Author's Note: This isn't based on any prompt, but it's important to the story and so it needs to be here. Hope you like!

They're getting closer.

With every day, every step, it's as if Mary can feel the pull of the magic beans she's meant to be seeking. Or perhaps—if what Killian told her of the beans is true, how there are so few left in the world that the Dark One might as well have sent them on an impossible quest—maybe it's her own will to prove him wrong, to find the beans and keep Killian safe, that's keeping her going. All Mary knows is that with every day that passes, something else grows stronger as well—Mary's compulsion to look into the magic mirror once again. She's barely touched it since Rumpelstiltskin gave it to her, but now, with the embers of their fire dying down and Killian asleep beside her, she can't help but take it from her satchel, running her fingers along the glass and the elaborately carved handle. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall…" she murmurs, almost smiling. As a child, she'd loved the story of Snow White…but that was before she knew it was all real. Before she'd very nearly been killed by the very Evil Queen she'd read about as a girl.

She gazes down into the mirror once more, before bringing it closer and whispering into the glass. "Show me home."

As before, her reflection fades away, replaced with a pale figure looking weak and helpless on a bed. Mary realizes that it is Lavinia, sleeping fitfully. Her heart suddenly aches. She hadn't realized Lavinia was this ill…

"It's not looking good," a familiar voice says, and Mary recognizes Doctor Clarkson talking with Sybil and her father by the door. Sybil is dressed in her full uniform, and her father looks exhausted. "Lady Grantham appears to be out of the woods for the time being—the worst is over for her. But Miss Swire…"

Mama was sick too? Oh, God, I had no idea…

"If she survives the night, there may still be hope for her," the doctor is saying. "But if she continues to worsen…"

"Matthew."

At first, Mary thinks that she imagines the voice on the bed. But when Sybil turns around, she sees that Lavinia is struggling to sit up, her dry lips repeating the name over and over. "Where's Matthew?"

Sybil retreats to her patient's side, taking Lavinia's hand gently in her own. "He'll be back to see you soon," she promises, her voice soothing and gentle. "He just went to speak to the constable about Mary. He's right downstairs. You'll be able to see him in a moment…"

Lavinia's cracked lips curl upwards in a smile, and she closes her eyes. Although Mary hates herself for it, for being able to do so easily what Lavinia cannot, she finds herself speaking to the mirror again. "Matthew. Show me Matthew."

The scene changes, as if she's watching a film. Matthew is in the library, looking even more distressed than when she saw him last. He's shaking hands with two uniformed police officers, who look as if they're on their way out. Mary hears him thank them, and they promise to notify him if they come across any new information on her whereabouts. Once again, Mary's heart clenches, hating that she's caused her family this much pain. Matthew sighs as they leave, burying his face in his hands for a moment before turning and preparing to pour himself a glass of brandy. He looks as if he needs it.

"Sir Richard Carlisle to see you, Mr. Crawley," says a voice, and Mary feels tears spring to her eyes as Mrs. Hughes appears in the doorway. Even she looks haggard, and she hates herself for not even considering how this must also be affecting those he cares about downstairs. She wonders where Carson's gotten to, or one of the footmen, why Mrs. Hughes is announcing callers. Has all of Downton turned upside down in her absence?

"Sorry to call on you so late," Carlisle says, breezing into the room. Mrs. Hughes shuts the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Matthew asks, his voice already weary.

"I came to see if you lot had done the sensible thing and called the search off, but apparently I was once again wrong. I ran into the constable on the way in. I must say I'm a bit disappointed."

"What are you talking about?" Matthew asks, his weary face contorting into confusion.

"Don't be so naïve, Crawley," Carlisle hisses, his voice condescending. "It's quite obvious to everyone but you and the rest of the occupants of this house what's happened. This search is a waste of everyone's valuable time, especially mine. The whole thing is nothing more than a circus act—and a completely unnecessary one at that. Mary's obviously run away with someone."

Matthew's mouth drops open, and as she watches, Mary feels herself bristle with hate for Richard Carlisle. The fact that she had ever promised to marry him suddenly disgusts her, her eyes burning as she stares down into the mirror's surface. "How dare you?" Matthew growls, his voice low and dangerous.

"How dare I? How dare you insist on keeping up this ridiculous charade of a search? Mary's been gone for over a month now with no trace of her. She obviously does not want to be found. You should be as angry as I am, Crawley. She's made fools of us both, you know. All this time I thought she was pining after you, it turns out there must have been some other man who she loved more than she ever loved either of us…"

"I never loved you," Mary whispers into the glass. For a second she sees Carlisle hesitate, as if he can hear her, and then it is gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I know it's difficult to accept," Carlisle was saying now, "But you have to face the truth sooner or later."

"You're wrong."

Carlisle sneers. "You're as mad as the rest of them, insisting that she met with some foul play. Listen, Crawley, the sooner everyone in this household stops pretending that Mary did anything besides bring disgrace and ruin upon this family—"

His words are cut off as Matthew's fist collides with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards. Mary gasps, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as she watches Carlisle, dazed, rights himself and sends a punch flying in Matthew's direction. It just grazes his eye, but Mary can tell from the grunt of pain that it hurt nonetheless. Matthew sends another punch flying before his arms come around the other man's waist, sending them both tumbling to the floor in an ill-thought-out rugby tackle. Mary can only watch, horrified, as they fight over her…

"What is going on here?!"

Mary almost cries with relief at the sound of Sybil's familiar voice. Branson, for whatever reason, is with her, and he rushes into the fray, grabbing Matthew by the shoulders and pulling him off of Carlisle. The other man is bleeding from the nose, and Matthew's knuckles are bloody and he will no doubt be sporting a black eye by the end of the evening.

Sybil's voice is icy as she looks at her sister's fiancée. "I think it's best that you leave now, Sir Richard," she says, her tone even and calm, and not to be questioned. He looks from her to Tom, standing behind her as if ready for another fight, to Matthew who is clutching his bleeding hand, to the Dowager Countess, standing in the doorway watching the proceedings. Finally, he manages a stiff nod, apparently deciding that it's not worth an argument. Mary almost smiles, proud of her little sister for handling this all so well.

"I believe you're right," Carlisle says gruffly. "I hope the search…well, I hope it turns out something." The scorn in his voice is evident, and Sybil's eyes narrow. Carlisle looks up and seems to register the Dowager's presence for the first time. "I'm leaving, Lady Grantham. I doubt our paths will cross again."

Violet's scrutinizing eye looks him up and down. "Do you promise?" she asks, undisguised hope in her voice. If Mary didn't feel so torn up and helpless inside, she might have laughed.