Hey guys, new chapter! Thanks so much for all the reviews! Hope you all love it.

Sparki: I own nothing!


"Go! Now!"

Daisy swung, with frightening accuracy, the batter-coated spoon. With some difficulty, Thomas managed to avoid the blow, and keep his jacket clean. Daisy glared up at him, but Thomas was determined not to be intimidated. Especially not by one so small.

"Send Alfred," he reasoned, eying the brandished weapon with caution, "or James, if you must." He took a small step away from the young woman. "I don't have time to go shopping, Daisy."

But Daisy wasn't having any of it. "And I don't 'ave time for you, Mr. Barrow!" she practically shouted at him. "I 'ave a cake to make, and nothin' to bake! I can't trust Jimmy to get what I need, and I don't got time to go searchin' for Alfred!" With a threatening huff, she shoved a hastily-scribbled list at him. "Now get to the village before Mrs. Patmore comes back! You think I'm in a tizzy? Just wait 'till you set eyes on 'er!" This time, Daisy really did hit Thomas with the spoon. He jumped, somewhat surprised that his arm actually ached.

"Alright!" he huffed. "I'm on my way!" Brushing cake batter from his jacket sleeve, Thomas hurried from the kitchen, with as much dignity as he could manage.


The walk to Downton village had never seemed so very long. All the while, Thomas could not believe he had actually given in to Daisy's threats. Absently, he swung the basket about his waist.

"A wooden spoon!" he spluttered, glaring at the overcast sky. "I was beaten by a bloody wooden spoon!" A cold breeze blew through the air, biting at Thomas' chest. With a sigh, he pulled is worn coat tighter around his body. It felt nice not to be buttoned into his livery. His shirt, which in itself was far from luxurious, felt like silk against his skin. His old cap was warm upon his head. Sighing once more, Thomas glanced down at the slip of paper in his gloved hand.

For a moment, he wondered if perhaps the list was not written in English, and instead, scribbled is some foreign form of gibberish. Thomas brought the list close to his face, peering at the cramped hand, trying to pull from it some kind of sense. He supposed the first word could be butter, but it could quite as easily have been mutton, or hotter. However, given the context of his current situation, Thomas assumed that 'butter' was the safest bet. In her state of panic, Daisy had of course failed to specify the required amount of butter, or milk, or white sugar. Groaning, Thomas stuffed the list into his pocket.

Despite the chill, the village was bustling as ever. People milled about the shop fronts, clutching papered packages and boxes in gloved hands. Children played in the street, running to and fro. Their happy laughter brought a smile to the valet's face.

Valet. Thomas enjoyed thinking of himself as a valet. It made him feel... useful. As though he were something worthwhile. More worthwhile than a footman, anyhow. Suddenly remembering he was in the midst of today's good deed, Thomas retrieved the crumpled list from his jacket. Smoothing out as many creases as possible, he went about deciphering the remainder of Daisy's instructions.

Within the hour, Thomas had managed to obtain all of the required ingredients. Since he had been uncertain of the quantities, he had simply purchased as much as his borrowed money could stretch. That way, Daisy could not possibly accuse him of failure.

Practically dragging the basket along behind him, Thomas shuffled along the street. Surely, it would be the largest birthday cake the known world had ever seen.

"It had better be," he mumbled to himself. For if he found half full bags of sugar or salt lying, unused around the kitchen, Thomas felt he might murder someone. With a groan, Thomas let the basket rest upon the ground.

He knew he needed to get back, and soon. However, the morning was lovely, even with the warning of winter swirling through the sky. It was so very long since he'd taken a trip – alone – to the village. Despite the threat of two very angry cooks hanging above his head, Thomas wasn't certain he was ready to return just yet. Tightening his grip on the basket, Thomas made his way towards the wooden bench. It stood, unoccupied upon the grass, shaded by the stretching branches of the old tree. Thomas sank thankfully into its cold seat, and placed the basket beside him. Smiling, he settled back, and allowed his eyes to slip shut.

"Thomas!"

He sat up with a start. For one, terrifying moment, Thomas truly thought that Daisy had followed him to the village. But he soon realized the voice was not that of the young cook's. It belonged to one far younger. With a groan, Thomas shut his eyes once more, silently marvelling at the epic downfall of his good luck.

"Thomas, it is you!" When he opened his eyes, Thomas saw Sybil Branson hurrying towards him. He looked around, but Fraulein Michaels was nowhere to be seen. And so, Thomas turned back to the over-enthusiastic child. As he watched her dash, somewhat carelessly, across the street, he could not help but smile at her child-like antics. Upon reaching his bench, the girl wore the greatest smile he had seen in a long while. Thomas, unused to his presence causing such joy, lifted his brows. But his smile remained.

"Hello, Miss Branson," he greeted the girl. "And what are you doing, wandering around on your own?" He peered around the street, almost playfully. "Hiding from your nanny, I wonder?" At this, Miss Branson blushed.

"Yes," she admitted. "But, Grandmother asked her to take me dress shopping!" She looked horrified. Thomas gave a gasp. "Dress shopping!" he exclaimed. "How horrid, Miss Branson!"

The girl nodded gravely. "I know, so you see, I just had to get away!" She held out her hands, helplessly. "You won't tell Grandmother, will you, Thomas?" For a moment, Thomas studied her expression.

"Perhaps I won't, Miss Branson," he replied after a moment, "but Fraulein Michaels certainly will." The girl's face paled slightly, and Thomas knew that she had not foreseen this possibility. She plonked her small self miserably upon the bench, and gazed up at him, looking so forlorn, that Thomas struggled not to laugh. "What will I do?" she asked him. Thomas pretended to think for a moment.

"You could always apologize, Miss Branson," he suggested, and then chuckled out loud, as an indignant pout overtook the girl's face.

"I'm not the one who needs to apologize," Miss Branson pointed out. "She's the one who tried to take me dress shopping!" Thomas gave the girl a pointed gaze.

"Because she was asked to," he reminded her, and the girl slowly nodded, acceptingly.

"You're right, I suppose," she sighed, and Thomas was the given the impression it pained her greatly to admit this. "What do you have there?" Peering past Thomas, Miss Branson brightened considerably as she inspected the basket's contents. After a moment, she giggled.

"Are you cooking something?" she asked, and Thomas could see the thought of him baking was obviously amusing. Ignoring the child's jab, he shook his head.

"No, Miss Branson," he replied, "but Daisy is." Miss Branson thought for a moment.

"Daisy is a cook, isn't she?" the girl asked, frowning slightly. "And Mrs. Patmore, am I right?" Thomas nodded. "Yes, that's right," he confirmed. Miss Branson nodded quietly, and returned to her thoughtfulness.

"Are they your friends?" she asked suddenly. Taken aback, Thomas blinked down at the girl. She was looking up at him, curiosity sketched across her features. Tentatively, Thomas cleared his throat.

"Uh... I suppose," he murmured. "Well, Daisy is, I think. Mrs. Patmore, well...," Miss Branson nodded, and Thomas, for a moment, turned his face away. He watched the people, making their ways down the street, some hurried, and some seeming to possess all the time in the world. He could still feel the girl's eyes on him.

"Are you my friend, Thomas?"

For a long while, he was silent. He turned back to the girl, but a cry suddenly rang out from across the street.

"Miss Branson!" Beside him, the girl gulped. As Thomas watched, the young nanny hurried towards them, tripping over her fluttering skirts, and gripping Miss Branson's abandoned coat.

"What do you think you're doing, Miss?" she demanded, standing before the pair. "I'm very sorry, sir, she-," Upon seeing Thomas, Miss Michaels blinked. "Mr. Barrow?" Thomas gave the young woman a smile.

"Good morning, Miss Michaels," he smiled. "Don't worry; Miss Branson is quite alright." He glanced down at the girl, who was slouched against the bench, and seemingly trying to appear as small as possible. Her guardian, despite the girl's obvious state of wellbeing, was less that satisfied.

"What would your father think, Miss?" she scolded the girl. "Should I tell him that you've been running around the village?" Miss Branson shrunk even smaller.

"No, Fraulein Michaels," she whispered. "Please don't tell him."

At the look of pure misery upon the child's face, the woman's gaze softened. She gave a small sigh, before placing a gentle hand on Miss Branson's shoulder.

"Well, how about this?' she murmured. "You promise not to run off again, and I'll forget to mention it to your father." The girl's smile returned, and she nodded.

"I promise," she told her nanny, and then added, "Do I still have to go dress shopping, then?" Miss Michaels laughed, and took Miss Branson's small hand in her own. The girl looked over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling.

"Goodbye, Thomas!" she called, before skipping off after Miss Michaels. Together, they hurried across the street, and disappeared, hand in hand around the corner.


For a long while, Thomas sat alone on the bench. Nothing had changed; he knew this. However, the morning around him seemed different. Perhaps it was the light, that seemed suddenly softer. Or maybe the breeze, that no longer seemed so cold. Folding his hands upon his lap, Thomas watched as the children – a boy and a girl – chased one another around and around the nearby tree. The little boy, no older than Miss Branson, caught his giggling companion by the arm. The girl stumbled, and fell to the ground, dragging the lad with her. The pair lay upon the soft grass, laughing happily. Taking up the basket, Thomas from the bench.

Are you my friend, Thomas?

As he walked home, heavy basket in tow, Thomas pondered the girl's words.

"Am I her friend?" he wondered aloud.

No one answered. And so, lowering his cap against the breeze, on he walked.


Hope it was good! Reviews make my day : )