Chapter 2

Something was clearly wrong. John saw it immediately. It wasn't the different dress, or the bruises. Anna was guarded. Anna was never guarded. She was smiling and open and warm. John was willing to accept that she had blacked out and fallen. He tried to look into her eyes when she told him. She hadn't let him. Something was clearly wrong.

John was sitting in the servants hall, waiting for Lord Grantham to ring. He wanted to go home. Anna had left without him. He didn't like that. If she had fallen, she shouldn't walk home alone, in the dark. The path was mostly even, but there were a few rough places, and she might fall again. He wanted to call the doctor. The hall was hellishly noisy. John's good mood had disappeared. He just wanted to go home. At least Green had disappeared. There'd been something about the way Anna had bid him goodnight. Jimmy was whistling. Something about the way Anna had bid the both of them goodnight.

Mrs. Hughes entered, her hands full. She looked worried. John wanted to ask her how she'd found Anna, what had really happened, but she didn't slow down enough for him to try. Something was clearly wrong, and Mrs. Hughes could tell him. John wouldn't force her. He would respect what Anna told him. Mrs. Hughes seemed to have a bundle of towels. John thought that odd, for this time of night anyways. His eyes narrowed. A bit of trim peaking out from the center of the bundle caught his eye. Anna's underthings. She had admitted to staining her dress, but why would she leave her underthings? He needed to get home.

Alfred was looking for him. Nice boy, reminded John somewhat of the young Molesley. Lord Grantham said he could go home. The card game looked like it would be quite late, and he wouldn't keep him any longer. Alfred smiled as he said Lord Grantham had said he'd be able to get himself to bed this once. John thanked Alfred, and stood to leave. He'd already laid out Lord Grantham's pajamas. He really should be able to manage this once.

As John walked home, he thought of the dress. If Anna had fallen and hit her head, while drinking a headache powder, her dress wouldn't have been stained. The night was warm. Water didn't stain, and on a black dress, stains had to severe before they were noticeable. The finches were singing. Blood, if there was a quantity of it, would be noticeable. If she had hit her head hard enough to draw blood she needed to see a doctor. If she had hit her head, she needed to see a doctor. John wouldn't force her, but he believed he could persuade her. But if those were her underthings in Mrs. Hughes's bundle, something was very wrong, and he needed to know. Anna had seemed frightened, not ill. In the shadow John hadn't been able to get a good look at her face, just enough to know something was terribly wrong.

A bat soared over his head. Something hadn't been right. Something other than the dress. He stopped to look at the night. She hadn't looked like herself. The sky was clear, the air cool. She had seemed not smaller, but shrunken, as if a part of herself had been lost, and the shell of Anna remained. The wind picked up. John remembered the stories his mother used to tell him about changelings. Women, taken to faery to nurse and replaced with a shell of themselves. He shuddered. It was the wind, and the heat of the house, and the excitement of the concert. Anna would be in bed, asleep, and would laugh at him when he told her how worried he had been. She had fallen, and had hit her head, and was tired.

The cottage was dark when John arrived. Usually when one of them went home ahead of the other, they left a lamp burning in the parlor. Anna had not. If John didn't know better, he would have thought the house was empty. He had that tune stuck in his head, that infernal Puccini. Only one or two things would cause Anna to need to abandon her clothing. He took a deep breath. He would go upstairs, and Anna would be asleep in her nightgown, burrowed under the blankets in a ball, her braid messy, waiting for her him. He would undress, and join her, and she would roll into his arms without waking, and they would sleep. In the morning, all would be well. In the morning, Green would be gone. Anna had nearly jumped when Green had said goodnight. It was as if she was frightened. John hung his coat, and locked up for the night, and went upstairs.

He peeked in the bedroom, not wanting to wake Anna if she was asleep and desperately wanting to know what was wrong and what he could do. She was in bed. John felt relieved.

"Anna?" He whispered, from the doorway. No response. His cane would wake her. He leaned in the door, and limped towards the bed. "Anna, love, are you alright?" He leaned over the bed. He wanted to stroke her hair, touch her, make sure she was alright, show her he loved her. That blasted tune was still rattling around in his head. Just the one section with the high note. John reached, and Anna flinched.

He stood there, over their bed, with his hand extended. He could feel his heart in his ears. "Anna? Will you let me call the doctor?"

"No." She pulled the blankets closer to her neck, and didn't turn to face him. "I'll be fine." Her voice was hollow. "If you'll just let me sleep." Her voice was empty.

"But if you hit your head…."

"No. Please don't make me see the doctor." Her voice was wooden. John would have been happier if he had sensed some emotion.

"I won't make you." Not yet. "But you've got to allow me to worry." Usually she would turn, and melt into a smile at that. "I'll just get ready for bed. Such a long day." He wanted to tell her about the concert, but now it didn't seem right. He had hoped she might respond. If she had had a headache so severe she had fainted, and had hit her head, there was no question that she needed to see a doctor. She could have a brain injury. "I'm so sorry you missed the rest of the concert." He regretted it immediately. He looked towards the bed to see Anna start, and pull the covers even closer. "I'm sorry, I won't be much longer." He didn't think she had a head injury.

Anna had had a bath. Her towel, instead of hanging, was damp and bunched in the floor near the wall. Anna never left wet towels, even ones for the laundry, on the floor. He bent to pick it up. His back creaked, and his knees ached. How Anna could love such an old man, he would never know, but then, he never felt old with her. He smiled. Her towel was stained. Faint pink stains dotted it. Nothing severe, nothing disturbing, but blood. John leaned against the sink, and thought and counted. It wasn't time for that, not by his recokoning. That tune again. He was starting to loathe it. He looked in the tub. It appeared to have been scrubbed. He wondered, if he found her borrowed clothes, if they too would be stained. Her towel was soaked, as if she'd mopped up the residual water in the tub with it.

Anna still wasn't asleep when John returned to the bedroom. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was quiet, but John knew she wasn't asleep. Her breathing was a little too quiet. He watched her, and then gently slid into the bed. "Goodnight, Anna." He whispered, willing to play to the illusion that she was asleep, if she needed him to. She didn't answer. He arranged himself in his usual position so that she could easily roll into his arms. She could do it unconsciously. She often did. She didn't. He was close enough to feel her trembling. Shivering. He stretched out his arm, meaning to rest a hand on her head, her back, somewhere. She gasped and edged further away before he could reach her. John slowly took back his hand. "Goodnight, my love." The truth would come.

But it would be a long night. John settled in as best he could. That note, just that one passage with the impossibly high note, was all that was left of the tune. Anna was not well. The fall, the blood, the change of clothes, the distance. She may have fallen and hit her head, but that wasn't all of it. An hour passed. Anna hadn't moved. He wanted to hold her, to tell her whatever it was, it would be alright. He would make certain of it. The note was a cry of anguish. Those three syllables were all he heard. Another hour. If things were no better in the morning, he would insist Mrs. Hughes tell him. He wouldn't press Anna. Not when she so obviously didn't want to talk. Another hour. The blood, the dress, the fall, the cut on her face. He sat up, and leaned towards her. A baby. There had been a baby and now there wasn't. They had stopped talking about it, but John didn't think they had given up. He was happy with or without children, and Anna had said she was as well, but she may have had reason to hope. She had been so tired, and so moody the last few weeks, John had hoped too. She had fallen, and hit her head, and now there wasn't any reason to hope.

John rearranged himself. At Anna's age, a baby was a difficult proposition. She was so young to him, but apparently not for other things. That lost baby in her youth may have made things difficult. The baby had given her a headache, and she had felt sick, and fallen, and hit her head, and was covered in blood and in pain and didn't want to tell him because she loved him and didn't want to disappoint him. John felt a tear, unbidden, slide down his face. He wasn't disappointed. He wanted her to let him hold her against his chest and sob as much she needed to and he would tell her how much he loved her. He glanced at her. He knew if he leaned over her and looked her eyes would be wide open, starring at the wall. He wanted to tell her she didn't need to bear it alone, but he couldn't. She needed him to pretend, and for her sake he would.

For now. John sighed, and tried to dash away his tears as best he could. The note, that cry of anguish, had turned into a scream.

John bolted upright. Anna was gone. It was daylight.