Hey readers! I'm sorry this is so overdue – but, I think this is a good chapter. I hope you all like it, and thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and support. Not much longer to go, however!

Sparki: I own nothing!


"Six o'clock!"

Daisy's call, despite being muffled behind the closed door, was shrill and unappreciated. With a groan, Jimmy hid beneath his pillow.

"I ain't gettin' up," he slurred, shaking his head resolutely. "Not leavin'... this bed."

He waited for the snide response, the contemptuous reprimand, or a derisive snort. But there was nothing. A scowl creeping across his face, Jimmy peeked from beneath the white of his pillow.

Across the room, Thomas' bed stood, undisturbed, and most certainly empty. His frown deepening, Jimmy sat up in his cot. As he ran a hand though his ruffled hair, he studied the odd scene before him.

The cot was neat and orderly. The blanket had been turned down, and the sheets sat neatly folded upon the pillow. Jimmy saw, to his surprise, that there was only one. Thomas always slept upon two, but the second was nowhere to be seen. With a growing sense of unease sitting heavily within the pit of his stomach, Jimmy rose from his cot. Ignoring the frozen bite beneath his bare feet, he made his slow, uncertain way across the room. He stepped unceremoniously over the chalk line, barely sparing it a moment's glance. His blue gaze remained fixed upon the under butler's deserted cot.

Standing by the ageing frame, Jimmy studied its creaseless linens. In his sleep shadowed mind, he struggled to make sense of the scene before. It was odd for anyone to be up before the call – especially if that anyone was Thomas Barrow. But even if the under butler had awoken before the others, why the sudden need to rearrange his bedding? Apprehensively, Jimmy turned to the vanity.

It was empty – at least, empty of Thomas' possessions. In his growing panic, Jimmy searched through his own side of the dresser. All was as he'd left it the night before. But Thomas' stockings, undershirts and comb were gone. The small bottle of pomade no longer sat upon the vanity's top. Struggling for breath, Jimmy tore open Thomas' cupboard.

Empty.

Trembling, he buried his face within his palms. He fought against the bitter tears that stabbed at his eyes. In utter misery, Jimmy sank down upon Thomas' cot.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. He could feel the lucid fingers of denial reaching for his frayed wits, but he angrily pushed them away. For no amount of pretending could hide from Jimmy the truth.

Thomas was gone.


Dear Sybil,

I have to go away, and I'm not certain when I'll be back. I wanted to begin like this, because I didn't want to lie to you. I want you o know the truth. And the truth is, this is a very hard letter for me to write.

You are a very special person, Sybil, and you seem to know, better than anyone, how to make me smile. I so enjoy the times that we've spent together. I hope you have as well.

I'll miss you when I'm gone. Very much. I'm very sorry that I didn't come and say goodbye properly, but I was afraid that once I saw you I wouldn't be able to go. And I need very much to go.

I can't tell you where I'm going. But know that wherever I am, you will always have a very special place in my heart.

And so, I must say goodbye, my dear. Look after your father, and try to be good. I know how much you hate dress shopping, but really, how awful could it possibly be? You have all of my best wishes, Sybil.

Your friend,

Thomas Barrow

Sybbie sobbed bitterly, and clenched the letter in her fingers. Now that she knew he was gone, all the child wanted was Thomas. She missed him so much that her chest grew tight, and a small ball of pain began to form within her belly. Sitting on the garden bench, she pulled her legs close to her heaving body, and laid her head upon her knees. It seemed that all those whom she loved were destined to leave without a word; her mother, her father, and now, Thomas.

Asshe sat upon the bench, all alone, with nothing but Thomas' letter and her tears to keep her company, Sybbie thought of her mother. She knew nothing of her; nothing, save for her papa's stories. But Sybbie did know that she had loved her mother. Somewhere, deep within the quietness of her heart – her moment old, barely beating heart – she had loved her mother, very, very much.

Some nights, Sybbie dreamt of her mother. She would gaze up, and through the darkness, warm blue eyes would smile down at her. Hands, soft and gentle would stroke her cheek, and a voice would whisper, "She's perfect...," Sybbie was almost certain it was her papa, but she could never be sure. The dream faded too quickly for her to remember.

But her papa was gone. Just like her mother. And she didn't know when he would come home. Slowly, Sybbie scrunched the letter tighter within her fist.

Through the pounding within her ears, she could hear Isis, barking joyously as she raced through the gardens. Sybbie wished that she was invisible; she didn't want to see the dog – not today. Not without Thomas.

"M'lady? Are you alright?"

Startled, Sybbie raised her head. Through her tears, she found a young boy, standing a little way down the path. His clothes, not unlike Thomas', were dirty and ruffled. His once white shirt was covered with mucky paw prints. Sybbie felt her tear-stained cheeks redden.

It was Jameson.

He was studying her, with a look of concern that bordered on anxiety. Sybbie frowned and wiped at her eyes.

"Yes," she sniffed. "I'm fine."

Jameson, however, did not move. He remained, gazing at her, uncertainty painted across his face. "Are you sure, M'lady?" he ventured. Sybbie nodded, lowering her head.

"I'm not 'M'lady', you know," she pointed out, fingering the now-crumpled letter. "I'm just Sybil." Jameson's cheeks flushed, and Sybbie felt suddenly guilty.

"It doesn't matter," she sighed.

"Why are you out here, all alone?" Sybbie glanced up.

"Why are you?" she countered. Jameson seemed taken aback, but he gave the little girl a shy smile.

"Walking Isis," he replied. His smile faded as he peered down at his ruined shirt. "Or, I... I was trying to, but-,"

"She does that to everyone," Sybbie muttered, wrapping her fingers around each other. She squeezed so tight, that her fingertips turned purple. Thomas' letter slipped from her grasp, and fluttered to the ground. Jameson watched as it fell.

"What's that?" he asked quietly, stepping closer. "Not bad news, I hope."

Sybbie didn't reply. She buried her face within her hands, and tried not to sob.

"Miss?" Jameson's voice was gentle, worried. "Would you... uh, that is, would you like me to fetch-,"

"No!" Sybbie cried, shaking her head viciously. "I don't want anyone! I just... I just want my papa!" She waited for Jameson to speak again – to comfort her, to say the same old meaningless words that everyone seemed to know so very well – but he didn't. Instead, he made his way slowly towards the bench, and hesitantly took a seat beside her. Sybbie didn't look up, but he felt his arm brush her own as he leant to retrieve the letter.

"I want my papa too," he murmured. "And my mother."

Slowly, Sybbie raised her head. Jameson held the letter; he didn't read or unrumpled it – he simply held it between his dirty fingers. Sybbie watched him, unsure of what he meant.

"Why?" she whispered. "Where... where are they?" Jameson gazed down at her. He smiled slightly, before looking away.

"Dead," he replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Sybbie gaped up at him, her eyes wide and worried. "Both of them?" she stammered. Jameson nodded silently. Her heart suddenly racing, Sybbie lowered her gaze.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Jameson chuckled slightly.

"Yes, so am I," he agreed. "I'm sorry for you, Miss. I... I heard about your father. I'm sorry."

For the first time, those words didn't bring searing tears to Sybbie's eyes. She smiled, feeling suddenly bashful. "Thank you," she uttered.

"My father died when I was about your age," Jameson sighed. As Sybbie watched, he pulled his knees to his chin. Sybbie blinked in astonishment, but said nothing. Jameson drummed his fingers atop his knees, as though he was searching for something to say.

"I cried a lot," he admitted quietly. "I cried every night. I couldn't sleep anymore, without dreaming about him." He smiled sadly. "The dreams made me sad, so I just didn't sleep." Slowly, he turned to Sybbie.

"So my mother gave me a bear." Sybbie frowned.

"A bear?" she asked, confused. Jameson chuckled slightly.

"A stuffed bear," he amended, his smile growing as Sybbie nodded. "My mother gave me a stuffed bear. It was only a little bear; she was given it, by a lady who owned an apple stall, I think." He scratched his head comically, and Sybbie, despite herself, gave a small giggle.

"She told me to name him 'Papa'," he continued. "And then, every time I gave him a hug, I'd really be getting a hug from my father."

Sybbie said nothing. She simply gazed up at Jameson, her eyes wide and filled with awe. Jameson smiled once more. He pressed the fluttering letter into the little girl's hands.

"So, if you name your bear 'Papa'...," He grinned. "You'll really be getting a hug from him."


"Where to, sir?"

"London," Thomas replied. "One-way ticket." Without a another word, he claimed his ticket.

As the train pulled slowly from the station, Thomas gazed absently out the window. He pressed his gloved fingers to the glass, watching the station pale to a concrete blur as the train hurried on its way.

In his coat pocket, the letter that he'd never delivered felt heavy. Even as he'd written it, Thomas knew that Jimmy would never see it. And that was why, as he'd crept silently from the room, he'd pressed the letter into his pocket. So that Jimmy would never, ever find it.


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