"Dad!" Emma beamed as she spotted her father in the backyard of Downton Abbey. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she hurried towards him.

Thomas turned to face her, a barely noticeable but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hello, my little dwarf," he said softly.

Without a moment's hesitation, Emma threw herself into his arms. Her hug was tight, as though trying to make up for the distance the past few days had put between them. Thomas wrapped his arms around her and gave her a brief but heartfelt squeeze.

"How's Grandpa?" Emma asked eventually, her voice now quieter, almost hesitant. She loosened her embrace and looked up at him, a slight furrow in her brow.

Thomas glanced briefly towards the wall of the house, as if needing a second to gather his thoughts. "He's fine," he said at last, keeping it short. "Actually, he's doing rather well."

"So he's better, then?" Her voice now held a glimmer of hope.
Thomas nodded, this time with more certainty.

Emma let out a sigh of relief, and a soft, grateful smile crept across her face.
"I'm glad," she said. "Maybe I can come along next time."

Thomas nodded again, though this time with less enthusiasm.

Soon enough, the everyday chaos of Downton Abbey pulled Thomas back in.

"Has Molesley gone up to bed?" Thomas asked. Mrs Baxter was seated at the table, working on some needlework.

"Yes, why?" she replied shortly.

"Mrs Patmore needs two food warmers first thing tomorrow," he said, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it.

"You can tell him in the morning," Baxter suggested.

"He's not your dear friend anymore, is he?" Thomas remarked with mild surprise. "Why are you still up?"

"I just want to finish this," Baxter replied, before changing the subject. "Your father wasn't ill, was he?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're ill. That's why you went away, isn't it?"

"What's that got to do with you?" he muttered, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"I'm right, aren't I? You're sick, you went away for treatment, and now you're trying to manage it on your own, aren't you?"

"That's none of your concern, so leave it alone," Thomas growled, and disappeared down the corridor.

A few days later, Mrs Hughes came across a magazine. "Someone's dropped something in the corridor," she said as she entered the servants' hall, casting a sharp glance around the room. In her hand she held a neatly folded magazine, its corners slightly worn. She held it up a little higher so Anna and Mrs Baxter could see. "The London Magazine," she announced, raising her eyebrows with mild suspicion. "Does it belong to either of you?"

"Mr Barrow was reading it earlier," Anna said casually, before returning to her duties and quietly slipping out of the room.

Mrs Hughes frowned, paused for a moment, and then handed the magazine to Baxter.
"Would you mind giving it back to him when he comes downstairs, Mrs Baxter?"

"Of course," Phyllis Baxter replied softly, accepting the magazine with care, as though it were something fragile.

For a moment, her eyes lingered on the open page. The paper had fallen open to an article, the title printed in elegant script: Choose Your Own Path. The words looked almost like a message. Something about them made Baxter pause. Her eyes scanned the first few lines. But before she could read on, the magazine was suddenly snatched from her hands.

"Where did you get that?!" Thomas's voice was sharp. He clutched the magazine tightly, as though someone had stolen a piece of his privacy. "Have you been in my room?" His gaze fixed on her—cold and accusatory.

"Of course not," Baxter replied calmly, though inwardly she flinched. "You dropped it in the corridor. Mrs Hughes found it and asked me to return it."

"Mrs Hughes found it… and Mrs Baxter read it," he corrected icily.

"I'm sorry," Baxter said quietly, sincerely, with a hint of compassion in her voice. "I'm sorry for what you're going through—if what I suspect is true."

"Don't you dare pity me," he hissed. "Don't you dare." His voice was rough, strained. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as if about to say more—but then he turned abruptly and strode out of the servants' hall.

The scent of toast and black tea still lingered heavily in the air of the servants' hall as the staff gradually dispersed to begin their morning duties. Thomas remained one of the last to sit. Calmly, he finished his tea, which had long since gone lukewarm. His movements were slow, almost mechanical, while his ears stayed tuned to the conversations happening around him.

In the corner of the room stood Emma, carefully sliding her lunchbox into her school satchel. Her brow was furrowed, as though she had already heard too much—and perhaps she had. Thomas knew full well that she took in more than she ever let on.

The various snippets of conversation were interrupted by Mr Carson's deep voice.
"Anna, I received a message this morning from Sergeant Willis. He'll be arriving around eleven o'clock—with Mr Vyner."

Anna, who had just raised her cup to her lips, paused mid-motion.
"To speak with me?" she asked, surprised.

Carson cleared his throat. "That's what he indicated, yes."

"Anyone else, Mr Carson?" asked Bates, his tone curious but alert.

"I couldn't say for certain," Carson replied. "He only mentioned he wished to speak with Anna… and with Lady Mary."

Anna frowned. "Lady Mary? Whatever for?"

"He didn't say," Carson answered calmly. "But it might be wise to let her know beforehand."

"I'll tell her when I take up the breakfast tray," Anna offered, and with that, she left the room.

Thomas had been listening closely. He stood, cast one final glance at Emma—who was now quietly fastening her satchel—and then left the hall without another word.

Thomas's curiosity got the better of him that afternoon, and he intercepted Mrs Hughes in the corridor.
"Ah, Mrs Hughes," he began casually, "who exactly is this Mr Vyner?"

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow. "He's a detective from London. He's investigating the death of Mr Green."

"Hm…" Thomas murmured. "And why is it that Mr and Mrs Bates are questioned again and again?"

Mrs Hughes gave him a measuring look. "And who told you that?"

Thomas offered a thin smile. "This house doesn't keep secrets," he lied, with his usual blend of arrogance.

"Then I suggest you ask Mr Vyner yourself, if you're so curious," Mrs Hughes replied dryly.

"I just might. Who knows—perhaps I have something to report to him."

Mrs Hughes took a step closer. "Don't cause trouble, Mr Barrow."

He looked at her, his expression unreadable, though his eyes flashed. "Are you suggesting I neglect my duty, Mrs Hughes?"

She gave a quiet sigh. "No, I'm simply asking you… not to stir things up."

She paused briefly, then added in a softer tone, "Are you all right? You don't look… well. Perhaps you ought to lie down for a while."

Thomas's face tightened. "Don't concern yourself with me," he said curtly. His voice was firm, yet beneath it was a strange note of weariness—or perhaps something else. Something no one quite dared to name.

Mrs. Baxter had been keeping a watchful eye on Thomas over the past few weeks. His step had become slower, he spoke less than usual, his responses were brief and weary, sometimes irritable. And although he made every effort to hold himself together, Mrs. Baxter had seen through him.

But she wasn't the only one to notice the changes.

Emma was standing at the top of the stairs when she heard her father's footsteps. Slowly, he made his way up the stairs. His face was pale, his lips slightly cracked, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead – despite the cool summer air.

"Dad, you look ill," Emma said, her brow furrowed. Her voice was quiet, but piercing, full of concern.

Thomas stopped, just two steps below her. For a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers – a look he rarely showed: open, vulnerable, weary to the bone.

"I'm fine," he replied, but his voice was hoarse and fragile.

Emma furrowed her brow even deeper. "Are you sure?" she asked, stepping closer so that she was almost on the same level as him.

"Sure." The smile he tried to put on was little more than a shadow.

Emma may have still been young, but she was no longer small enough to be satisfied with a simple "I'm fine."

"Dad..." she began cautiously, "you don't look fine at all."

Thomas swallowed heavily. "I'm just tired. There's a lot to do, you know how it is around here. The Crawleys never sleep, and neither does the house."

Emma crossed her arms. "That's a pretty poor excuse."

"Little dwarf, it's my job to look after you, not the other way round," Thomas explained. "So I don't owe you an explanation." He walked past Emma and continued up the stairs.

"You need to stop this. You'll poison yourself," Mrs. Baxter pleaded.

Thomas didn't look at her. He stared at the wine bottle in his hand. It had to be taken up to the Crawleys' dinner. The gleam of the label shimmered in his sweaty field of vision. He blinked. Sweat ran down his temples, despite the coolness of the hallway.

"Leave me alone," he ground out between clenched teeth. The words sounded tired, brittle – not a command, but a plea, shaped by exhaustion.

"Just look at you! You're sweating!" Baxter retorted.

He finally raised his head. The mask of arrogance he wore so expertly had cracked. His eyes were red, dark circles under them. And yet, he managed to glare at her.

"Just because your Ladyship allows you to stay here doesn't mean you can order us all about."

Baxter paused, her breath trembling, but she didn't step back. "I'm not ordering you about," she said firmly. "I'm trying to help. And Emma notices that something's wrong with you. She sees how bad it is. Think of Emma. See a doctor. Get help."

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Mrs. Baxter stood stiffly and slightly uncertain in Mr. Carson's office. Sergeant Willis stood calmly and almost motionless, his gaze sharp, while Detective Vyner appeared more restless – a man who would not settle for vague answers.

"What does this have to do with me?" Mrs. Baxter asked, looking from one to the other. "I wasn't even working here when Mr. Green first visited Downton."

"That's correct," Mrs. Hughes confirmed quietly, standing by her side as a silent but steady support.

"And yet, we believe you may be able to help us and reveal more about the incident," Vyner continued.

"I believe there was an incident when Mr. Green was here, and there may have been a trip to London that no one knew about, but I couldn't swear to it," Mrs. Baxter admitted hesitantly, nervously folding her hands together.

"Not even if it was Mr. Bates who made that trip?" Vyner asked in a soft but pressing tone.

Mrs. Baxter slowly shook her head. "No. Not even that."

"And the incident?" Sergeant Willis interjected now. "What was it about? Who was involved?"

Mrs. Baxter fell silent. Her gaze briefly flickered to Mrs. Hughes, as though seeking reassurance, perhaps even permission. But the housekeeper remained quiet.

"I'm not sure," she finally said, her voice low. "But… Emma's behaviour at the time was… unsettling. It suggests her encounter with Mr. Green was anything but pleasant. She spent the rest of his stay at the cottage with Mr. and Mrs. Bates. She didn't want to come back here."

A brief moment of silence followed.

"What sort of behaviour?" Willis asked, pulling out his notebook.

"She was very scared. She was quiet and always sought the comfort of one of us."

Detective Vyner furrowed his brow. "Emma? Who is she exactly? Does she work here? A housemaid or something?"

Mrs. Hughes stepped forward, her voice calm but firm.

"Emma Grace Barrow is the daughter of Mr. Thomas Barrow, the under-butler. She's a child."

A short, uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Vyner seemed to process the information, his expression softening, though his demeanor grew more serious.

"Who even told you I knew anything?" Mrs. Baxter asked cautiously. Something in her voice suggested an underlying mistrust, which seemed entirely justified.

"We received a letter," he replied curtly, almost casually – but his words echoed in the room like a thunderclap.

With that, he stepped out the door without another word. Sergeant Willis nodded at Mrs. Baxter, somewhat less stern than before, and followed him.

Mrs. Baxter was left behind, her heart pounding against her ribs. She could only guess who had written that letter – Thomas – and he surely hadn't meant for the police to turn their attention to Emma.

The two policemen sought out the servants in the servants' hall.

"Where can we find Emma Grace Barrow?" Sergeant Willis asked, looking around.

"Why?" Thomas asked, irritated, as Mrs. Baxter appeared behind the officers. It became immediately clear to Thomas that the policemen had just questioned the maid and, based on her answers, now wanted to question his child. But why would Emma be involved in the case of the dead valet? His plan had been to get rid of Mr. Bates, not drag his own child into the drama.

"We just want to talk," Vyner said.

Questions and scenarios swirled in Thomas's mind. Until now, he had never considered a possible connection between Emma and the deceased Mr. Green. "You're not questioning my child," Thomas replied. Not until he knew exactly what this was about.

"We must, and we will. With or without your permission," Vyner declared.

"She's twelve years old. What exactly do you think she knows? She's just a child," Thomas tried to change the policemen's minds. But they remained persistent.

"We just think she knows who did it," Vyner smirked. For the policeman, the case was practically closed. A young girl who might know more than the adults realised. A child who might tell them everything. Children were poor liars. With a bit of patience, they would confess everything.

AN: What do you think? How will it continue? Will Emma tell the truth? How will Thomas react?