I owe you all a massive apology! I'm so sorry this has taken so long to update. I've been sick, and had exams and been away and the all the rest of it. It's been crazy! Thanks for sticking this one out, guys – not many chapters to go now…
Sparki: I own nothing!
The bear turned to the girl, and flashed its monstrous teeth. And for a moment, Little Fearless was afraid.
But only for a moment.
She gazed into the bear's dark eyes. They were wild and empty; devoid of understanding, and cold, like the snow in which it lived. No, this was not her White Bear.
The beast lowered its great head, and glared at her. Taking a step forward, Little Fearless glared back. "I'm looking for my White Bear," she told the animal. "Have you seen him?"
The bear laughed. It was a dark sound – dark, and ominous. Like the sky, before a storm. Little Fearless shuddered.
"There is no White Bear here," the beast rumbled. "None but I." Little Fearless scowled.
"But you are not my White Bear," she hissed.
The monster snarled. Then, to the little girl's horror, it took a heavy step towards her. She could feel its breath, burning against her frozen cheeks.
"If I were to tell you," it growled, "what would you give me in return?"
It was cold on the train.
Huddling alone in the corner, Sybbie laid her chin upon her knees. Her legs were tucked in close to her chest. She didn't know why; perhaps it was simply the notion that, if she made herself small enough, no one would see her. And then, no one could hurt her.
As Sybbie sat alone, she wondered what Little Fearless might give. Would she give her hair, or her smile, or her voice? Would she give away her life, if it meant that she could see her White Bear one last time? With a sigh, Sybbie hugged herself tightly.
All around the little girl, cases and bags were stacked in their multitudes, one atop the other. Never in her life, had Sybbie imagined that there could be so many types of baggage. Some were leather, dark and crisp and expensive looking. Others were made from faded squares of fabric thrown together and fastened by a hasty sewing needle. Sybbie had never seen a handmade bag. The only bags she'd ever seen came from a busy corner shop in Ripon. George liked to hide things inside them, when they were first brought home. Once, he'd put a spider in a particularly expensive leather travelling case that their grandmother had bought. At the time, Sybbie had thought the idea foolish. However, later that evening, when Anna had fetched the case from one of the many cupboards, and the spider had crawled up her sleeve, Sybbie had laughed just as hard as her cousin. She liked Anna – very, very much. But the sight of her dancing down the corridor, swinging her arm around her head, screaming at the top of her lungs had been too much for the child to handle. Sybbie giggled at the memory.
"Are you alright, Miss?"
With a start, Sybbie glanced up. A man, dressed in a dark uniform, was gazing down at her, a curious shimmer in his eyes. Sybbie didn't blame him; she knew that she looked very odd. The dress that she had pulled from her wardrobe wasn't pretty. It didn't have laced sleeves or tiny pearls sewn around the collar. It was made of stout, navy blue fabric, with a pale cream collar and sleeves. The blue was faded somewhat, and there was a small tear on the left cuff. It was the simplest, most non-extraordinary dress she had been able to find, hidden within the sea of silken frocks and embroidered gowns. She didn't wear it – hardly at all. But it was her favourite, because her papa had found it for her. It was warm, unlike so many of the silly dresses her grandmother had her wear. She wore stockings, of course. But from her papa's bedroom, she had taken a thickly knitted pair of winter stockings, and she had pulled these over her own. They poked out of her travelling boots, big and soft and brown. The coat that Sybbie had chosen was a stormy grey, with a neat row of polished buttons running down one side. She wore a long scarf that Anna had knitted for her, knotted tightly around her neck. And atop her head of dark waves, Sybbie wore George's old cap – the one that was a little scraped around the brim. Gazing up at the man, she gave him a little smile.
"Yes," she assured him happily. "I'm hiding from my cousin." By way of explanation, she lifted a finger to the borrowed cap. "I stole his cap," she grinned, and felt her heart begin to slow as the man gave a reluctant smile.
"Well then," he sighed. "I suppose you'd best keep hiding, eh?" As Sybbie nodded, a look of sudden concern crossed his face. "Does your mother know where you are, Miss?" he inquired, his dark brows furrowing into a frown. Swallowing down the lump of unhappiness she felt building within her throat, Sybbie nodded.
"Yes sir," she replied. "She knows where I am." After a moment, the man gave a satisfied nod. He tipped his hat to the little girl. "If I see your cousin," he promised, "I'll tell him you went the other way." He gave Sybbie a wink, and then, he was gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, she sunk lower into the mountain of baggage.
Sybbie didn't know how she'd stumbled into the baggage carriage. She wasn't entirely certain how she had managed to board the train – especially without a ticket, or any money, or an adult. Somehow, she'd slipped through the small door, furthest from the brassy conductor with the bushy moustache, and no one had caught her. No one had noticed. She didn't know what time it was' very early, Sybbie imagined. She didn't know what time the train would reach London, or how many stops it would make along the way. However, none of this really mattered to Sybbie. All the girl knew was that the train's journey began at Downton, and came to an end in London.
London was where her father was. Sybbie gazed around the lonely mountains of luggage, and sighed softly. "Where else can I go?" she whispered to herself.
She was frightened. She didn't want to be – Sybbie felt as though she hadn't the right to be. If she didn't search for her father, then no one would. Everyone told the girl that her father would be alright; they promised that he would be home soon. But Sybbie wasn't a fool. She wasn't blind. The winter snow had started to fall, and Christmas was peeking around the corner. Her father had been away for so very long, and Sybbie wanted him to come home. Because, really, Downton abbey wasn't home without Tom.
It was strange to think of her father as 'Tom'. To the girl, he was simply 'Papa'. But to everyone else – her grandfather, her grandmother, her aunts – he was Tom.
Sybbie liked the name. She thought it suited her father – short and sweet, leaving a soft feeling on her tongue. In her wonderings, however, Sybbie had realised the oddity of the name 'Tom'; it was short for Thomas. "Is Papa really 'Thomas'?" she muttered, drumming her fingers against her chin. Both were 'Thomas', but they were so different, that Sybbie might have giggled, had it not been for the shadow that swallowed her smile as she thought of her disappeared friend. For he might as well have disappeared, Sybbie decided. Just like the White Bear in his story. When she fell asleep, he was there. But when she woke, he had vanished without a trace.
Thomas' letter felt heavy in her pocket. Sybbie, at first, hadn't wanted to take it with her. She was still so upset, and so angry with Thomas for leaving. In the end, however, she'd slipped it into her coat. And as she sat, huddling within the piles of baggage, she was glad that she had. Reaching into the folds of fabric, Sybbie gripped the letter tightly between two shaking fingers. Somehow, holding onto Thomas' words made the little girl suddenly feel that she wasn't completely alone. Sybbie closed her eyes.
"Dear God," she whispered, "please look after Papa. Please help me find him. And, wherever he is, please let Thomas know that I love him."
The streets of London were busy as the two footmen hurried along the street, one in front of the other. Leading the way, Jimmy weaved through the people, sparing no one a second glance. Alfred, a few steps behind, struggled to keep sight of his friend above the faces. With his dark cap covering his blonde head, Jimmy was almost indistinguishable. Groaning, Alfred pushed forward.
"Jimmy!" he called. "Slow down, would you?" To his relief, Jimmy turned to him. "We're almost there," he assured his friend.
"Where's there?" Alfred shot back.
"The Red Ribbon," Jimmy replied. Slowing, he waited for Alfred to catch up. When the taller man was beside him, he set off again. Alfred frowned, but followed none the less. "Why the Red Ribbon?" he asked. "How'd you know he's going to be there? There's hundreds of places he might be-,"
"Mrs. Hughes told me." Alfred raised a brow. "You asked her?" Jimmy nodded, almost sheepishly. "I did," he admitted, his gaze fixed ahead. "She said that Thomas told her, just in case he was desperately needed." Alfred's frown deepened. "What did he mean by that?" he wondered aloud. Jimmy shook his head.
"I don't know," he sighed. He glanced up at Alfred. "She was a little reluctant to tell me," he muttered. He looked away, something strange – something that Alfred couldn't decipher – shimmering in his eyes. "Honestly, I don't know why she did tell me." Alfred didn't particularly like the expression slowly stealing across Jimmy's face. He placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "Well, she did tell you," he reminded Jimmy. "That's what matters." To Alfred's relief, Jimmy nodded, and said no more about it.
The Red Ribbon was a dingy little place. It was smaller than the Grantham Arms, and held far less esteem. The wooden sign hanging above the door showed a generously endowed woman, covered only by a flimsy crimson ribbon. The sign creaked and moaned, even though there wasn't any wind. Alfred glanced down at Jimmy, his brows raised in doubt. "I can't imagine Mr. Barrow in a place like this," he murmured.
"I can," Jimmy muttered. Straightening his cap, he made for the door. "Come on, Alfred," he urged without looking back. "Let's get this over with."
"You know that he's probably not here," Alfred pointed out. But Jimmy had already disappeared into the inn. Grimacing, Alfred followed.
He didn't know if it was simply a trick of light, but inside, the air seemed to be tinged with red. Standing just inside the door, Alfred glanced around, taking in the scene. It wasn't like any inn he'd ever set foot in. There was simply the public house, and a wooden staircase that led to the floor above where, Alfred supposed, anyone desperate enough to stay in the place would sleep.
The public house was musty. Removing his cap, Jimmy ran a hand through his flattened hair. Not waiting for Alfred, he started across the room towards the bar, where there seemed to be the one and only form of administration. A woman, tall and slender and clothed in an unflattering smock stood behind the bar. Approaching her, Jimmy forced a smile. The woman glanced up, and appraised him with her narrow eyes. "Can I help you?" she inquired, raising a brow at the two, reasonably well dressed young men who had just walked into the empty public house. His smile waning, Jimmy nodded.
"We're looking for a friend," he told her. "A Mr. Barrow? Is he staying here?"
The woman watched Jimmy for another moment, before reaching beneath the bar, and retrieving a large leather-bound book. Opening it, she scanned through the latest entries. Alfred watched as Jimmy's eyes followed the woman's finger along the column of names. After what seemed an eternity, she addressed them once more.
"Thomas Barrow?" she asked.
His smile all but a memory, Jimmy leant forward and nodded. "Yes, that's him," he exclaimed. The woman set about replacing the book. "He's in room six," she muttered, not looking at the men. "Up the stairs, second door to the right." Alfred nodded their thanks, but Jimmy was already making for the stairs. Alfred hurried after him.
"What are you going to say?" he asked, as they climbed the stairs. Their boots clattered against the wood. "What if he doesn't want to come back?" Jimmy only shook his head, and Alfred once again tried to dismiss the reoccurring fear that his friend hadn't planned any of this. Which, he knew, was of course the truth.
"So, after you all but got him fired," Alfred pushed, "you're just going to waltz into his room and say what?" Alfred knew that he was being less than helpful, but he couldn't bottle his own anxiety. "What if he kills you?"
At the top of the stairs, Jimmy paused, and turned to glare down at Alfred. Reaching him, Alfred shrugged. "Stranger things have happened at sea," he muttered. With a sigh, Jimmy turned from him, and all but crept towards the wooden door with a dinted '6' nailed to its old surface.
Alfred gazed at the number. He could almost hear Jimmy's fists, clenching and unclenching as the footman stood beside him. Turning to his friend, he frowned. "What's the matter with you?" he ventured. "It's only Mr. Barrow."
Jimmy didn't reply. Instead, he raised his hand, and rapped his knuckles uncertainly against the wood. When there was no reply, he knocked once more, a little harder. There was silence. Then, they heard the shuffle of footsteps. Jimmy looked as though he wanted to run away. Alfred could hear the doorknob jiggling, and he watched as it slowly turned to open the door.
And suddenly, there was Thomas.
He stood in the doorway, one hand against the wooden frame. He looked dishevelled, as though he'd just rolled out of bed. His pale eyes, heavy with sleep, glanced at Alfred, before going on to glare at Jimmy, who paled noticeably.
"What are you doing here?"
Alfred waited for Jimmy to reply. The fair haired footman, however, simply stared at the ground, his blue eyes fixed upon the floorboards. Alfred cleared his throat, drawing Thomas' gaze.
"We were looking for you, Mr. Barrow," he explained. Thomas' eyes narrowed. "Why?" the older man asked. "How'd you know I was here?" Alfred made to reply, but Jimmy spoke first.
"Mrs. Hughes," he muttered. Hesitantly, he glanced up. "Mrs. Hughes told me you were here." Almost immediately, Jimmy looked away again. Thomas studied him. "Did she?" he murmured slowly. "I see." Suddenly, he turned to Alfred.
"You'd better come in," he sighed. "Can't stand out here in the hallway." Reluctantly, he stepped aside. But Alfred shook his head. "Jimmy's the one you need to talk to," he muttered, raising both hands. "I'll wait." Thomas looked pained, and Jimmy remained mute. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Alfred stepped away.
"I'll be downstairs."
Thomas' throat felt dry. He could think of nothing to say. He could barely breathe.
All through the lonely train ride, and the cold, rainy walk to the Red Ribbon Inn, Thomas had thought of every insult, every curse he would hurl at Jimmy if he ever saw the man again. Which, he had assumed, he never would. But now that the man was standing before him, head lowered, reluctant tears shining in his blue eyes, Thomas felt empty. He just wanted to be alone. At the same time, however, he found a small, strange part of himself wanting Jimmy to stay.
"I… I don't know what to say, Thomas." Jimmy's words startled him. Despite himself, Thomas frowned. "What do you mean?" he croaked. Jimmy only shook his head.
"I could tell you a million things," the younger man muttered. "How much I missed you when you weren't there. How a single minute didn't pass when I wasn't thinking about you. How I'm so, so sorry for what I've done to you." Slowly, he glanced up, meeting Thomas' confused gaze. "But nothing I say will make any difference." After a long moment, Thomas sighed.
"Jimmy," he began, "I know why you're here." The footman looked up at him, frowning.
"You do?" he asked. Thomas nodded.
"You want me to come back," he murmured. "But I can't." He watched as Jimmy's face fell. Sighing once more, Thomas started hesitantly across the room. Before he could stop himself, he placed a hand upon Jimmy's shoulder. "We're lethal for each other," he muttered. "All we do is tie each other up in knots. Nothing ever gets better; everything just gets worse." Jimmy shook his head, but gazing into his eyes, Thomas knew that the younger man could see the truth in his words. Steeling himself, Thomas tried to disguise the pain that was stabbing at his chest.
"But… but I'm not going to be there," Jimmy tried weakly. Thomas blinked. "Why?" he ventured, slowly removing his hand. But Jimmy caught his fingers, and held them in his own. As Thomas watched, Jimmy ran his thumb across the older man's pale knuckles. Thomas knew he should pull away, but he couldn't.
"Jimmy, why won't you be there?" Jimmy sighed.
"Because I handed in my notice," he replied. Thomas' eyes grew wide. "What?" he exclaimed. "Why would you do that?" Jimmy gave Thomas a sad smile.
"I told the truth," he said simply. "I told Mrs. Hughes that it was me who poisoned the bloody kipper, not you." He lowered his gaze. "I'll leave, as soon as you come home."
Thomas was speechless. "Jimmy-,"
"Mr. Barrow!" Both men jumped, as Alfred burst through the door. Jimmy dropped Thomas' hand, stepping away towards the bed. Thomas felt his cheeks burn, but he refused to look at Jimmy. "What is it, Alfred?" he asked. The tall footman looked worried.
"There's a phone call for you," he replied. "It's Mrs. Hughes!" Thomas blinked, and took a step towards the door. "Did she say what the problem was?" he asked. Thomas knew that Mrs. Hughes would not have contacted him, unless something was greatly amiss. Alfred shook his head. "She just said to find you." Nodding, Thomas left Jimmy, and moved past Alfred. He heard the two footmen following him, as he hurried down the stairs. As they stepped into the public house, the woman behind the bar glanced up. "Mr. Barrow?" She held aloft the inn's battered old phone. "Phone call for you." Uncertainly, Thomas made for the bar. Taking the phone from the woman's hand, he brought it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Thomas?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
"Yes, it's me," he confirmed. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, Thomas," the older woman exclaimed. "Something terrible has happened!" Thomas gripped the bar. "What do you mean?" he ventured uncertainly.
"It's Sybil. She's missing!"
Da-da-da… Reviews, guys, would be wonderful!