In the upstairs corridor again, Phyllis finds that the painful aftermath of her experience with her bedroom door makes her terrified to touch the one that leads to the attic stairs. After a long moment of hesitating over it, she wraps a fold of her skirt around her hand for protection and uses that to grasp and turn the knob instead.
The door opens easily enough, but as soon as she steps inside, she can feel the electrical charge building up in the air inside the stairwell, prickling her skin all over like a thousand tiny needles. It gets stronger with every step she climbs, until the silver fillings in her back teeth are vibrating and the buzzing in her head is almost unbearable. The inner door at the top of the stairs is half open, and she pushes through it and emerges into a scene that is both horrifying and oddly lovely. Blue flashes and showers of sparks leap from everything metal—the latches and bindings of trunks, the plate stored in an open box, the rusted old sword leaning unsheathed against a wall—lighting the dark attic like the strange fire that sometimes appears on ships at sea. In the midst of it all is the ghost, rippling and seething with wild energy. She has never been more frightened of him, and at the same time she has never felt more tenderness and sorrow for the young man he used to be.
"Edwin," she says, and something deep within his substance flares with recognition at the sound of her voice. "You mustn't do this. Not here. It's very old and dry and full of things that can burn, and if one of these sparks lands in the wrong place, there will be a fire. I know you don't want that."
In a blink he is right in front of her, reaching toward her beseechingly, and she nods. "Yes, we can talk. That's why I've come, to talk to you and find out what's the matter. Come in, but take care. You were too rough last time."
The ghost needs no further invitation. He overlaps her and settles in, and at once her head is full of his despair.
I AM HERE I AM STILL HERE I CANNOT GET OUT
I AM STILL HERE REGGIE WHY
Through his glowing white aura, Phyllis can see the heavy wardrobe jittering on its four short legs, threatening to tip over despite its massive weight, and a few scattered blue flashes still going off in distant parts of the attic. She wonders briefly what will happen if a fire starts while she is immobilised this way, but decides not to think about that just now.
"Tell me what happened with Reggie," she says. "And be sure to go slowly so I can understand."
The ghost is still distressed, swelling and shrinking by turns, but he tries to obey her.
I remember it now. Reggie took me to a man. He was a man who made tools, and shoes for horses.
"A blacksmith," Phyllis says.
Yes. A blacksmith. He had a very hot fire, so hot it could burn bone. Reggie gave him the last coin to put me into the fire and to say nothing to anyone. He did not say what the coin's true worth was, but it was silver and the blacksmith was happy enough with that.
"But why didn't Reggie just sell the coin? It was worth so much, he could have paid the blacksmith and still had more than enough left over to settle his debts at home."
He thought the coin was tainted because it had caused my death. He said he might profit by it at first, but in the end he would be utterly ruined." The pain of the ghost's possession is getting out of control, but instead of protesting, Phyllis makes a conscious effort to relax and not to fight against it, determined not to interrupt him before he's finished. After the blacksmith's work was done, Reggie asked him to put the ashes in the box. They were few because my flesh had already gone. Reggie brought the box home so I would be close to him, and put it under the floor for safekeeping.
"Why there?"
When we were children our favourite game was pretending to be explorers. The ghost sounds wistful. When it was cold or wet outside, we explored in the attic. We pulled up the board then to make a hiding place for the treasures we found.
"Oh," Phyllis says softly. It breaks her heart to think of the two fair-haired little boys running about in the attic, happy and laughing, playing pretend, and what became of them later.
Reggie was so angry when I wanted to go into the cave in the hillside because he said I was still trying to play the game, even though we were grown-up men, the ghost says. Perhaps I was, a little. It always meant more to me than it did to him. I was the one who wanted to go travelling before I had to settle down and take over the estate. To be a real explorer, just once. And I did find a treasure, though it was my undoing.
"But how was your hiding place in the floor never found? The board was loose when I touched it. Anyone might have noticed it."
Reggie had men come up and move the wardrobe to cover the spot. It took four of them to do it. He knew no one would bother to move it again after that. Nothing is taken away from this place, only added. All the lost and forgotten things are here.
"You're not lost or forgotten any longer," Phyllis assures him. "We've found you. We can take the box and your ashes to Lord Grantham, Reggie's great-grandson. He can have you buried properly in the graveyard with your family..."
No, I do not want that. I want to be at peace. I have been here for so long. I want to be set free.
"How can we set you free?"
Scatter my ashes in some wild place and let the wind carry them away. Do it now, tonight. I cannot bear any more of this existence.
"You've been frightening everyone in the house," Phyllis says. "Other people are having dreams now, not only me, and we're all in the dark."
I have been in such pain since I began to remember, and especially since I saw the box again. It has made me do things I should not. I thought I wanted to know my name, to remember who I was, but remembering hurts more than not knowing.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know it would. I meant to help."
Not your fault. You only did what I asked you to do. You are as kind as you are brave. A true lady.
"I'm not a lady at all," Phyllis says, embarrassed. "I'm only a servant in this house. I thought you knew that."
I know, says the ghost, and I stand by my words. And as I hope we shall not meet again on this side of life, my lady, I wish you well, and I give you whatever blessings I have to give. Now go and send me to my rest.
A few minutes later, Phyllis is descending the back stairs as fast as she can in the dark, holding onto the banister with one hand and her torch, now nearly out of batteries, with the other. In her pocket is Molesley's discarded knife, which she picked up when she replaced the board under the wardrobe. On the last step of the staircase she stops, smooths down her hair and dress, and wills herself to be quiet and sedate as she walks down the corridor and into the servants' hall, where Molesley himself is sitting in the chair nearest the fire, jabbing at the logs distractedly with the poker. He looks up at her with a face full of enquiry as she comes in.
"Have you finished upstairs?"
"Yes," Phyllis says. From the corner of her eye, she can see Thomas at the table a few seats down from Mrs Patmore, appearing to read the newspaper by candlelight, but clearly listening to their conversation for all he's worth. "I thought I might go outside for some air."
"I'll join you," Molesley says, getting up and shooting a look of dislike at Thomas, who has put down the paper and abandoned all pretence of not eavesdropping.
"We'll be just outside in the yard, Mr Barrow," Phyllis says to him. "No need to worry."
As soon as they're through the back door, Molesley turns to her, and she is startled and touched to see tears in his eyes.
"Thank God you're all right. I've been sick thinking about you up there alone with it. What happened? What do we need to do?"
"He wants us to scatter his ashes," Phyllis says. "Can you fetch the box from your room?"
"Of course, but is this the right time to do something like that? The ground's covered with snow."
"I know. He doesn't want to wait; he wants it done now, tonight. He's in such pain, Mr Molesley, you can't imagine. He remembers everything, but it's come at a terrible cost. But we can put an end to all of it—his unhappiness and the things that are happening in the house—if we can just fulfil this last request." She clutches his arm to drive home her point. "Please, please will you get the box?"
"Yes, but we'll have to wait to take it out. There are too many people around; we can't possibly get past them, or explain why we're going out at this hour. Suppose we do it early in the morning instead, before the sun comes up? We can say we decided to go for a walk before breakfast, or something like that, and it will still be night. More or less, anyway."
This suggestion makes Phyllis uneasy—she doesn't like to think of Edwin suffering a moment longer than necessary—but she has to admit that Molesley is right about the unlikeliness of Mr Carson allowing them out at midnight. "All right. Six o'clock, and we'll have to meet round the side, or Mrs Patmore will want to know why we're going out through the kitchen."
As they turn to go back inside, there is a click and a hum, and all the lights in the house come on again with no fanfare. The sudden illumination feels as bright as day for an instant, and Phyllis blinks and puts a hand up against it. Through the kitchen door, they hear the faint sounds of cheering as the rest of the staff celebrate their sudden return to the modern world.
"Do you think it's a good sign?" Molesley says.
Phyllis looks up at the attic windows, which are still blank and dark, and considers this question.
"Yes," she says. "I think so."
She tells Molesley good night in a whisper and goes back up to her room, where the door is still open just as she left it, but now spilling a reassuring stream of lamplight onto the floor of the corridor. As she steps over the threshold, she thinks that she wouldn't be surprised to find Edwin waiting there for her, wanting to know why she hasn't rushed off at once to carry out his request, but there is nothing inside except her own possessions: a stack of books and magazines, a few special ornaments arranged on a shelf, her workbox and sewing basket. The bottle of sleeping powder is missing, and at first she has a creeping, surreal feeling it was never there at all—that the last several weeks have all been one long dream—but then she remembers that she left it in Lady Grantham's room. Well, she can collect it in the morning, after she and Molesley have done their errand.
When the hour arrives, he's waiting for her at the appointed place, wrapped up as warmly as she is in coat and hat and scarf, and they set off together, skirting the village path and walking instead in the direction of the wood beyond it. Phyllis has a raffia bag slung over her shoulder, as if she has been out shopping, but instead of carrots and potatoes and sugar, the box of ashes rests quietly at its bottom.
"He said a wild place," Phyllis says. Her voice sounds startlingly loud in the pre-dawn hush, and she glances round to see if anyone can have heard, but they're all alone, just two small figures in a white field of snow against the dark.
"I think the wood's as close as we're going to get," Molesley says. "There's not much wilderness round here these days."
They reach the fringes of the wood in good time and walk through it as the sky begins to lighten, snow and fallen branches crunching under their feet, picking their way cautiously round logs and stones. It's still and silent and very cold, and Phyllis begins to lose the feeling in her fingers, even with the thick, hand-knit mittens she's layered over her gloves. At last they come to a little clearing, barely more than a break in the trees beside the frozen stream, and Molesley says, "What about here?"
Phyllis inspects the space and frowns. "I'm not sure. It isn't much, is it?"
"It's wild enough, though," says Molesley. "And it'll be nice in the summer, here beside the water with the trees for shade. There are worse places to end up."
"That's true." She shivers. "All right, here will do. Can you remember where it is, in case we want to come back later?"
Molesley nods, and she strips the mitten and glove from one hand and reaches into her bag to lift out the box. There's enough light now for her to see the pattern on top, the green squares and the blackened silver letter C, and she stops and traces it gently with a cold, stiff finger.
"We never found out what this stands for," she says.
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not." Phyllis pushes the lid of the box open and looks down at the small collection of ash and bone fragments inside, then up at Molesley again. "Do you mind if I do this part on my own? I think he'd want it that way."
"Not at all," Molesley says, and she dips into the box and scoops the contents into her palm. They feel gritty and rough and curiously warm, and she squeezes her hand closed for a moment, thinking of all the times she has touched Edwin in spirit form. That burning, crackling energy seems far removed from what is in her hand, but she knows, somehow, they are connected.
This light is inside you too, she thinks, and opens her fingers to let the ashes fall. As she does, a thin, chilly breeze springs up and whirls them into the air, scattering them far and wide before they touch the snow, and she draws a sharp breath of surprise.
"Did you see that?"
"I did." There's an awed expression on Molesley's face that makes him look twenty years younger than he is, and Phyllis has a sudden, almost uncontrollable impulse to reach up and kiss him. She resists it and turns the box upside down instead, shaking it to be sure every last bit of ash is released.
"It's over now, Edwin," she says aloud. "You're free."
"Do you think he is?"
"I think so." Phyllis closes the box and hugs it to her chest. It weighs less than it did when she and Edwin clung to it in their shared dream, but its shape and feel are still as familiar to her as her own face. "Reggie ought to have done this from the start."
"I wonder why he didn't," Molesley says.
"It was a sort of selfishness, I think," Phyllis says. "He truly mourned Edwin's death, but he couldn't let him go. He brought him home to soothe his own conscience, not because it was what was best for his brother. He wasn't an evil man, though, only a weak, sad, greedy one. It's a miracle he was able to give the last coin away."
"I haven't heard that part of the story yet," Molesley says. "Why don't you tell me on the way back? If we hurry, there might still be some breakfast left. It'll be a long morning without even a slice of toast."
"Fair enough," Phyllis says, and slips the box back into her bag. They've already talked over what to do with it, and have decided to wrap it up and tuck it into one of the trunks in the attic, where it will have a chance of being found one day by someone who isn't either of them. Perhaps, she thinks, Miss Sybbie and Master George will want to play at being explorers when they're a bit older.
"Hang on a minute first, though—"
Molesley takes out his pocketknife, which Phyllis returned to him some hours ago, and uses it to dig a cross into the trunk of the tree nearest the clearing's entrance. "There. Just to make certain we'll know the place again."
Dawn is coming on fast now, and the world they walk through is grey and white, with long streaks of pink and gold in the sky to the east. Just as they come within sight of the great house, the edge of the sun breaches the horizon, and they stop to watch light spill over the manicured lawns. It strikes the attic windows, and Phyllis imagines it filling up the vast space, now sleepy and dusty and ordinary without its tortured spirit.
She gropes for Molesley's hand at her side, finds it, and squeezes it warmly.
"Welcome home, Mr Molesley," she says.
Not the end! There's one more chapter to go. Keep hanging in there...