Hey wonderful people! Thank you so, so much for all the reviews. I am so glad I can make you guys happy, and that you're enjoying this fanfic so much. A special thanks once again to Davy Tex, lizzy384, and Mary Austin for your continued support and numerous reviews! You guys are awesome!

Sparki: I own nothing!


Never in his life had Thomas Barrow believed in magic. Not for a single moment.

As a child, on nights when his father had fallen into a drunken slumber, or had not yet stumbled home from the local public house, he and his mother would sit together upon his old, rickety wooden cot. Thomas could still remember the bliss of that silence – the absence of shouting, the absence of tears. On those nights, his mother would hold her son close, and tell him stories. Stories about people – ordinary people, just like Thomas – who dared to make a wish upon a star, and then watched as their dreams became reality before their very eyes. And after his mother had left him, young Thomas would sit alone upon that creaky old cot, staring out the window. As he studied the stars that studded the night-time sky, he could not help but wonder what kind of desperate fool would be stupid enough to wish upon a star?

No, Thomas didn't believe in miracles.

Yet as he stood in Mr. Carson's office, shocked into silence, Thomas thought of those stars – those beautiful, burning beacons – that had graced last night's darkness with their twinkling smiles. He'd gazed up at those stars, and like an ordinary fool, wished upon each and every one that his life was different.

Carson watched him with a steady, unshifting gaze. Thomas knew that the butler was expecting some form of a reply; acceptance, perhaps even a thanks. But for the first time in a good long while, Thomas found himself at a loss for words. He simply stood, wide-eyed and gaping, as he let Carson's announcement wash over him.

When it came apparent that Thomas would not be the man to break the silence, Carson gave a heavy sigh. Leaning forward in the well-worn chair, he narrowed his eyes to perceptive slits, fixing Thomas beneath a somewhat threatening gaze.

"You have already had the chance of being under-butler taken from you," the butler reminded the footman. "I trust that you will not abuse this opportunity so carelessly."

A month. One, glorious month, was Thomas under-butler. For the first time in so very, very long, he truly believed that he could be happy. And then-

Gulping a lungful of air, Thomas' voice was finally returned to him. He nodded vigorously. "You can depend on me, Mr. Carson," he promised, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic sincerity. "I promise I will not let you down."

Carson was unconvinced, and barely bothered to conceal this from Thomas. However, despite whatever misgivings he might harbour, the butler gave one last sigh – a final protest, perhaps – and rose from his chair.

"You begin at once," he informed Thomas, who nodded again. Carson studied the younger man, an expression of apprehension splayed across his weathered features.

"I warn you now, Thomas," he murmured, his voice low. "One foot – no, one toe out of line, and I will have no qualms about dismissing you. Permanently."

Thomas knew he should share Carson's apprehension. Thus far, he had unintentionally displayed quite a talent for getting himself into trouble. Thomas knew he should be nervous, or excited, or thankful. Perhaps, all three. But all he felt was warm.

Finally.

Bates' 'belly-ache' had shown itself to be nothing less than a stomach ulcer – and a dangerous one, at that. For weeks, Anna had expressed concern for her husband's growing abdominal discomfort. Thomas, of course, had let her fretting sail over his head. However, Dr. Clarkson's fret had made everyone sit up, and pay attention.

Even with constant care and hospitalization, the valet would not be returned to service for some time to come. For the ageing cripple, the doctor's proclamation may as well have been a death sentence. Thomas was more than a little surprised to find that he pitied the older man. For there was a time when he had lain awake in his bed, imagining a day when Carson would deliver the word to the staff. That John Bates, due to his physical ailments, and therefore practical incompetence, had been relieved of his duties as valet. And on that day, Thomas would be there, patiently waiting to take Bates' place.

But even such an odd wave of pity could not smother the warmth that filled Thomas' chest. Taking a deep breath, he fought to keep some composure. Finally, Carson dismissed Thomas with an unceremonious flick of his hand. After hastily dipping his head, Thomas spun on his heel, and hurried from the office. In his haste to escape Carson's dreariness, Thomas didn't stop running until he collided with O'Brien, who had been making her slow way from the servant's hall. She glared up at Thomas, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the stunned smile upon his face.

"And what are you so happy about, then?" she inquired, stepping away from the man's tall frame. Although their relationship was not – and never would be – what it once was, these days, the two were, Thomas supposed, on speaking terms. However, even with a measure of civility returned to their conversation, Thomas was not about to trust Miss O'Brien with such news. Feigning nonchalance, Thomas cleared his throat.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself with, Miss O'Brien," he murmured, stepping deliberately around the woman. She peered after him, as though trying to uncover the secret of her own accord. But no avail. Thomas had erected his impenetrable shield, and none, not even Miss O'Brien, could chip their way through. With an unnatural spring in his step, Thomas left the maid staring at his retreating back, and made his way toward the back door's beckoning. He had a sudden urge for fresh air.

Unfortunately, he was not the only one. As he rounded the corner, headed for the gardens, Thomas was attacked.

The beast leapt at him, teeth bared, tail flying. Its strong forelegs fell against his chest, and within seconds, brought Thomas to the ground. He landed with a hard thud in the dirt. From above, the animal watched him with a wide-eyed gaze, its lapping tongue lolling dangerously close to his unprotected face. Thomas could feel the hot blasts of breath, blown carelessly against his skin. It smelled positively dreadful. With a growl, Thomas raised a hand, in an attempt the push the animal away.

Undeterred, the attacker dodged his hand, its greying muzzle aimed at his cheek. Before Thomas could defend himself, that long tongue fell against his cheek.

"Isis!" he shouted, pushing at the broad chest in frustration. "Get off me! For God's sake!"

With a joyous bark, the dog released the man from beneath her paws. Thomas glanced down at his shirt. Its snowy white front was now covered with dirty paw prints. Thomas groaned, and glared at the dog. She sat upon the ground, her tail wagging feverishly. If dogs could smile, Thomas thought, that is exactly what this one would be doing. Smirking. Leering, perhaps.

"Bloody dog," he grumbled, and Isis barked once more. As Thomas set about regaining his footing, and what was left of his good mood, he heard hurried footfalls. They drew nearer by the moment. Desperately, Thomas evaluated the situation.

Nowhere to hide. Blast!

"Isis! Come here, you silly dog!" Thomas cringed as the familiar voice rang through the gardens. The dog turned at the sound of her name, unsure whether she should heed the call, or remain as she was, and torment Thomas a little more.

"Isis!"

After another brief moment of contemplation, the dog raced towards her young guardian. However, the girl had, for the time being, lost interest in the great galumph of an animal, and was staring at Thomas is surprise.

"Mr. Barrow!" she exclaimed, her voice bright. "What are you doing here?"

For a short while, Thomas stood alone, silently, looking from Sybil Branson, to Isis, and back again. The dog seemed to be awaiting his answer; awaiting his accusation, perhaps. He glared at her, locked in a staring contest that, admittedly, Thomas was loathed to lose.

Why do you hate me?

The dog continued to stare.

Was it because I locked you in a shed, I wonder?

Isis didn't move. Forgetting for a moment that he was not alone, Thomas smirked. "That must be it," he mumbled.

"What must be it?"

Startled, Thomas glanced at the girl. She was smiling up at him expectantly, waiting for the answers she was most certainly used to receiving, without complaint. And in that moment, Thomas realized how much he disliked children. Tearing his gaze from that of the ageing canine, he cleared his throat.

"Nothing, Miss Branson," he replied, coolly. "I was just... thinking out loud. My apologies."

Convinced, Miss Branson nodded. Chastened by the sudden lack of attention, Isis gave a hearty whine, and shoved her muzzle into the girl's hand. But Sybil Branson was too busy scrutinizing Thomas' sullied livery to pay her four-legged companion any heed. Thomas waited, awkwardly, uncomfortably, for the question he was almost certain would follow her scrutiny.

"Do you enjoy wearing dirty clothes?" she questioned. Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"No, Miss Branson, I much prefer to wear clean clothes," he replied, unable to hide the note of irritation in his voice. "However, I seem to be having quite a time keeping that way, of late." He looked pointedly at the girl, who, paling slightly, dropped her gaze to the garden ground.

"I am sorry about your shirt, Mr. Barrow," the little girl murmured.

Thomas tried to hold onto his irritation. After all, the child's ailing ability to control Isis was to blame for the reduction of his pleasant morning to wreckage. But as he took in her guilt-ridden expression, and the way her dark eyes refused to leave her boots, Thomas gave a great, heaving sigh.

"At least it wasn't your fault this time, Miss Branson," he told her. At his words, the girl's head shot up, a relieved smile lighting her little face. Glaring at the dog, Thomas found himself adding, "Well, at least not entirely." With a great 'whuff', Isis bounded towards him, her muzzle aiming for his gloved hand. With a quirk of one, dark eyebrow, Thomas stepped aside, smirking slightly as the Labrador barrelled on past.

"No such luck, I'm afraid," he scoffed, and he heard Sybil Branson giggle.

"She likes you," the girl informed him. Thomas took her words, and studied the dog's positively glowering expression. He could not suppress a chuckle of his own.

"I'm not so sure, Miss," he admitted, and Isis barked in agreement.


Hope you all enjoyed it! I know this 'thing' between Isis and Thomas is a little silly, but I mean, if I were Isis, I would undoubtedly have a bone or two to pick with Mr. Barrow. I mean, how many people enjoy being locked in a shed? The answer: not many. Reviews for this silliness would be amazing, guys : )