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"Want to play hide and seek, then?"

Sybbie glanced up, and found George standing, somewhat impatiently in the doorway. She sighed at her cousin; truly, she did not want to play hide and seek. No, all Sybbie wanted was to curl up on her papa's lap, and beg him to read something – anything - to her. But Papa was away, working. Nanny was 'lying down'. Possibly, this was due to the fact she had spent a great deal of the morning running around after George Crawley.

"Come on, Sybbie!" George knelt down beside the little girl, his pale eyes wide and pleading. "I don't want to play by myself. And it's got to be more fun than reading a silly old book."

Sybbie looked down at the novel in her hands. She so wasn't sure, but George was adamant. Finally, she gave a heaving sigh.

"Alright," she grumbled, watching as a beaming smile split her cousin's face, "I'll play your silly game!"

George gave a whoop, and grasped Sybbie's wrist. "I knew you would!" he chuckled. Still chortling, he pulled the girl to her feet, and dragged her, unceremoniously, from the library

"I'll hide first!"


So many clips and claps, so little time.

From where he stood, partially hidden by the tall frame of his Lordship, Thomas glanced at his reflection. His face, although fair as ever, seemed less pallid, and perhaps more like porcelain. The heavy shadows beneath his eyes appeared to have faded somewhat, and for the first time in days, his livery sat just the way he liked it. Absently, Thomas smiled.

"Barrow?"

Startled, Thomas looked to the older man in the mirror. Lord Grantham studied him, an expectant expression upon his face. Obviously, he had posed a question. And Thomas had been too caught up in his state of wellbeing to notice.

Damn.

"I'm sorry, My Lord," Thomas apologized, trying to appear nonchalant, yet at the same time, sincere, "but I'm afraid I didn't catch that."

In the polished glass, Lord Grantham's expression softened. "That's quite alright Barrow," he assured his valet, throwing a glance down at his jacket, from which Thomas was in the process of brushing imaginary particles of lint. "I imagine you would be quite run off your feet, what with all the preparations."

If he'd been talking to another, Thomas might have groaned.

The preparations. Yes, well.

Instead, he broadened his smile. "I'm afraid your right, My Lord," he sighed, lowering the brittle brush. "Things have been a little more on the busy side."

At this, Lord Grantham chuckled. "Yes, well, Lady Grantham is quite set on throwing Sybbie the grandest celebration Downton has ever seen. I must admit, it is almost too extravagant to take seriously. She is only a child, after all." The man ran a hand through his stormy grey hair. "I'm afraid Tom is quite put out."

Thomas had to smile. He could very easily imagine Branson wounded over such a thing. However, as the Irishman was no longer a dweller of the downstairs world, he remained silent. Lord Granthamn was right about one thing, though; this mess of a birthday party was driving all those below ground up the walls.

Especially Daisy.

The cake that had been ordered by Lady Grantham was, in the young woman's opinion, the 'monstrosity of the baking world'. Mrs. Patmore had assumed responsibility of the feast required for the birthday eve. This left the assistant cook to tackle the cake alone.

There were not many downstairs with whom Thomas would happily share a light. Anna, perhaps – when she wasn't biting his head off about 'keeping his nose out of other's muck'. O'Brien, well – everyone knew that any interaction came with a price.

Daisy, however, was one of the few whose voice did not make Thomas want to stick his head in the fireplace. She was a gentle soul; naïve, and quite young, he supposed, for her age. But of late, the girl had been storming around the kitchen like the devil incarnate, scolding the kitchen maids for their clumsiness, and screaming at the incompetent hall boys. Even Alfred - who Thomas could easily imagine would swallow a bee if Daisy bade him to – was afraid to go near.

But of course, Thomas relayed none of this to his Lordship. He remained silent, and brushed the last of Lord Grantham's jacket.

Turning from the mirror, Thomas made his way to the man's vanity, upon which he intended to replace the brush. As he placed it down, his fingers resting for a moment against the polished wood, a flash of blue caught his eye. Thomas turned sharply, peering down at the dark void between bed and carpet. For a time, all was still.

Then he heard a scuffle.

Slowly, Thomas turned back to the vanity. Glancing over his shoulder, he made certain His Lordship was still preoccupied with his appearance. Thomas raised a gloved hand and, in a swift, deliberate swipe, he knocked the brush from the vanity. It landed with a thud, and rolled conveniently beneath the bed. Lord Grantham turned, and eyed Thomas questionably.

"Please excuse me, My Lord," he petitioned, before dropping to his knees upon the carpet. "I'll just retrieve it." Tentatively, he leaned towards the darkness.

Thomas knew, he supposed, what was waiting for him beneath Lord Grantham's bed. However, the sight of Sybil Branson, curled up beneath the shadows, still brought a frown to his face. He peered at the girl questioningly, narrowing his pale eyes.

What are you doing? he mouthed. Miss Branson simply stared at him, her own eyes begging him to remain silent. Slowly, he reached out a hand, and grasped the brush. The child watched his every move, as though she could seal his lips simply by willing it. Thomas returned her gaze, calmly.

"Barrow, what are you doing under there?"

"It rolled farther than I first thought, My Lord," Thomas replied, beginning to shimmy from beneath the bed. Begrudgingly, he pressed a finger to his lips. Miss Branson looked as though she were about to burst with relief.

Crawling back into the light, Thomas pulled himself, with as much dignity as he could manage, to his feet. He placed the brush carefully in its place, before turning back to Lord Grantham. He heard a small snuffle from behind him, but as His Lordship had not noticed, Thomas chose to ignore it. He clasped his hands, and stood quietly as Lord Grantham smoothed the last remaining kinks from his greying locks. The man eyed his valet through the flawless glass.

"Thank you, Barrow, that will be all." With those words, Lord Grantham dismissed him. But Thomas didn't move. Uncertainly, he glanced at His Lordship's bed.

Now what?

Would the punishment truly be so severe, he wondered, if Miss Branson was discovered beneath her grandfather's bed? Perhaps not.

Then again...

"My Lord," Thomas began, "I hope you'll forgive me, but Lady Grantham was searching for you. I believe it was urgent." Lord Grantham gave the man an odd look.

"Then why," he murmured slowly, "didn't you tell me earlier?"

Thomas offered what he hoped was an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I did not catch as much sleep as I needed, My Lord." Thomas was certain the man would figure his bluff. But after a moment, his Lordship gave a sigh, and made for the door. "I suppose I should find out what she wants," he murmured, before adding, with a some-what playful smile, "Shouldn't keep the lady waiting."

Thomas dipped his head. "No My Lord, you should not." Without another word, Lord Grantham swept from the room. For a time, Thomas remained frozen, silent; listening to the Lord's fading footsteps.

"You can come out now." After a moment, Thomas heard a giggle.

"No thank you, Thomas," came the muffled reply. "I think I'll stay where I am."

Is she serious?

"Why, Miss?" he asked, barely able to contain his frustration.

"I'm hiding from George," the voice explained, "and I think I'm winning!"

Turning on his heel, Thomas stormed from the room, hoping beyond all hope that Lady Grantham truly did require the presence of her husband, for one reason or another.


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