Discarded pieces of her life gather dust in the corners of her drawers and wardrobes. Corsets, baubles, soft shoes, silk frocks; all shoved aside to make way for less beautiful, but more practical things. Once in a while her hand will unexpectedly brush against something soft and smooth when she grabs for her uniform, or her fingers will reach up to play with earrings that she no longer wears.

Sometimes she thinks it is wicked of her, but she would be lying if she said she was not happy in this new life. Although the horrors of death and war tear at her soul, she has purpose now, and her time and efforts are meaningful in a way that she could not have expected before she was a nurse and was only the third daughter of an Earl. She knows in her heart of hearts this is what she was meant for, and when the war is over she may well be lost again. But once in a while she yearns for a bit of prettiness and charm, a balm for the harshness of this new life. She allows herself a soft sigh and picks an old glove out of a drawer. "I wonder if I will ever wear these again," she silently muses. "Well, not these. I lost one during an argument with Edith, I think. Heaven knows why I held on to this one." She toys with the fingers of the glove, and thinks sadly of all the things that are lost to her now.

...

He stole something from her. It was just something small, and he didn't mean any harm.

He was driving the two youngest daughters into town. They had a busy day ahead of going in and out of shops, calling on acquaintances and planning events with their committees. On the drive there Lady Sybil suggested they each perform their errands separately and be done sooner, but in response Lady Edith wondered out loud in a voice laced with bitterness why everyone was so eager to avoid spending time with her. She did look genuinely hurt, and Lady Sybil quickly agreed that they should do everything together, adding "No one is avoiding you, Edith" in a soft voice.

"You just don't realize it, but they do," replied Lady Edith. She sounded weary, and threw in a half hearted scolding. "You shouldn't play with your gloves, no wonder you're always losing them." Branson chanced a look in the mirror. Lady Sybil seemed like she was about to disagree, but thought better of it and unceremoniously shoved her gloves into her bag without looking. Lady Edith looked mollified, but only temporarily. When they arrived in town Branson helped them out and then saw it; left behind on the seat was a single white glove. Before he knew what he was doing he grabbed it and tucked the glove away inside his jacket. A strange thrill was passing through him, conflicting confusedly with the voice rising up in his mind telling him to stop behaving like a smitten schoolboy. He would return it on the ride back, he thought, and there was no harm in him holding on to it in the meantime.

As the day grew longer Lady Edith's words with her sister grew shorter, and Sybil's patience grew thinner. By the time Branson opened the door of the car to let them back in, both were rather pink cheeked and thin lipped. They rode in stony silence for a while until dusk began to creep upon them and with it the evening chill. After a few minutes of unidentifiable rustling, Lady Edith's voice erupted shrilly from the back seat.

"Stop fidgeting! What are you doing?"

"I'm…I'm looking for my glove." Branson could hear how reluctantly Lady Sybil replied, and the sensible part of his brain told his mouth to say "I have it, m'lady. I saw that you dropped it earlier, here it is," but his mouth stayed shut. Lady Edith's, however, did not.

"I told you not to play with them! Honestly, Sybil, how do you expect to win the vote if you can't even keep a pair of gloves together."

"That is not funny, Edith!" It was the first time Branson had ever heard Lady Sybil raise her voice in anger. "I have it, m'lady," his brain said again almost frantically, but to no avail. The dam had burst, and Branson fought to resist the urge to shrink down in his seat as his passengers had it out.

"You lost it on purpose, didn't you? You just don't want to wear them anymore."

"You sound just like Gran, scolding me over nothing! I only lost a glove, Edith!"

"First the corset, then that ridiculous frock, that horrible fiasco at the count - you say it's all about the vote, but you just want the attention, don't you? You're more like Mary every day."

"That frock is not ridiculous. I love that frock! And Matthew said-"

"Oh, Matthew said!" And Branson did shrink a little in his seat at the anger seething in Edith's voice. "I hope you're not expecting Mary to share Matthew with you, even if he did carry you home like some damsel in distress. You loved that, didn't you?"

"Stop it, Edith! Just stop it!" On certain words Lady Sybil's voice cracked into a pitch that Branson wouldn't have guessed was attainable. His shoulders tensed and he half expected a projectile to hit him in the back of the head at any moment. "This isn't about me or my silly glove! You're just mad that Mathew chose Mary over you, just like-" There was suddenly a deathly silence in the back seat. Branson couldn't stop himself from looking in the mirror. Both sisters were staring out the windows on either side of the car. They remained that way, perfectly still, until they arrived at Downton. Branson stopped the car in front of the entrance, and before he had even opened his own door Lady Edith sprang out of hers and ran into the house with Lady Sybil close on her heels. Branson was left standing awkwardly by the car, struck with the realization that he had stolen Lady Sybil's glove. He never did find the right time or place to return it, and by the time war was upon them he did not want to return it. He wanted to hold on to something from Downton, to keep something of hers.

It stays close to his chest (as if her hand is pressed against his heart) except when he takes it out to hold and examine. It is something pretty and soft in a world that is anything but, and it is easy to imagine her little hand in his when her glove rests in his palm. He holds on to that piece of thread and fabric like it is a treasure, even thought he knows it is really the memories and hopes of her that are indefinably precious.

He is sorry when he loses the glove, even sorrier that a German bomb blows him halfway to hell, tearing fabric, flesh and bone.

He still reaches for it when he wakes to consciousness, as he does now. His mind suddenly becomes alert but he cannot see anything, and imagines he is standing alone in a dark room. He pictures reaching to his chest for the glove, and it takes some time for his mind to remember how to connect with his arm. When it does he realizes he is not standing in a dark room, he is lying on his back and he wishes he could forget about his arm again because now he remembers the pain as well. His other limbs come into focus and the pain is everywhere and there seem to be other hands and voices around him and he is terribly confused until he remembers the glove again. I lost it, he thinks, and his conscious wavers unpleasantly until another memory surfaces. Sybil.

"Lady Sybil?" A strange voice asks somewhere over his head. "I think he's been saying 'Lady Sybil' all this time." Branson tries to see who the voice belongs to, but something must be wrong with his eyes because he can't make sense of anything. Am I dreaming? Is this what it feels like to go mad?

"Yes! I heard it too. Lady Sybil…goodness! Do you think he could mean Nurse Crawley?"