Updated again! Couldn't help myself, hope you don't mind ;o)

Continuing where we left off, examining what other characters are thinking/doing, while poor Matthew lies wounded in his bed, possibly bleeding to death, and with a bullet still stuck in his body-uh oh!

Thank you again for sticking with this story and especially for everyone who lets me know their thoughts! I appreciate it, truly, and I hope you will keep telling me (it does the muse good; she craves feedback the way a Walker craves...well, you know) ;oP

Chapter Thirty-Eight

"Comrades"

Bloody Branson!

Robert cursed the Irishman again, cursed him for not being available whenever his master desired his services like a good chauffeur should; cursed him, and cursed himself because he had been careless. He knew he had no control over this world, but at the very least, he tried to have some control over what went on at Downton. But everything was unraveling, and rapidly so; from Cora getting sick, to Matthew's injury, to Branson's disappearance. And it wasn't so much that he cared what Branson was doing (probably looking for that missing brother of his, not being able to accept the fact that the poor man is dead), but that he was again, powerless, because he couldn't drive to fetch Clarkson and bring him back for Matthew. And that feeling of helplessness was what Robert despised more than anything.

Even though he knew deep down that Branson wasn't there, he still looked around the Servant's Hall, ignoring the questioning looks of Mrs. Patmore and her charge as he pushed open various doors to look inside and see if they contained the Irishman in question.

"Robert," a voice spoke from behind him. He didn't stop and turn, but he did glance over his shoulder to catch Sir Richard's eye. "I'm assuming that the reason you're trying to find the chauffeur is because you need someone to drive you somewhere?"

Robert glanced towards the Downton cook and kitchen maid, who both gave a little gasp at being caught staring, and quickly threw themselves into whatever task they were doing, trying to look far too busy than they truly were. But Robert knew that just because their hands were busy, didn't mean that their ears weren't open.

He continued to move through the Servant's Hall, and to answer Sir Richard's question, he simply gave a grunt as he went to the staircase that would lead him back upstairs.

Sir Richard did not cease in his persistence. "Since it appears that the chauffeur is nowhere to be seen," he continued. "Perhaps I can be of some service then?"

Robert paused on the fifth step, paused and turned around to look at the other man.

When it came to Sir Richard Carlisle, the truth as to how Robert felt about the man was…mixed.

He didn't dislike the man; he seemed every bit the gentleman, and there was something admirable about a man who had nothing and yet applied himself in life to not only make a name for himself, but to be successful in what he did, thus earning respect, rather than having it simply given to you. His mother would pale if she knew he had such thoughts. They weren't the sort of thoughts men like him were supposed to have. Yet Cora had changed his mind on that front, knowing her family history, how her own father was such a man, having started with nothing, before building his own empire. In many ways, Robert envied these men, and a part of him had always wondered what it would have been like, to be in their shoes?

Of course, what were such empires now, in a world like this? And by that same argument, what was the earldom?

He looked at Sir Richard and found himself debating about whether or not he could trust the man with his secret. That was perhaps the greatest reason as to why Robert's feelings about his daughter's fiancé were mixed; there was something about Sir Richard Carlisle that didn't seem entirely…trustworthy.

Cora was the only other person with whom he had shared such thoughts, and she had laughed at the time, before taking him by the shoulders and looking him in the eye and telling him that was simply his wariness talking because Sir Richard was a newspaperman. And maybe she was right, maybe that was the reason. Though lately, his mixed feelings in regards to his eldest daughter's betrothed had become a great deal more…conflicted, because of Matthew's return.

Robert would be a liar if he denied that a large part of him was hoping his daughter and Matthew could make whatever amends they needed to make and move forward…together.

But what good would such hopes be if Matthew was dead? And the man needed a doctor, desperately. And Clarkson was at that farm, and the journey was too far, and too dangerous, to be made on foot.

Robert needed a driver. And Sir Richard was the only man available.

But if he asked Sir Richard to do this, the man would no doubt have questions as to why they were going to that farm, why Clarkson was there instead of being locked away somewhere in the East Wing of the house. And if Sir Richard came inside, well…he would see the truth about Cora…

But it's Matthew! And…Sir Richard is like family, or very soon will be family…

"Yes," he finally answered, looking at Sir Richard and swallowing the apprehensive lump in his throat. "Yes, you can be of service," he clarified. He turned back down the stairs and proceeded to walk back through the Servant's Hall, ignoring the cook and kitchen maid as he went, hearing Sir Richard's footsteps follow him but a few feet with every step.

The other man never questioned where or why, he simply followed Robert, followed him out the door, and right up to the motor, waiting for them just where Sir Richard had left it. And like a chauffeur, Sir Richard opened the door for Robert, before climbing in himself and getting behind the wheel, silently waiting to be told where to go.

It was strange; Sir Richard Carlisle was perhaps the most…"obedient"…person in all of Downton right now, perhaps even more so than the house's staff.

"There's a farm," Robert murmured, but again, Sir Richard didn't ask questions (unusual for a newspaperman). "I will tell you how to get there."

"Very good," Sir Richard murmured as he turned the key and the car once again roared with life.

Very good. An interesting choice of words, Robert thought to himself as the car pulled away from the house.

Very good.

…But would it be?

Charles Carson eyed the former first footman with suspicion and anxiousness as he watched the man go through a medical bag and examine the instruments that were inside, looking for something…specific, or so it seemed. However, the butler couldn't help but have his doubts. "Do you know exactly what you're doing?" he questioned with a deep frown. Thomas glanced at him and Carson swore the man muttered something under his breath, but Lady Mary was sitting right next to him and didn't give the medical staff sergeant any sort of warning or look, although she was a bit preoccupied with mopping Capt. Crawley's brow.

Charles pursed his lips, and was tempted to say something else, but was stopped by the feeling of a hand on his sleeve. He turned and saw Mrs. Hughes looking up at him expectantly, but he simply shook his head; he had nothing new to report on the situation.

"Thomas thinks the bullet is still lodged in his body," Charles murmured low.

Mrs. Hughes bit her lip at this news. "Aye, that was what Capt. Napier suspected, I remember hearing him say."

Charles nodded in confirmation, recalling that too.

"So..." Mrs. Hughes glanced at Thomas with the same wariness that Charles had. "…Does that mean…that…that Thomas is going to…?"

Charles stiffened but looked back at the housekeeper with a grim expression that confirmed her suspicions to be correct.

Mrs. Hughes clearly shared his misgivings. "Milady…" she addressed Lady Mary, who lifted her head to the both of them, but didn't rise to leave Capt. Crawley's side.

"Yes? What is it?"

Mrs. Hughes glanced at Charles, before continuing. "Do you think this is wise?" she asked, glancing at Thomas who seemed to realize he and his medical skills were the topic of conversation. He lifted a dark brow at the woman, giving her a look that not only caused Charles' spine to stiffen, but even to sputter at the insolence of such a look. "I mean, surely Dr. Clarkson—"

"Dr. Clarkson is not here," Lady Mary's voice was not loud, but it was very clear and very final. "And I will not have us waste another minute."

"Right you are, milady," Thomas answered, though his eyes remained on both the butler and housekeeper, and Charles swore he saw a smirk on the younger man's face.

Lady Mary turned her attention then to Thomas, oblivious to any sort of "exchange" taking place between the members of staff. "Do you have everything you need?"

"I do," Thomas assured, turning now to Lady Mary and putting on a pleasant and "professional" smile. He handed her a handkerchief and a bottle of liquid. "Put a few drops of this on that, and be sure to hold it over his mouth and nose."

"Yes, I know," Lady Mary murmured; after the last few years when Downton served as a convalescent home, she was not a stranger to the sick room. And she certainly had learned a great deal in watching Sybil.

Mrs. Hughes sucked in a breath as she watched Thomas pull out some sort of sharp instrument from the medical bag. Her hand reached out and clutched at Charles' arm, and instinctively the butler took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

Thomas glanced up then and with a somewhat pompous air, said, "perhaps it would be best that you wait outside?"

Charles' jaw cracked at what was clearly meant to be a belittling statement, and opened his mouth to retaliate, however he was stopped by both a quick look from Lady Mary, and the tug on his sleeve from Mrs. Hughes, clearly feeling it best to do as Thomas said in this matter. Charles held his head high and met Lady Mary's gaze. "I shall be just outside, should you need anything, milady."

"Thank you, Carson," Lady Mary murmured, before turning her attentions back to Capt. Crawley. Charles nodded his head, though the young woman was not looking at him, and with Mrs. Hughes on his arm, led the housekeeper out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

Mrs. Hughes let out a long, weary sigh and sagged back against the wall (though her hand still remained on Charles' arm). "Oh heavens, where can that bloody doctor be!?" she muttered in angry frustration.

Charles was in complete agreement with her, however he chose not to comment, recalling all too well the near argument they had had when he had gone in search of the doctor in the east wing, following Mrs. Hughes' directions to the letter, only to find an empty room. So in hopes of distracting them from their anxiousness over Capt. Crawley's wellbeing, Charles asked the housekeeper the only thing he could think of. "How is Anna?"

Mrs. Hughes sighed and her hand slowly released his arm. Charles tried to pretend he hadn't noticed (or that he minded).

"She's in a right state," she sadly murmured. "Lady Edith had brought her in, but she was sitting in the hall, frozen still, pale as a ghost! I tried to talk to her, but she didn't say anything, just hugged herself and rocked back and forth. Clearly she's in shock, but…" she sighed and shook her head. "I can only hope that by taking her to Mr. Bates, he'll be able to get through to her. She's in the blue room with him now."

Under normal circumstances, Charles Carson would not have allowed such "intimate" meetings between members of staff, even an engaged couple like Anna and Mr. Bates. However, these circumstances were far from normal, and he had a feeling that Mrs. Hughes was right. Just like Mrs. Patmore would have been the only other person to get through to poor Daisy, Mr. Bates would likely be the only one who could get through to Anna.

"Did you learn anything further?" he asked. "About what happened?"

Mrs. Hughes' brow furrowed at his question. "Lady Edith said something about…about how a Walker attacked them, and Sir Richard had pulled his gun to shoot at the beast, and Anna…" she paused, shaking her head in disbelief.

Charles frowned. "What, Mrs. Hughes? What about Anna?"

Mrs. Hughes swallowed and looked up at him. "Anna…aimed her gun at Sir Richard, and…and shot Capt. Crawley!"

Charles' eyes widened in shock at the woman's words, his own expression filled with disbelief. "That…that can't be," he murmured. "Why…I mean, why in heavens name would…would Anna try to shoot…" he lowered his voice. "Why would she point her gun at Lady Mary's fiancé?"

"She must have felt threatened."

Both he and Mrs. Hughes turned to the third voice who had spoken, and the housekeeper gave an exasperated moan at the sight of his Lordship's valet, once again hobbling down the corridor towards them.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Mr. Bates, will you please stay in bed? You're not in fit state to be up and about!"

Mr. Bates ignored her and looked directly into Charles' eyes. "You know Anna, Mr. Carson, you know she would never do something like point a gun at another man unless she feared for her life or the lives of others."

It was an odd statement, because a year ago, Charles Carson would never have imagined Anna Smith holding a gun period, let alone aiming it at someone. But of course, so much had changed within that year.

"Where is Anna now?" Mrs. Hughes demanded, looking most annoyed, not only with Mr. Bates for being up and out of bed, but also with the Downton butler for not ordering the man back to his room upon first sight.

Mr. Bates sighed, his voice sounding both sad and weary. "I'm not sure, to be honest."

"Not sure!?" Mrs. Hughes gasped. "But I brought her to your room—"

"And she left," Mr. Bates interrupted through gritted teeth, turning his face away as if to hide whatever emotion was there. "I…I tried to talk to her…" he began. "And…and I managed to get her speaking a little, but…" his voice trailed off and Charles noticed how he quickly brought a hand up to run across his face, a gesture that he recognized that a man who felt absolutely helpless would make.

"Anyway," Mr. Bates coughed to clear his throat, before turning back to face them. "She said she could hear Capt. Crawley 'groaning in pain', though I must confess I didn't…" his words trailed off and he gave a shake of his head. "Anyway, she…she just needed to get away, wanted to go back to her room, so…so I hope that's where she went, and if it wasn't for this damn leg!" he growled, his free hand balling into a fist and pounding his thigh, wincing as he no doubt felt the ache spread throughout his leg. "I would go and search for her myself," he muttered. "But I can't."

Mrs. Hughes looked sympathetic and reached out to place a comforting hand on the valet's shoulder. "Give her some time, Mr. Bates. Clearly that's what Anna needs right now."

He sighed and nodded his head in agreement. "I know, I know, you're right of course, I just…" he stopped himself and shook his head once more. "The point is, Anna would not aim her gun at someone without good cause."

Charles frowned at this. "Mr. Bates, I agree with you that Anna would never do that sort of thing, but you are implying—"

"Anna is one of the best shooters under this roof!" Mr. Bates continued. "Even better than myself, I daresay. She's calm and steady, knows how to handle a rifle well."

"Aye," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "There's no denying that."

"Exactly. And I've seen her handle herself out there amongst those things; she doesn't panic easily."

Charles' frown only kept deepening as he listened. "What are you saying, Mr. Bates? Just what exactly are you implying?"

The valet looked him square in the eye. "Anna would never make a mistake like that; she wouldn't aim at a Walker and then accidently shoot at Sir Richard, while hitting Capt. Crawley…" his eyes narrowed and his voice became a growl. "Someone threatened her."

He wasn't saying the gentleman's name, but Charles knew exactly who Mr. Bates was referring to.

"We are not perfect, Mr. Bates, even the most skilled marksman makes mistakes."

Mr. Bates frowned as he looked back at the butler, confusion and question filling his eyes. "Why are you defending him, Mr. Carson?"

Charles' eyes widened in surprise. "I…I…" he sputtered, clearly unsure in how to respond to that. "I…I am not…but…" he cleared his throat and gripped the edges of his jacket, pulling it down in an effort to look dignified once more. "Look, we are all upset by what is going on and has taken place. No one is accusing Anna of murder—"

"Oh, Mr. Carson, really!" Mrs. Hughes groaned, giving him a disapproving scowl for even suggesting the thought. She turned back to the troubled valet and once again tried to encourage him to turn around and go back to his room. "Back to bed with you, Mr. Bates. I'll go and check on Anna; bring her a cup of tea and see if she's willing to talk some more."

Mr. Bates sighed but didn't fight the housekeeper. He took her offer of help, but before going back, looked at Charles one more time, murmuring, "think about what I said, Mr. Carson. Something about this whole situation isn't right."

Nothing about this entire situation was right. This world wasn't right! But the butler simply nodded his head because in truth, he didn't know how else to respond.

"She wouldn't aim at a Walker and then accidently shoot at Sir Richard, while hitting Capt. Crawley…someone threatened her."

Someone threatened her.

And of the two men who had been by her side when the incident had taken place, only one of them could truly be labeled as "threatening".

But why on earth would she feel the need to aim her gun at Sir Richard? What could he have done to cause her to panic and shoot like that? And why, if it was true and she was aiming at Sir Richard, did her bullet hit Capt. Crawley?

And there was one more question, one that Charles had a feeling only he had been thinking…

What would Lady Mary say to all this?

They were all so busy in trying to help her cousin, that she saw this as not only her best opportunity, but also her only opportunity to get to the bottom of this mystery.

After Mrs. Hughes had come to collect Anna and take her up to the blue room to be with Bates, Edith quickly made her way down to the Servant's Hall, tip-toeing as she drew closer, not wanting to bring any attention to herself, even if the only people down there were Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, and from the sound of it, Ethel, who was asking a litany of questions, trying to find out what had taken place and why everyone was panicking.

They were too busy talking to think of turning and looking down the corridor which Edith snuck, approaching the housekeeper's parlor, where she knew a spare set of keys lay hidden.

When they were children, Sybil's favorite game was hide n' go seek. Yet Edith was the best at finding hiding places, one of the rare things she could boast about being better than Mary (who actually found the game quite infuriating as she was always the first to be found). In wanting to win more of Patrick's favor, Edith took her cousin by the hand and led him down to the Servant's Hall. She knew several excellent places, even ones that Sybil was unaware of, and that included Mrs. Hughes' parlor, which was usually left open if she wasn't inside (like in that moment). Edith and Patrick crept into the room and hid under the desk together, the space small and cramped, forcing Patrick to put his arm around her shoulders (another bonus to the game). In the end, it wasn't Sybil who found them, but the head housemaid, who had entered to fetch a spare key. The woman had just opened the top drawer in Mrs. Hughes' desk when she looked down and saw the two children peeping up at her and gave a shriek, which not only gave them away, but also got the pair of them into a great deal of trouble, both with Mrs. Hughes and her father.

Still…ever since that day, Edith knew that was where the spare set was kept.

She slipped into the parlor and moved quickly to the desk, a sigh of relief escaping her lungs as she found the very keys she was looking for. Clutching them to her chest, she wasted no time in stepping out and tip-toeing down the corridor, back to the servant's staircase, away from the kitchens—

But she was stopped short as she overheard Daisy's voice.

"They left!"

"Left?" Ethel questioned. "Left where?"

"Don't know," Daisy answered. "But Sir Richard and his Lordship went out the door, and…I don't know, but it was all very strange!"

Strange, indeed.

Edith moved up the stairs then, but paused on the main floor, going to the drawing room, knowing that her grandmother was in the library, no doubt becoming more and more aggravated that she had been "abandoned" and forgotten and did not know a full measure as to what was happening, but of course that didn't mean she wouldn't go and look, so Edith had to be quick. She entered the drawing room, peeked outside to where the car had been seen last…

It was gone.

That doesn't mean anything, a voice reminded her. Sir Richard could have taken it to the garage!

With this in mind, Edith rushed back to the servant's staircase and quickly climbed to the next floor, going to the window where she often gazed, the window that not only looked out towards Locksley, but that also overlooked the Downton garage.

Nothing. No sign of a motor anywhere.

"They left! Sir Richard and his Lordship went out the door…"

Where would they go? And why would they leave? How could her father leave at a time like this? And why, earlier, was he asking for Branson? He was desperate to know the whereabouts of the Irishman, and seemed quite upset at the realization that Branson wasn't there…

There's only one reason Papa would want Branson, and that's to drive him somewhere. And if Papa can't have Branson drive him, then there's only one other person…

Sir Richard.

Alright, so her father had convinced Sir Richard to drive him somewhere with the remaining car, but that still didn't answer the question why? Or where, for that matter.

Perhaps the answer lay in the east wing?

Edith swallowed, holding the keys tightly to her chest. Earlier, when her father had caught her wandering around the east wing, and after he had taken her letter (assuring her that her mother would see it), she followed him, being careful not to stay too close, but followed him as he moved throughout the house, particularly throughout the rest of the east wing…and towards a certain door.

Mama.

That had to be the room, the room where O'Brien and Dr. Clarkson were taking care of her mother, why else would her father go to it? Edith watched from her hiding place as her father turned the lock, stepping inside, shutting the door behind him, and then came out, after being in there for no more than three minutes.

She remembered the door he had gone through. She swallowed, and with trembling steps, approached it, her ears on alert for any strange sounds…

But it was quiet.

Deathly quiet.

Something isn't right…

Holding her breath, she moved a key to the door, gasping at her strange good luck for finding the right key to the right lock on the first try…and with shaking fingers, turning the key, waiting for O'Brien to pull the door open, before shouting at her for being there…but none of that happened.

And it all remained so eerily quiet.

Open it, open it, STOP DAWDLING AND OPEN IT!

She pushed against the door with so much force, she nearly toppled onto the ground.

But she caught her balance and lifted her head, her eyes widening as she took in…

Nothing.

No one was there.

The bed had been made, just as Mrs. Hughes had told her father she would do. There was a bowl, water pitcher, and clean linens laid out on a bedside table…but none of them had been touched.

There were no signs that anyone had even been in that room, not since it had been made up. But…but if her mother wasn't here…? And she was positive this was the room her father had entered! But still, Edith scrambled out of the room and began going through the keys, opening every door up and down the corridor, looking in, shutting the door when there was nothing to be found, so on and so forth.

…She stopped after the eighth door. By that point she was making so much noise, it was a wonder no one had come to investigate. Especially someone who was nursing a sick patient in the east wing.

She's not here. Mama isn't here.

BUT WHERE WAS SHE? She was ill! She had Spanish Flu, it was important for her to be separated from everybody else, that's what her father said, what Dr. Clarkson had said!

…And then a thought dawned on her.

Was…was the disease so horrible that her father had…Dr. Clarkson take her mother someplace else? Someplace that wasn't even in Downton?

"They left! Sir Richard and his Lordship went out the door…"

It was the only explanation; her father needed someone to drive him to wherever Dr. Clarkson was, and the only reason Dr. Clarkson was missing from the house, was the same reason her mother was missing from the east wing!

She's gone. Dr. Clarkson has taken her somewhere, and Papa knows, but hasn't told the rest of us! But why? Why would her father create such a lie? Why couldn't he just tell them that she had be taken from the house? Why the charade?

…Unless he knew something.

She's dying.

Edith reached out and put her hand against the wall, the realization causing her knees to practically buckle beneath her.

Mama is dying…and Papa doesn't want us to see it!

No, no, that could not be! Their argument could not be the last conversation that the two of them would have! No! She needed to find her mother, she needed speak with her, tell her she was sorry, that she loved her, she didn't care if the disease was so awful that she would become infected by being in the same room, she NEEDED to see her mother!

And she would find a way…even if it was her last act on this earth.

Tom sighed as he stood up from where he had been crouched, examining the fallen bottles of ale that littered the pub floor, trying to see if any contained traces of blood, or any sign that his brother may have come there.

But there was nothing, or at least, no guarantee that Kieran had been the one to cause those bottles to break. The ale they contained and long since dried up on the pub's floorboards, and there was even a sheen of dust covering them. No one had been in this room for days, possibly longer.

"Anything?"

Tom turned to Sybil's voice; she was standing in the pub's doorway, holding the rifle at the ready, just as he had taught her. Despite the frustration at the current situation, he couldn't help but feel the corners of his mouth lift just slightly at the sight of her; she really is a fast learner, like she said.

He shook his head to answer her question.

Sybil's hopeful face fell, before once again adopting that determined look, one that Tom was getting to know very well, a look that he would say was very "Sybil". "Surely there's a cellar we could check! I know you looked in the back storage room, but I'm sure there's more—"

Again, Tom shook his head. "There is no cellar, and I've checked every nook and cranny in this place," he sighed as he joined her at the door. "He wasn't here."

Sybil sighed this time, the disappointment on her face reflecting how he was feeling inside. Though in all fairness, she seemed even more distraught at this revelation than himself. When they had begun their search in the village, Tom's heart, and the hope that was connected to it, kept sinking with each passing step. Kieran's not here; Kieran is long gone. If he's still alive, he left this place ages ago. And if that were true, then there was only one place his brother would have gone.

You can always come back, a voice in his head tried to reason. Go to York, find him, and then come back. Come back for her.

But his heart only sank further. Because even worse than the horrible feeling that he wouldn't find his brother, was the feeling that if he left Downton, something terrible would happen…and he would never see Sybil again.

And if you do find Kieran, he won't let you go back…not without him. And you don't want a repeat of what happened in Liverpool…

"Well there's one more place we can look!"

He was shaken from his thoughts by Sybil's determined tone. She was already moving away from the pub's entrance, checking the street before she stepped further into it, her hands ready with the rifle in case a Walker stumbled upon them. She looked over her shoulder, and made a gesture with her chin. "Come on!" she called out to him.

Tom frowned. "How many pubs does Downton have?" He struggled to imagine a village of this size having more than one, and yet there were two that they had searched.

"It's not a pub, but an inn!" Sybil explained. "The Grantham Arms! I don't know I didn't think about it sooner," she muttered to herself. "It makes perfect sense, because he would not only find the things he would need, such as food, drink, and perhaps some more medical supplies, but there would be beds there for him to sleep on, perhaps some fresh clothes—"

"It's getting dark," Tom interrupted, looking up at the sky overhead. The day had gone from sunny to overcast, and despite the darkening clouds that covered them, Tom knew when it was dusk. "We should go back."

"This won't take long—"

"Sybil…"

"It won't!" she insisted. She was looking at him with confusion, no doubt trying to make sense why he seemed so against the idea. It was similar to the look she had given him earlier, when he had muttered something negative about finding his brother. She was trying to be hopeful for both of them, and no doubt was finding the task exhausting. But still, she remained determined, and he couldn't help but find that so admirable about her, as well as humbling. If you do ever find Kieran, you'll not only have to beg his forgiveness for your lack of faith, but also praise Sybil's and give her all the credit, because she never gave up.

But even so, Tom knew from firsthand experience that it was wise to seek shelter well before the sun set.

"We'll come back tomorrow," he tried to reason, hoping that would satisfy her, but he should have known better.

"But if we do, and discover that he's not there, we'll always be wondering if we had just missed him. And…and I think I would go mad from the anxiety of not knowing," she confessed.

Well she did have a point. He had been going mad with anxiety for quite some time, with every day that passed. He glanced towards the sky once more, weighing their options. Sybil must have sensed that he was wavering, because she spoke up again, telling him that "it's just down the road from here! And we can do a quick search, just to see if he's there or not. And if not, then tomorrow we can come back for a more proper search, to see if we find any evidence of his whereabouts…"

She was a nurse, but maybe she should have been a lawyer?

"Alright," he groaned, not liking this agreement, but her reasons for staying by far seemed to outweigh his reasons for leaving. Either that, or he wanted to be convinced, to have that hope that maybe, just maybe…she was right and Kieran was there, hiding in some room, trying to get his strength back before continuing further.

Sybil smiled and started to move quickly. "This way!" she told him, her pace brisk, but not too fast. After all, they still needed to be cautious. They had been lucky for the most part; and had only come across four Walkers since their arrival. Still, that was four too many, as far as Tom as concerned.

"It's strange," Sybil murmured, glancing over her shoulder at him. He lifted an eyebrow in question, so she continued to explain what she meant. "Well, we encountered so many at the hospital yesterday…but…today…the village is so quiet; you would hardly believe it was the same place."

He nodded his head in agreement. "Like a herd, they move from place to place. Always searching…"

Sybil looked at him, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his observation. "…For what?"

Tom's eyes locked with hers. "Food."

Sybil swallowed and he noticed a nervous tremble go through her. She clutched the rifle a little closer to her body, and increased her pace as well. He didn't mean to frighten her, but at the same time, it was a good reminder that they shouldn't dawdle.

"Do you think…" she began speaking again, her voice filling the sudden silence that had fallen between them. "Do you think that's why there's been a sudden…increase…so to speak, of Walkers outside Downton?" She looked at him and held his gaze, her voice trembling as she spoke her next words. "…Do you think they know…that we're there?"

Tom didn't quite know how to answer that. "Maybe," he murmured. She sucked in a breath and stiffened at his one word answer. He hadn't given her a definite yes, but he hadn't denied the possibility either. "It may not have to do with you at all; I mean it's not as if you and everybody else are constantly outside. But the woods around the house are vast, and no doubt there's game that would attract them," he explained, hoping in some ways his answer would lessen the obvious fear he could see in her eyes. While he wished he could ease those fears, at the same time he didn't want to lie to her…or at least not lie any more than he already had.

Sybil nodded her head at his words. She looked back at him and he noticed a change in her expression. "I overheard Evelyn—Capt. Napier," she clarified. "Talking with Miss Swire—Lavinia, during luncheon, about approaching Matthew and organizing a hunting party."

Tom simply nodded his head, but didn't comment. He had been busy taking Lady Grantham to that mysterious farm while all that had been going on. And even if he had been at the house when the discussion was made, he would not have been included, not initially at least.

Even while the rest of the world sunk into yet another layer of hell, Downton Abbey refused to change its routines and protocols. Servants were still viewed as "servants", and therefore were kept separate and away from the fine Crawleys and their recent guests. And no matter how Matthew addressed him, spoke to him, tried to include him—in Robert Crawley's eyes, and no doubt the eyes of everyone else under that roof…he would always been seen as just another servant.

And I wasn't even part of their staff. But because I'm Irish, and working class, I was lumped together—

He stopped himself, mainly because such thoughts would only lead to anger and further bitterness, neither of which would be helpful in completing the task they needed to finish. "That's very wise," he muttered, in reference to her comments about the hunting party being formed.

Sybil nodded her head, almost absentmindedly; if she was aware of the frustrations boiling within him, she didn't show it. "Yes, I know we could use the meat, however…" her voice started to trail off.

Tom turned and looked at her, his brow furrowing. "However…?"

Sybil looked back at him, nibbling on her bottom lip in a somewhat sheepish manner. "My experiences with cooking are quite…limited…" she confessed. "And if Matthew and the others were successful in finding game, well…I just hope that Mrs. Patmore will be back. I don't know if I can bear another meal with Granny's mutterings."

Tom blinked for several moments, and then a chuckle bubbled up out of his throat that turned into a genuine laugh, one that he hadn't had since…perhaps all day?

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him. "It's not that funny," she muttered, which only caused his laugh to grow. She tried to look annoyed, but in truth, she too was fighting her own desire to laugh. "Alright, maybe it is now, but then it was downright infuriating!"

Tom's body shook as he laughed, to the point where he was clutching his sides. He didn't even have to close his eyes to imagine the dowager countess' grim face, scowling at the table, as if expecting a fine, seven-course meal to appear. He could also imagine Sybil, sitting there and glaring at the old woman, and oddly enough, the image caused his heart to rise and his lips to curl into a smile as he gazed back at her.

Sybil felt his gaze and turned her head to look at him, a sweet blush coloring her cheeks. "What?"

Tom shook his head, but his smile never faltered. "You…are unlike anyone I've ever met," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of admiration and wonder.

Her blush quickly darkened, and she lowered her eyes, one hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You mean…unlike any posh girl you know?"

His eyes looked upon her tenderly, and he took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. "No, I mean, unlike anyone—man, woman, English, Irish, posh or not…" he lifted his hand to brush away that stray piece of hair that had blown across her cheek again, marveling once more at the softness of her skin and the intensity of her blue-gray eyes. Sybil seemed to be holding her breath, and he groaned inwardly as her eyes fluttered closed and she leaned into his touch, the desire that coursed through him rising like a tidal wave. That voice of Kieran's that often seemed to be screaming inside his head wasn't wrong; she was a distraction. Yet he couldn't help but welcome it, even if he thought he should know better.

I swear, her lips are the sweetest I've ever tasted…

His mind rushed back to the passionate kiss they had exchanged in the garage, before she begged him to let her come with him to the village and help him search for Kieran. He had been ready to do more than kiss her if she had asked him, he guiltily admitted to himself. And the while the kisses they had exchanged since had been somewhat "chaste", there was the desire for more, to deepen them and allow this searing passion to just…sweep them away on whatever winds it wished.

…Which was very dangerous thinking, especially when you considered where they were.

Tom eased back, just a little, feeling it would be very wise to put a little distance between them. "To be fair," he started, clearing his throat just slightly, his tone lighthearted. "You're really the only 'posh girl' I know."

Sybil lowered her eyes and giggled at this. "Well…even so, I imagine it is a bit strange, an Earl's daughter attempting to cook, getting on her hands and knees in the dirt and pulling weeds, demanding that she be taught how to shoot a rifle—"

"Kissing the chauffeur," he added, causing her blush to grow even darker if that were possible.

Yet it was his face (and blood) that was burning when she murmured, "or insisting that he allow her to spend the night by his side."

Tom groaned, his resistance wavering; a part him was screaming to sweep her up, while the more sensible side continued to remind him that now was not the time or place.

Sybil must have similar voices in her head, because she too took a step back, her eyes bashfully looking down, before once again adopting that determined expression he had come to see as being uniquely her own. "The Grantham Arms is just up here," she told him, once again leading the way.

Tom closed his eyes and let out a sigh, before continuing to follow her, all the while trying to ignore his brother's chastising voice.

Like many of the buildings in the village, the Grantham Arms was also in disarray. The door was hanging off its hinges, the shutters had fallen away, but there were boards over the windows. There was also a great deal of debris littering the entrance, including what looked like a broken table. Both he and Sybil pushed the table aside, before poking their heads in to look at the place.

Overturned chairs, collapsing tables, and broken bottles covered the floor. Tom squinted, but saw no sign of life or movement within the shadowy inn. Though he did make a face as a horrible stench filled his nostrils, one that Sybil noticed right away as well.

"Oh gracious," she muttered, her hand covering her nose while she coughed. "What…what is…?"

Tom gripped the handle of his pistol as he slowly moved inside. "Something that's no longer alive," he answered.

Sybil shivered at his answer; however she lifted her head and stuck out her chin before stepping inside herself. "Well, come on," she bravely spoke, holding the rifle at the ready, just like he had showed her.

"Sybil…" his voice was low and cautious.

"Just a quick check, like we said."

"It's too dark in here," he muttered. "We should come back when we have more light—"

"This won't take long!" she hissed back.

"Something isn't right!" he growled.

"Tom, I'm not leaving until I know what is causing—" she stopped herself, but Tom felt his heart plummet at the unspoken words, because…it was the same thing he had been thinking the second the stench hit his nose.

Kieran.

"It could be anything!" Sybil insisted. "Anything!" she repeated again, though it sounded as if she were trying to desperately convince herself more so than assure him.

"Aye," he murmured, looking back at her. "Including my brother."

Sybil groaned and shook her head in annoyance. Why was she annoyed? What right did she have to be annoyed? This was HIS brother!

…Why did she seem to be more upset?

No, not upset…denial. She's in denial. You were in denial once too, but then you woke up to reality. Any feeling of hope you may have had died when you took Lady Grantham to that barn—

"Hey!" he realized that she was pushing her way further into the darkened inn. "What are you doing!?"

"I'm looking!" she muttered back. "That's why we came here, isn't it? To look? That's what I intend to do!" She was climbing over some debris that was blocking her way towards a darkened staircase that he could only assume led to the inn's rooms upstairs. He pushed his way forward and reached for her shoulders to stop her, but she wriggled free from his grasp and was already moving up the stairs.

"SYBIL!" he hissed, but she ignored him. "SYBIL! Stop right now—"

"Or what?" she countered. "You'll throw me over your shoulder like some barbaric caveman?"

"If I must," he growled, cursing as he was having a much more difficult time climbing over the debris than she had (and she was in a skirt!)

Sybil rolled her eyes and groaned. "Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders?" she haughtily spat back, before turning on her heel and moving up the stairs.

"SYBIL!" he all but shouted. "Now do you see what I mean?" Kieran's voice rang out loudly. "Stubborn lot, her kind; no regard for anyone but their own damn wishes."

Tom snorted in agreement, before finally shoving aside the table that was blocking his way from the staircase with a loud grunt. "Fine, she wants me to behave like a Celtic tribesman, then so be it," he growled. He would throw her over his shoulder, drag her away kicking and screaming all the way back to the car, and along the way probably give her backside a good spanking. He didn't care if she was a Lady or not, she was behaving damn foolishly—

His anger and frustration transformed into cold fear, when her scream filled his ears.