Whenever the night's darkness descended upon the attic, covering rooms and corridors in a black coat and erasing smells and traces of the bygone day, it seemed as though nothing could disturb the inhabitants' rest.

The low and heavy sound of the old grandfather clock, which was crafted out of hardwood and veneer, floated from the saloon to the other parts of the house as it struck twelve, unheard by those who were asleep, and at the same time anxiously anticipated by those who wanted to make use of the night.

Andy was sitting in his bedroom, counting from one to twelve at the same pace as the clock was striking. The night was still young, but since everybody had gone to bed early in order to gather the strength needed for tomorrow's Christmas festival, Andy didn't feel the need to wait any longer. Still fully dressed, but without his livery jacket and waistcoat on, he was sitting on his cot with the familiar pressure of springs against his left leg in the dark room. He didn't dare to light a candle and so the only distraction of his thoughts was the deep blue night sky, which, bristled with pinpoint lights, resembled a soft blanket. But no matter how long he looked into the sky, his nervousness didn't dissolve in the infinity of space.

His hands were cold and sweaty, and his heart was beating fast and loud as he envisaged Thomas's reactions and answers to questions Andy wasn't sure he'd be able to ask. Minutes past by in utter silence until Andy stood up and went to his door. He pressed an ear on the wood, listening to the noises of the night, before he left his room. Denser darkness greeted him as he closed his door, but he knew the attic well enough to still find Mr Barrow's room.

A narrow hallway connected the servants' rooms, three doors on the left and four doors on the right, whereby all doors looked identically: white coloured, the paint slightly crumbled near the door knob and the ground, where swiftly feet touched the door accidentally. Mr Barrow's door, however, was easy to find since it was the first door on the left side when entering the hallway, which meant that his room was two doors to the left opposite Andy's.

The young footman wasn't sure if Mr Barrow was awake, but he had to seize this opportunity to have a word with the other man without interruption, otherwise his thoughts would never find peace.

As he entered the endless corridor, the effect of walking through a tunnel emerged. Every step reverberated from the wall and from the stained and varnished wood of the ground, appearing to be louder than usual. Fortunately the corridor wasn't long and Andy reached Mr Barrow's door unseen. He trembled from the tension, which filled his body, and as he finally raised his hand to knock on the door, he found himself unable to do so. Standing in silence, the young man bit his lips, and clenched his stiff hands. His eyes, used to the darkness, starred into the corridor, but everything was quiet under the black coat. He took a deep breath and raised his hand once again, but instead of knocking on the door, he ran his fingertips over the smooth, cool surface. The sound generated by friction was faint, and yet Andy feared that others could have heard him, little did he know that the others were indeed fast asleep.

As he placed his fingertips on the wood for a second time, he perceived movements in the other room. Something, probably a book was closed, and feet were placed on the ground, before the creaking of bedsprings indicated that Thomas was still awake and now standing. Andy stepped back, eyes and mouth wide open in expectation of what was to come. The door was opened slowly, and faint orange light became apparent, before Mr Barrow himself blocked the light again. The underbutler was only dressed in his pyjama bottoms and a plain white shirt, and yet he radiated an aura of authority that silenced Andy. With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Mr Barrow looked him steadily in the eyes, not moving, not speaking. Andy felt small under the gaze of the man, but after another heartbeat he found his courage to whisper:

'May I come in?'

Mr Barrow merely raised his right eyebrow in response, before he stepped back and let the younger man in. Andy was grateful that he finally escaped the corridor, and hurried inside.

He'd never been in Mr Barrow's room since the older man was very considerate of his privacy, but that didn't mean that Andy wasn't curious to learn more about him. The first thing Andy noted was the bed in the right corner near the window. Although the bedding was hidden under a red coverlet, the same grey colour Andy's own sheets had was visible. On the left hand side of the bed, under the window, which was wide open to let some of the cold air in, stood a bureau of dark wood, on which several belongings of Mr Barrow were distributed: a picture frame facing the bed, but the picture itself was not identifiable from his current position, an ebonised mantel clock with a bell shaped top pediment and a brass acorn finial to the very top. It was beautifully shaped and seemed rather expensive, a writing set consisting of pen and dark ink, and a black, leather-bound book with yellowed pages. There wasn't a chair in front of the bureau, which puzzled Andy for a moment, before he saw the furniture in the left corner, hidden behind the door, next to some pitchers and two different-sized washbowls along with the necessities for washing, which were placed on the top of a simple wooden shelf.

'What do you want?' asked Mr Barrow with scepticism. The underbutler had gone back to his bed and was now sitting on his red coverlet, a pack of cigarettes in his hands.

'I'd like to talk,' said Andy, 'about last night, about what you said.' He looked expectantly at the other man. Mr Barrow, however, remained silent. He had lit a cigarette and was taking a pull, his eyes fixed on the bluish smoke. As he spoke his voice was coarse and deep:

'Now you want to talk? That's funny because now I don't want to.'

'But, Mr Barrow, then why did you let me in?' Andy's eye went wide in surprise.

'Because I can't allow that somebody sees you lingering in front of my door. In the end it was me who forced you to come here.' He snorted.

'I don't think that's true,' murmured Andy, shifting from one foot to another. He eyed the chair in the corner every now and then but Mr Barrow didn't offer him to take a seat and so he remained standing in the middle of the room as though he was the most valuable exhibition piece in a museum.

Very little was said by either till Andy screwed up his courage and asked:

'How are you feeling, Mr Barrow?' The man dropped his gaze.

'Fine, thank you. It's not like I was sick or something, just,' he waved his hand, 'tired of all this.'

Andy nodded, keeping it a secret that he had already noticed Mr Barrow's red-rimmed eyes and his sickly pallor which placed itself in strong contrast to the feverish spots Andy had seen the day before.

'I'm just so confused, Mr Barrow,' Andy started again, 'I thought about what happened and what you said last night and a lot of things didn't make any sense.' The younger man looked into Mr Barrow's rigorous and composed face, hoping for a confirmatory nod.

'The others didn't lie,' he only said.

'I know. I understand that, but why are you still here?' I mean, why weren't you sacked a long time ago if you are such a monster?' At this, Mr Barrow tittered. It was an uncanny sound which made Andy shiver even more.

'Whatever your childish mind views as a monster – I'm not one of them. I'm just a sinner, a foul creature, a man who is not worth your friendship. So, Andrew, tell me, what do you want from me at this ungodly hour? As I said, I'm not in the mood to talk.'

'Oh, please, Mr Barrow. I just don't understand,' repeated Andy, wringing his hands.

'What?' said the other coolly, 'Lying, stealing, or homosexuality?' A smug expression emerged on his face as he saw how the other cringed at his last word.

'No, I mean, why are you still here? Your work is excellent. You could probably work everywhere.'

'Could I? With a reference written by you? You are such a dreamer, Andy.'

'No by Mr Carson, ' said Andy enraged. 'You speak as if I were quite a child and you immensely older. Why, how old do you think I am?'

'Twenty and two years,' said the underbutler immediately, before he continued, 'So you are aware of the fact that I am at least ten years older than you are, aren't you? And as long as you act like a child, I'll talk to you as with a child,' sneered Mr Barrow, but it wasn't as strong as before and for a second Andy could even hear the visible tiredness in the other man's voice. 'But let's face the facts: I started at Downton Abbey as a junior footman fifteen years ago. Ever since I've given my best, I've worked hard and now I am underbutler. If I left now, I would never again find such a well-paid employment, not at times like these where the taxes on male servants are far too high and vacancies are limited. Tell me, who do you think we'll be able to employ male servants in the future? - Your right, only the richest. And that's why I stay here.'

'But you don't like it to be here, do you?'

'No, I don't,' he admitted reluctantly, 'I despise service in general. How could I not? The rich have taken our individuality, our lives. They force us to wear uniforms, sometimes they give us names which aren't ours, and they let us work from morning to night.' His hands were fidgeting with his cigarette pack, his eyes were fixed on the younger footman. 'And you know why they can do this? Because they have money and we haven't. It's just a matter of birth. You are either very lucky or very screwed, and I'm the latter and so are you.'

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