Hey guys – sorry I've been so long in updating. Please excuse the tardiness – life is crazy at the moment. I hope you all enjoy this one.

Sparki: I own nothing!


George's feet barely brushed the carpet. With his twig-like arms, he grasped the great, polished barrister, holding it tightly to his chest. Its bulk pressed against his stomach, uncomfortably so, but he pretended not to notice. His blue eyes wide, he gazed over the rail, following the stairway's path. His head spun slightly, as he hung from such a great distance. After a moment, with his fair face beginning to redden, George pulled himself back to safety. His stockinged feet landed upon the floor with a gentle thud.

It was early; far too earlier for him to be wandering around the abbey. If his mother was to catch him, he'd be in for a good, long scolding. But George couldn't stay put for a second longer. He wasn't disturbing anyone. So, for the time being, the boy couldn't see what harm his presence could possibly bring down on the household.

Trailing his slender fingers along the barrister, George meandered down the hall. At the top of the great stairway, he paused. There were so many stairs, and all so perfect for leaping down. If he'd had his way, the lad might have taken them two, or perhaps even three at a time. But he'd promised his mother that he'd do nothing foolish, and even George could see that barrelling down the stairs would be nothing but foolish. Instead, he plonked himself down. Bringing his knees towards his chest, he laid his chin upon them. Pushing at the first step with his hands, he slid down to the second.

As his rear hit the cold carpet, George let out a giggle. Pushing again and again, he slowly plonked his way down the twisting stairwell. By the time he reached the second landing, his hindquarters were groaning in protest. With a huff, he climbed reluctantly to his feet. From where he stood, he gazed down into the hall beneath him. It was empty; it was too early even for his grandfather's servants to be about. George sighed, struggling to contain his boredom.

He was unsuccessful.

"Hello!" he cried, cupping his small hands around his mouth. His call echoed through the great house, and George found himself wincing at the unexpected magnitude of the outburst. Momentarily forgetting the promise he'd made to his mother, the boy bounded down the remainder of the stairs. Mid-jump, he threw a panicked glance over his shoulder, but as far as George could see, none pursued him. Relieved, he hurried across the empty hall, heading for the small doorway he knew would lead him to the safety of the downstairs world. Unbeknown to all but Sybbie, George often hid downstairs, beneath the table in the room where the servants ate, and behind the stacks of potatoes in the bustling kitchen. He was fascinated with those who lived beneath his home; there were so many of them, almost more faces than the boy could count.

"Ahhh!" With a strangled cry, George hit the floor. The blow hurt more than he imagined it might; his skinny arm ached. Wincing, he pulled himself up. Sitting upon the carpet, he glanced around, confused. He tripped over something, that much was clear. But what was it-

"Oh." George couldn't tear his eyes away from the thing that lay, sprawled upon the hard floor behind his small body. Gasping, he scrambled to his feet, and back away. Whatever the thing was, it stunk. George pinched his nose, trying desperately to block out the horrid smell that was assaulting his senses. Not since Isis had uncovered his hidden breakfast meats, had the boy come across a stench as potent as this. He took another step away from the lump, slowly inching back towards the staircase.

There was a hand. George could see it now; it was fat and flabby, and very, very still. Hesitantly, the boy jabbed it with his toe. It was cold, and he felt the chill, even through his stocking. Mortified, George leapt away. He stood, frozen for another moment, staring down at the very horrid, and very dead Mr. Higgs.

"S-Sybbie...," he whispered. Trembling, he reached out a small, tentative hand. Never in his short life, had he been so morbidly intrigued by something so terribly foul. His fingers shook, and before he could make contact with the deceased man, George felt his stomach give a twist. He recoiled, and stumbled away. "Sybbie," he whimpered, covering his pale eyes with his fists.

"Sybbie!"

George ran.

He fell up the stairs, his feet struggling to keep up with his panicked mind. He didn't think to call for his mother, or his grandfather. He didn't want anyone – no one, but Sybbie. She would know what to do. She would know how to make the image of that horrible man's pale, lifeless eyes go away forever. Tripping over a stray piece of carpet, George fell upon the stairs. He whimpered, but continued running, barely noticing his throbbing knees.

"Sybbie!" he cried, as he ran along the corridors towards his cousin's bedroom. "Sybbie, wake up!"


When Alfred stumbled, bleary eyed and weary into the servants' hall, he expected to find an empty table. All those who were not still asleep, had hurried upstairs to see the corpse, found lying upon the floor of the great hall. However, sitting alone in the silence, was Mr. Barrow.

The under butler didn't seem to notice when the younger man stepped, rather hesitantly, through the doorway. He sat quietly, staring down into a very still cup of tea. No steam rose from its amber surface; Alfred imagined it to be stone cold. In the fingers of his left hand, the man held a charred cigarette. Small wisps of smoke crept slowly from the dying embers that crumbled from its tip. The cigarette seemed to have burnt itself out. Alfred had never seen Mr. Barrow smoke with his left hand, and the footman didn't know why it suddenly seemed so odd. But it did.

Unable to stand the heavy silence, Alfred shuffled towards the near-empty table. Mr. Barrow's empty gaze remained fixed upon his tea cup. He wasn't dressed in his suit; all that clung to his hunched form was his undershirt. Tentatively, Alfred cleared his throat.

"Mr. Barrow," he murmured. After the past night's events – of course, Alfred still clung to the futile hope that they were nothing more than a horrid dream – he was uncertain of what he should say to the man. Carson had sent him to find the under butler, but the older man seemed so lost within himself, Alfred was worried what would become of him, should the footman break such a trance. He shuffled forward gingerly.

"Mr. Barrow?" he ventured. Mr. Barrow glanced up slowly. The under butler didn't seem overly surprised; Alfred now suspected that Barrow hadn't been so lost as he'd seemed, and was simply hoping that the footman would disappear.

"Alfred." The older man nodded, before returning to his tea. For lack of something better to do, he grasped the cup's handle, and lifted it from the table. He didn't bring it to his lips, though; he simply held it, suspended in the air. Alfred frowned.

"Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?" he ventured, taking another small, hesitant step towards the table. From where he sat, Barrow gave the footman a brief smile that didn't quite light his eyes.

"As alright as I can be, Alfred," he replied, finally lowering his cup. It came to rest upon the table with a small clink. Absently, he tapped a finger against his cigarette. Black soot floated from the butt, and landed by cup.

"Can I help you with something?" Mr. Barrow asked after a moment. Taking a deep breath, Alfred nodded.

"Mr. Carson's looking for you," he told the man. Mr. Barrow frowned, glaring down at his tea. "They... they found him." Alfred watched the under butler carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. Surely he wasn't as apprehensive as Alfred himself. Or perhaps he was. With a sigh, Alfred hung his head.

"Who found him?" Alfred glanced up. For a moment, he thought that he'd misheard. But Mr. Barrow was looking at him, expectantly. Alfred frowned once again, confused.

"I'm not sure," he began, clasping his hands behind his back. They felt hot within one another. "Master Crawley, I think." Mr. Barrow looked strangely relieved, and Alfred could not begin to understand why. What contentment could the man possibly derive from the knowledge that a small boy had stumbled from his bed, and happened upon the body of a man? What could be taken from such a thing? Alfred didn't pretend to know. Instead, he turned on his heel, and made to leave. But then, he turned back, and gazed down at Mr. Barrow.

"Have you see Jimmy?" he asked. The under butler's cold eyes grew colder. Looking away, he crushed his cigarette against the tabletop.

"No," he muttered. "No, I have not."

"Please God," Jimmy whispered through his trembling fingers. "Oh Lord, if you're really up there, help. Oh, please help."

Crouched upon his cot, the footman rocked himself back and forth, back and forth. His chest heaved with heavy sobs, and his cheeks were stained with burning tears. His eyes, clamped shut against the morning's light, felt red and raw. Angry at his own fragility, he pushed the blond knots from his pale face. Jimmy's sleep-deprived form was numb; he'd not moved from his cot – not since Thomas had slammed shut that door, and left him alone with his own fear and sorrow.

"Lord," he whimpered, clasping his hands together, pressing them into the mattress. "Lord, Lord, please...," He gave a great sob, lowering his head. "I... I love h-him. I... I do – I... I know that – oh, help."

Shaking, he rose from the cot. His muscles screamed as he unfolded his legs. Jimmy glared down at the chalk line through bloodshot eyes.

"Why?' he whispered, his gaze never leaving the floor. "Why?"


Hope it was enjoyable – would really love some reviews, guys!