you're careful you'll be all right."
"Will I be able to wake up when I need to?" Phyllis asks, thinking of the ghost and the possibility that it may visit her in the night. For Mrs Hughes' sake, she adds, "I wouldn't want to oversleep and be late for my work again, you see."
"Yes, if you only take the recommended amount," Dr Clarkson says. He's halfway to the door, already finished with this call on someone whom he clearly thinks is a weak and possibly hysterical woman. Mrs Hughes follows him out into the corridor, where Phyllis can hear her saying in a low voice that Lady Grantham has asked to have the bill sent to her. It seems someone—Anna? Mrs Hughes herself?—has apprised her Ladyship of the situation. Phyllis rather wishes they hadn't, but then she supposes her Ladyship must have wanted an explanation for why Anna was performing Phyllis's duties for her. Cora is nearly always kind and understanding, but she also likes to know what's going on, right down to the content of Phyllis's conversations with Mr Molesley.
Thinking of Molesley makes her wonder how he is handling her disappearance; he will have missed her at breakfast, and after their sojourn in the attic, he is probably imagining all sorts of dreadful things that may have happened. She must get dressed; go to her Ladyship to apologise in person for her absence; then find an excuse to get downstairs and see him. Now that she is fully awake, she feels strong enough to do all those things, as if the unnaturally deep sleep were the restorative she needed. She gets out of bed, shivering in the chilly air, and is looking through her small selection of black dresses for a clean one when Mrs Hughes comes back in and catches her.
"What on earth are you doing, Miss Baxter?"
Phyllis turns round with a dress draped over her arm. "I thought I would go down and relieve Anna. There's no need for her to be run off her feet all day when Dr Clarkson says I'm quite all right."
"He didn't exactly say you were quite all right," Mrs Hughes points out. "He said you were exhausted."
"Yes, well, I've had my sleep," Phyllis says. "More than I was entitled to, in fact, so now I really ought to get to work."
"Heaven knows I believe everyone should pull their own weight, Miss Baxter, but if you're ill then there's no point making yourself worse." Mrs Hughes turns away and automatically begins making Phyllis's bed while she speaks, with the crisp, tight corners all the housemaids are taught to do. "You've not been yourself this past month; don't think I haven't noticed. If something's the matter, for goodness' sake, tell me what it is before her Ladyship notices as well, or it'll be me who has to answer to her. It's not as if you're only a scullery maid, after all."
Phyllis wants to hug the dress against herself for comfort, but resists the urge, knowing it will leave wrinkles in the fabric that she will have to press out. "Thank you, but like I said, it's only that I haven't been sleeping well. Perhaps it's just part of getting older."
"Wait until you're my age before you talk about getting older, Miss Baxter," Mrs Hughes says dryly. "All right, if you insist, go on and take over from Anna. I know her Ladyship would rather have you; not that Anna doesn't do a beautiful job, but you know the way her Ladyship likes things to be done. I'll send Mr Molesley off to collect this sleeping powder for you, and tonight I expect you to take it and get as much rest as you can. I don't like seeing you look so pale and peaky."
"Yes, Mrs Hughes." Phyllis hesitates. "Perhaps I might give the name of the powder to Mr Molesley myself? I meant to talk to him about something else anyway."
"Well, of course, if you like." Mrs Hughes plucks the slip of paper from her apron pocket and lays it on the freshly spread quilt. "I'll leave you to dress, then."
She closes the door behind her as she goes, and Phyllis sits down on the edge of the bed with the dress in her lap. She has been too consumed with horror and embarrassment at her own conduct to really think deeply about the ghost's demand, but now that she is alone, it all comes back to her. Find the box and I will have peace, the ghost had said, but what about her? Is she never to have any peace of her own? How long must she keep repaying the universe for her crimes? Anger does not come easily to her, but now she can feel a hot flicker of it inside herself, a frustrated resentment that wants to kick and scream and cry out it isn't fair.
It's a selfish and futile way to think, but Phyllis allows herself to indulge in it while she washes, dresses, pins up her hair, tucks Dr Clarkson's paper into her own pocket for safekeeping, and makes her penitent visit to Lady Grantham, who like Mrs Hughes, is more surprised and worried than angry about the events of the morning. She asks a few pointed questions and then, satisfied, settles down to talk about her current favourite topic of Christmas, and in particular what presents George and Sybbie should receive this year. This is a line of conversation that Phyllis normally enjoys, as she is fond of the children and also rather fascinated by their playroom full of toys, which is a wonderland compared to the few, treasured playthings she and her sister once shared. At the moment, though, she is finding it hard to concentrate, and it's a relief when Cora rises and says she must speak to Mrs Patmore about the menu for a dinner she is hosting next week. Phyllis follows her downstairs at a deferential distance and as soon as she is able, slopes off and goes looking for Molesley. As it turns out, Molesley has also been looking for her, and it's he who spots her first.
"Miss Baxter!" He's leaning out of the storeroom where the table linens for upstairs are kept, and she feels a great, warm rush of relief at the sight of him, not only for his own sake, but because it's so good to be with someone who knows the truth. A memory of the impulsive kiss she bestowed on him last night flutters across her mind—the slightly scratchy feel of his cheek under her lips, the sharp, surprised breath he drew—and she pushes it away firmly.
"Ask me to help you with something," she says in a low voice. "In case someone's watching."
"What? Oh. Will you come here for a moment and help me?"
"Yes, of course." She slides in past him, and he closes the door.
"What happened? I've been going mad worrying. Daisy said she thought you were ill, but I couldn't get away, and no one downstairs really knew anything."
"I'm not," Phyllis says. "I—well, I suppose I just overslept, but Mrs Hughes said she couldn't wake me, and I don't remember her trying. I must have been nearly comatose."
"Is it something to do with the ghost?"
She shakes her head. "I think it was lots of late nights catching up with me all at once, and Dr Clarkson seemed to think so too. He looked me over and pronounced me all right, if that helps put your mind at ease. Oh—" She puts her hand into her pocket, finds the paper and holds it out to him. "Mrs Hughes says please will you go and get this at the chemist when you have time. It's Veronal, the sleeping powder. I haven't wanted to try it, but now I suppose I'll have to."
"Yes, of course." Molesley folds the paper into a tiny square and hides it away in some interior part of his livery. "I'll go soon as I've finished this. There's plenty of time before lunch."
"Let me help you, then. It'll go faster. I did say I would, just now, and this way it won't be a lie."
"Doesn't her Ladyship need you?"
"She's in with Mrs Patmore, discussing whether to serve mushroom consommé or cream of celery as the soup at her dinner party," Phyllis says. "They'll be an hour at least. Are you folding those tablecloths?"
Molesley nods and plucks the topmost cloth from the pile, and they shake it out between them and take opposing sides.
"I was thinking last night after I went to bed," he says.
"Well, there was lots to think about, wasn't there?" Phyllis walks her end of the cloth toward him and joins up her corners with his, bringing her close enough to see a faint flush on his cheeks. Belatedly, she realises that he must think she is referring to her kiss—or is he the one who meant to refer to it? She backs up swiftly and takes the newly formed short end of the cloth as he turns it around; they join up the corners again, and then he gives it a final fold and slots the neat white square into its place on the shelf.
"About the box," Molesley clarifies. "The ghost didn't say what was in it, did he?"
"He didn't know," Phyllis says. "He only said it was something precious. It might have been gold or jewels or the deed to property, or even some sort of relic. Although he did say that he and Reginald meant to divide it, so it must have been something that could be divided, if you see what I mean. Do you suppose there's a way to find out?"
"I'm not sure," Molesley says, as they meet up again to bring the corners of a new cloth together. "I don't suppose we'll find the answer in the book, will we?"
"Well, we might," Phyllis says thoughtfully. "We never read any more after Mr Barrow came in." She flips her side of the cloth up and matches it to his, and a moment later it joins its mate on the shelf. "It's safe in my room; I can look tonight before I take the sleeping powder."
"About that," Molesley says. "I was also wondering...when you have the dream, can you do anything to control what happens in it? I mean, can you decide to look behind you and see who the other person in the boat is, or to open the box and find out what's inside? Or do you even know you're dreaming while it's happening?"
Phyllis thinks about that as he finishes folding the third cloth and laying it away.
"It's hard to say," she says at last. "It feels real, but at the same time I know it's a dream. And I don't think I can control it, but I've never really tried to, either. I'm always too frightened. The thunder and lightning are right above my head, and I don't want to fall into the water because I can't swim."
"Can't you really though?"
"Well, I can," Phyllis says, "at least a little. In the dream I can't at all, though, and I'm terribly afraid of the water, and of drowning." They've developed a practised rhythm of folding now; the pile of loose tablecloths is dwindling fast as the stack on the shelf grows. "But I suppose in the dream I'm not really myself, am I? I'm Edwin, and those are Edwin's memories, and every time it happens, he remembers a bit more. Only why can't he remember on his own? Why does he need me?"
"If we knew that, we could both leave service and go into business as spiritualists," Molesley says with a wry grin. Taking the last cloth, he puts it on top of the one before it, and then squares the whole stack with the edge of the shelf. "Well, there's that finished. I'll go and see about your powder now. Who knows? Perhaps if you sleep well tonight, all will be revealed in the next dream."
"Or I might not have the dream at all," Phyllis says. "I didn't last night when I was dead to the world." She twists her hands together and looks down at them to avoid meeting his eyes. "I wish I never had to have it again."
Molesley reaches past her, opens the storeroom door, stands aside to let her out first and then steps through himself.
"I'd have it for you if I could, Miss Baxter," he says. "You do know that, don't you?"
"I—oh, there's her Ladyship."
Down the corridor, Lady Grantham is emerging from the kitchen with a red-faced Mrs Patmore right on her heels, and Phyllis gives Molesley an apologetic look. "I have to run. She'll be wanting me to dress her for lunch. I'll see you when you come back."
There's disappointment written large across his face, and she wonders what he was hoping for. Surely it wasn't a repeat of last night? It had really seemed to embarrass him more than anything, and she rather regrets doing it, even though the memory is a pleasant one, at least for her.
"Mind how you go," she adds, and is rewarded with the hint of a smile before she turns and hurries to catch up with her Ladyship in the hall.