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Lady Sybil was sneaking. It was growing into rather a bad habit lately, first with that wonderful, new frock, then with that horrible incident at the rally only a week ago, and now, sneaking into her father's library. If she had thought very hard about it, she might have traced a catalyst that had set off her need for secrecy. As it was, she was content to tell herself that she was simply maturing, developing, evolving into her own woman.

She casually glanced around the library, with an air of someone who has nothing better to do, as if she could be in any room of the house and it would grant her the same amount of fascination. She meandered over to a shelf and picked a book at random to leaf through and glanced at the passage before her.

While down the streams that float us each and all
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste
Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time

Toward that great year of equal mights and rights,

Sybil smiled. Wasn't it like her to find something political at a moment like this? She placed the faithful little book back on its rightful shelf. Suddenly she felt a kind of excitement fluttering in her chest and now sure that the coast was entirely clear, she was resolved to give into her temptation. Forcing herself to walk slowly, to breathe normally, she made her way over to where her father kept the ledger for people who borrowed books. Her hands felt lighter than air as they turned the pages and her eyes skimmed for what she had long wanted to know. There! scrawled neatly under Cousin Matthew's own rather flourished signature, was that of Tom Branson.

Sybil let her fingers trail across the page, admiring the straight, orderly lines.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around and felt heat flooding her cheeks. Carson was standing in the entryway, one eyebrow raised, and looking as intimidating as ever.

"Carson," she said breathlessly, bringing her hand to her chest, "You frightened me."

"Sorry, milady," he said graciously, he half turned to leave, but Sybil couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I was looking for a book," she said quickly, "When I couldn't find it where it normally is, I thought someone might have borrowed it and I see," she glanced at the page of the ledger and pointed "That Cousin Matthew has it." An idea popped into her head. "Perhaps I'll go into town tomorrow and fetch it from him, I have a few errands that have been stacking up ever since I've been… indisposed," self-consciously her hand raised to touch where she had been wounded in the rally, "Would Branson be able to take me?"

"I'll see that it's all arranged, Lady Sybil," said Carson, his eyebrows now level with each other, he gave a slight bow.

"Thank you," she said graciously. Then, hurriedly grabbed another book at random from the shelf and walked happily out of the room, not able to keep the pride out of her voice as she waved the book in her hand."This will tide me over until then."

Sybil studied her reflection in the mirror with disappointment as Anna was busy letting down her elaborate hair style. Dinner that night had not gone very well at all.

"You're not going out alone," her father said, in-between bites of roast duck.

"I'm only going to town," Sybil protested, "I'll be visiting Isobel and Matthew! I can hardly get into any trouble."

"Yes well, forgive me, my dear, but it will take me a while before I can take you at your word again. Or let Branson drive you alone, for that matter."

At this her anger flared, "How many times have I told you that it wasn't his fault! I lied to him as well as you! As a matter of fact he has every right to be just as mad at me as you are!" She realized the truth of the words as she spat them out. Her anger ebbed slightly and there was an unpleasant twisting in her stomach that had nothing to do with Mrs. Patmore's cooking. She thought Mary might have darted a look at her, but quickly dismissed the idea.

"Edith will go with you," her father said in a voice that made it clear to all that the argument was over.

"Is everything alright milady?" Anna asked, placing discarded hairpins on the vanity and peering into her face through the mirror.

"Yes," Sybil said arranging her features in a smile, "Except I have to spend nearly all of tomorrow with Edith."

Anna smiled. "Lady Edith is not so bad," she said.

"No, I don't think she used to be, but," she thought about her sister's tight, hard smile, "but lately she's changed. She's so bitter. I'm not sure her and Mary will ever be friendly again."

"That's the way sibling's go sometimes. My father used to be with his brother all the time, growin' up. Now they hardly speak to each other."

Anna had pulled the last hairpin out of place and started to brush through Sybil's long, thick hair.

"Gwen told me that you and she were quite like sisters," Sybil said softly.

Anna looked surprised for a moment before reverting back to her usual, sweet smile.

"I suppose we are."

"I wish I had someone as you and she have," Sybil said impulsively, "Mary and Edith seem too concerned with themselves to notice anyone else."

"Lady Mary was very concerned when you were hurt, milady."

Sybil winced, she did not want to think about the rally, all of the people she had given cause to worry. She reached up and touched the area near her temple again, then looked at the woman dutifully brushing her hair in the mirror. Had Anna been worried? Had all of the staff? She was foolish, utterly, utterly foolish.

"You can go Anna," she said "I'll finish the rest myself."

"Are you sure milady?"

"Yes, thank you."

Anna set down the brush, curtseyed and was gone.

Sybil let out a long sigh and paced around the room for a minute or so before flopping, ungracefully, onto her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, thoughts dimly swirling around in her head, before one, clear and bright outshone them all.

Tom.

Tom Branson.

She had wanted to know his first name for some time now, though she wasn't sure why. She had never given a second thought to Carson's first name, or O'Brien's. Perhaps it was because – she didn't think of him as a servant, more like - a friend. But it had hardly seemed appropriate to ask him, though it would have been the simplest way, asking her father or Carson would have been far worse. Eventually she had remembered her father's ledger.

"Tom," she said aloud, as if she were practicing a foreign language.

She hadn't spoken to him since the rally, though she desperately longed to. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, for lying to him, for making him take her to that awful place, for not listening to him when he had tried to usher her back to the car, for almost getting him fired, oh! for a million things she wished that she could now erase. And now that Edith was accompanying her to town tomorrow, it didn't seem likely that she would get any chance at all.