Archive of Our Own

This year, Thomas is inordinately aware of the approach of Halloween.

Mostly, that has to do with the fact that the Crawley’s have decided to host a Halloween soiree in honour of Lady Cora’s American upbringing, and for that Mr. Carson has Thomas, Jimmy, and Alfred run off their feet attending to all manner of tasks related to its planning. Possibly, it could have something to do with all the ghosts he’s begun seeing everywhere, but Thomas is still debating whether that has anything to do with Halloween or if he’s finally showing himself to be his mother’s son and tumbling down the road to madness at this very moment.

Before this year Thomas had had no time for things like ghosts and spirits and hauntings, being a man firmly rooted in the real world where real things of real consequence were happening. Such existential concepts were complete nonsense, in his opinion, and the province of scattered brained ninnies who had nothing better to do with their time than contemplate things that didn’t exist. But when the calendar had shifted to October the first and Thomas had turned down the men’s corridor just after midnight only to be confronted with the ghastly pale face of William Mason clad in the blue striped pyjamas he had died in, Thomas had been forced to reconsider his position.

At first he’d been certain his mind was playing tricks on him: exhaustion from a long day of work and getting to bed too late had him seeing things. But two nights later, in the upper gallery close to the midnight hour, again he’d seen the ghostly visage of a completely naked man pass right in front of him. It had taken him a moment to recognise the man as Kemal Pamuk. The next night, a full hour before midnight, it had been Lady Sybil, dressed in a white nightgown and staring out a window. After that, as Halloween drew nearer, Thomas’ sightings of ghosts grew earlier in the day and included men and women of all ages, in all manner of period dress. Some he recognised from paintings on the wall as dead counts and countesses, others he could guess as former household servants and still others from the time Downton Abbey was actually an abbey.

Today, a full week before Halloween, marks the earliest in the day he’s seen one— a mere hour after mid-day. It’s clearly a maid from the Victorian era and it’s not clear to Thomas how she’s died until she turns to wander through a wall back into the kitchen and he is treated to a sight of the inside of her skull, gore and blood dripping out the enormous contusion flecked liberally with specks of white and strands of blonde hair.

The only reason he doesn’t heave up his recently consumed lunch is because he’d quite honestly, seen worse during the war. And though he’d tried his best to appear unmoved he must have shown some reaction because Jimmy is now attempting to hide a look of concern on his face and doing so badly.

“Ready to head out Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy says with forced brightness, glancing at the spot on the wall Thomas realises he’s been staring at.

“Right, yes, let’s go,” Thomas says, getting up from his seat and attempting to appear his normal composed self. He ignores the looks the others still at the dining table are sending him, mostly a mix of curiosity and covert amusement at the idea that something’s got the unpleasant Mr. Barrow jumping at shadows like a startled alley cat. He’d entertained the notion that this is one big elaborate prank, put on by his fellow servants but there are too many ghosts appearing in too many places and for all his put-on arrogance Thomas just can’t imagine pranking him to be so important a task as to merit an entire village-worth of people to get involved. Surprisingly, Anna and Miss Baxter and even Daisy all appear a touch concerned about his state of mind, and he simply doesn’t know what to do with such concern coming from such an unexpected quarter so he ignores it. Setting his jaw and pulling his shoulders back, he holds his head up high as he follows Jimmy to the servant’s door.

They put on their coats and scarves and hats. Just as Jimmy is about to open the front door the bloody Tudor arse with the kicked in-face wanders right in front of Thomas and allows him an eye full of his caved in skull and bulging eye socket before wandering off again through the opposite wall. Thomas jumps half-a-foot in the air and just barely manages to bite back a curse.

“Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy says not bothering to hide the worry on his face any more. Thomas forces his legs to move, forces himself to maintain a calm, undisturbed facade, but his trembling hands as he lights up a cigarette just before stepping out give him away.

Jimmy looks like he wants to say more but Thomas shoots him a warning look and sets off at a rapid pace through the courtyard, ignoring the old monk sunning himself off to the side. Mercifully, he appears to have died of old age so there’s nothing particularly disconcerting about his appearance other than the fact that he’s there at all.

The afternoon is bright and clear, the sun having taken the edge off the morning chill. Autumn has taken a firm hold of Downton Abbey, the surrounding forest already a riot of gold and crimson, the air pungent with the scent of falling leaves.

Thomas heads for the forest trail, a well used shortcut to the village that cuts off 15 minutes to a walk that would normally take half-an-hour if one followed the paved road. Dry leaves crunch underfoot as he sets to the narrow trail, Jimmy following closely behind.

“So Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy says, voice far too casual. “Still seeing them ghosts then?”

“I’m not telling tales Jimmy,” Thomas growls and just then, a woman dressed in prehistoric furs steps out onto the trail, her head bent at completely the wrong angle. She walks through Thomas before he can even take one breath, and he shudders at the sudden chill, the hair standing up on the back of his neck, a sense of unease and foreboding making him hunch further into his coat.

“What in ‘eck, Mr. Barrow!” Jimmy squawks as he runs smack dab into his back.

Thomas realises he has stopped right in the middle of the trail. “Sorry Jimmy,” he mumbles and keeps walking.

“Was that…” Jimmy says tentatively a few moments later. “Something to do with the…?”

Deciding to put Jimmy out of his misery Thomas says in a tired and resigned tone, “Yes Jimmy, that was a ghost. On the path. Some prehistoric looking woman, dressed in furs and all that. Her neck was broken.” He decides not to say anything about her having walked right through him.

“Blimey, is that right? It’s a right bloody problem isn’t it, Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy says.

“You’re telling me.”

“Is nowhere sacred?” Jimmy asks. “Can’t you avoid ‘em when you go to church or something?”

“No,” Thomas answers in a monotone. “There’s some dead peasant farmer in there. I think he used to farm the land the church is built on.”

“So blessed ground don’t stop them? And they never talk to you? They don’t want anything from you?”

“They don’t even seem to notice I’m there,” Thomas says.

“And there’s no chance that you’re just…” Jimmy trails off tentatively.

It takes Thomas a moment to understand what Jimmy is implying. His already tenuous control frays more and he spins to face Jimmy. Thomas is tall enough that even though Jimmy is standing on the higher part of the trail, they’re eye-to-eye with each other, all the better for Thomas to glare at him. “No Jimmy, for the tenth bleedin’ time, I’m not lying about this. Do you think I wouldn’t have told you if I were playing a prank or something? Or that I’d keep this to just you and me if I were? Or I’d be stupid enough to try to keep something like this going for an entire month?”

“Okay, alright, I’m sorry Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy says, waving placating hands. “Just making sure. I won’t doubt you again.”

“You’d better not,” Thomas says, though the knowledge that Jimmy still doesn’t quite believe him even after several assertions to the contrary hurts a good deal more than he’s willing to think about.

The rest of the walk to the train station is thankfully uneventful. The ghosts who happen to wander by don’t have anything obviously wrong with them so Thomas is able to pretend they’re just regular people, if a bit strangely dressed.

The train is a surprising, but very welcome respite. For some reason, there are no ghosts on board and none wander through during the ride either. It’s almost relaxing and he is genuinely disappointed to have to disembark at the station in York.

“You’ll be alright then Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy says outside the train station as they’re about to go their separate ways. There is real worry in his tone that warms Thomas.

“I’ll be fine Jimmy,” Thomas says with as much assurance as he can put into his voice. He pointedly ignores the dead train conductor loitering nearby on the steps. “I’ve not completely lost it. Hopefully.”

“Alright then,” Jimmy says, still looking worried. “We’re still on for the Castle pub at five for dinner, right? Then off to my surprise, after.”

“Yes, Jimmy. Now go on, or you’ll be late to meet up with your pals.”

“See you later, then Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas waves once more and then watches as Jimmy disappears into the crowd. He still isn’t sure what to make of Jimmy’s surprise plans. Given what he knows of Jimmy, it’ll likely be the cinema or a dancehall– for all that Thomas is still kind of helplessly in love or at least very deep infatuation with Jimmy, the other man can be boringly predictable. It hasn’t stopped Thomas’ silly romantic heart from spinning up fanciful notions of secluded moonlit walks and secret confessions of undying devotion despite how wildly unlikely all that would be.

With an irritated huff, Thomas pushes such notions aside and hurries off to his first destination, a tailor’s shop, to purchase a long overdue replacement for his second day suit, stepping to the side to avoid the dead Roman legionnaire limping along with a broken leg and about a hundred arrows in his torso as he goes.

Shopping goes well enough, but Thomas has to force himself not to linger over the display case filled with jewelled tie clips and cufflinks nestled beside rolls of luxurious silk ties, all far too expensive for someone of his ilk. As he pays for his purchases and makes for the door he reminds himself with punishing firmness that like so many things in life, those things in the display case are simply not meant for someone like him.

It’s late afternoon now and Thomas hurries for his next destination. He has to consult his carefully written directions twice before he finds it, a dingy little shop tucked away in a side street in some ill-used corner of York. Thomas had never, not in a thousand years, thought he’d purposely search out a shop of the occult but desperate times and all that. He urgently needs answers.

The interior of Madame Merryweather’s Shop of the Mystical and Divine is darkly dramatic with a colour scheme primarily of navy blues and plum purples. Despite this, the shop exudes a warmth and friendliness, likely owing to the profusion of oil lamps and candles populating every flat surface to be had, casting a warm glow about the place. The air is richly scented with rosemary, lemon, and thyme.

“Why hello there!” A woman’s voice calls out to him. From the back of the shop emerges a well-to-do looking older woman. Dressed in an out-of-fashion, Victorian-style bustle dress with her hair neatly done up in a style just as out-of-fashion, she nonetheless exudes an air of no nonsense competence, completely opposite to what Thomas might have expected of someone who owns and runs something as fanciful as a shop specialising in the occult.

Before Thomas can say a word, something shifts on the woman’s face, the open friendliness she had approached with suddenly disappearing to be replaced by a wary, unfriendly expression.

“What do you want?” she says, tone sharp and brisk. “I’ve nothing here that would interest anyone of your kind.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He says, too confused to be offended just yet.

“You heard me,” she replies unhelpfully, lifting her chin defiantly.

Anger and fear rush through Thomas. Is she– She can’t possibly be referring to— How could she possibly know about that? “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you referring to madame?” Thomas says, straightening to his full height and tilting his chin as imperiously as he knows how. “I’ve come to this shop looking for help regarding a certain problem I’m having, but if this is the sort of treatment I’m to expect from you, I can take my inquiries elsewhere. I even called ahead so I could be sure to locate your shop properly.”

The woman blinks, once then twice. Her expression softens with confusion. “Wait. Are you Mr. Thomas Barrow then?”

“Yes,” he says, ensuring his tone is as cold as the Arctic. “And you are Madame Mira Merryweather?”

“Yes,” Madame Merryweather says, though her tone is distracted as she runs her eyes up and down Thomas’ frame several times. He has the distinct feeling the scrutiny has nothing to do with his looks.

“Can you help me? Or should I go elsewhere?”

“I doubt there’s anything that can help you on this good green Earth anymore,” Madame Merryweather says, mostly to herself.

“I beg your pardon?” Thomas says, half-ready to stomp out of the shop in indignation.

“Never mind,” she says with a shake of her head, turning away to step behind her counter. “I’m terribly sorry for the confusion. I suppose I saw something that wasn’t quite there. What did you need help with?” She busies her hands rearranging an already neatly arranged stack of papers. Thomas isn’t oblivious enough to not notice how Madame Merryweather can’t quite seem to look him in the eye. Irritation flares and he considers once again stomping out of the shop but it’s only an hour before he has to meet Jimmy for dinner and Thomas doesn’t have the faintest clue where he could find another shop of the occult in York and he desperately needs the help.

“Right,” Thomas says, suddenly reluctant to explain his situation lest she think him ill in the head. “This is going to sound mad, but I swear I’m not lying and I thought if there’s one place that might take me seriously it was a shop of the occult.”

This somehow grabs Madame Merryweather’s attention and she finally makes eye contact. “What’s been happening then?”

He licks suddenly dry lips, hesitating just like he did with Jimmy when he’d finally made the decision to tell him what was wrong. “I’m seeing dead people– ghosts I suppose we’d call them. I’m seeing them everywhere. Ghosts of every sort who’ve died all manner of deaths. Roman legionaries, Victorian maids, Tudor nobility, medieval monks. They don’t talk to me. They ignore me even, but I’m seeing them when I've never seen a thing like that before and I don’t know why, and I want it to stop. I can hardly sleep a wink at night, they just keep walking into my room and at meal times they just wander through the table and my plate like it’s nothing and then I hardly have an appetite any more. Please, you have to help me. Tell me how to make it stop.” By the end of his little speech, Thomas is almost hyperventilating with anxiety.

Madame Merryweather’s expression, he is thankful to note, is sympathetic and not judgmentally sceptical like Jimmy’s was.

“I’m sorry to hear you’re dealing with that love,” she says. “Unfortunately, there’s not much to be done to stop the spectres of the dead from wandering the earth right now. It’s a week out to Samhain after all.”

“Sah- what?”

“Samhain,” Madame Merryweather repeats gently. “It’s on the same night as Halloween. Some people would even say Samhain and Halloween are the same celebration though I don’t agree. That’s a debate for a different time, however. Samhain is the time of the year where the veil between the world of the dead and the world of the living is thinnest. The dead can cross through quite easily to our side and sometimes even those without the Sight will be able to see some of the stronger spirits. It’s only going to get worse until the night of Samhain passes. Then the veil will begin to thicken again and only the most recent dead or strong and angry spirits like poltergeists will remain.”

“The sight?” Thomas says after taking a moment attempting to absorb all that she has just said.

“Yes, the Sight. Those gifted… or some would say cursed with the Sight have the ability to see what is unseen– spirits or ghosts as you could call them, like you’re seeing now, all manner of magical creatures, the supernatural, and otherworldly, amongst many other things.”

“You’re saying, I’m gifted… or cursed with this Sight now?” Thomas says carefully.

“Well have you ever seen anything strange before now that bore no good explanation? A person you knew was long dead walking past you or strange creatures you’d think only existed in the pages of fairy tales and the sort?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything of that sort in my life. I’ve never believed in anything of that sort. Why would something like this come to me now? How could it?”

Madame Merryweather’s eyes rove his face, an odd expression on her face. “Who can say,” she finally says. “Why or how these gifts come to us. It’s up to us to do the best that we can with them though. Help others as best we can with it.”

“Do you have the Sight?” Thomas asks.

“That I do,” Madame Merryweather says with a wry smile. “It’s why I started this shop, why I dedicated my life to learning about the mystic and divine, to help those such as yourself. And I think I’ve just the thing for you. Wait right here while I gather some things. I won’t be a minute.”

Before Thomas can say anything, Madame Merryweather disappears into the back of her shop. Ten minutes later she’s back. At the shop counter she lays out three objects for Thomas’ consideration: a cloth satchel, bulging with mysterious contents, a metal amulet made of black metal and a folded piece of paper.

“And these will help with my ghost problem?” Thomas says, examining each item sceptically.

Madame Merryweather hesitates before saying slowly, “Once given the Sight, there’s no way to give it back. It’s with us for life. We can do things to ease the gift for ourselves, however. I can’t promise these will work right away or at all until after Samhain. The time of year is working against us, I’m afraid. But once the effects of Samhain wane, they should work quite well and you should be perfectly fine. The spectres of the dead are usually fully trapped behind the veil come December.”

There’s something off about what Madame Merryweather is saying to him, but Thomas can’t quite put his finger on it. “Alright,” he says. “Tell me what they do.”

“This here,” she says, pointing to the satchel. “Is St. John’s Wort, four leaf clover, the essence of a cock’s crow, and the essence of church bell’s rung on Easter Sunday. This amulet and its chain are made of cold iron. They’ll work together to keep the attention of the spectres off of you so long as you keep it on your person. And you must keep them both on your person. At all times! And do not remove them for any reason, no reason at all! Not even if someone asks you! You must promise me Mr. Barrow!” This last bit she says with a sudden urgency that takes Thomas aback.

“Um, alright. I promise,” Thomas says, perplexed. “But, and I don’t mean to question your expertise Madame Merryweather, but the ghosts haven’t paid a slightest bit of attention to me the entire time I’ve seen them. As I said, they ignore me. They don’t even hear me, let alone look at me. It’s like I’m not there to them.”

“That will change as Samhain draws closer,” Madame Merryweather says before pointing at the folded paper. “And this is a set of runes to keep ghosts out of places you don’t want them to wander. Draw them as you see them on all four walls of any room you want them to keep out of and they’ll be compelled to stay away. Hopefully that will at least help you to start sleeping at night again.”

“Oh yes, those should be helpful, if they work,” Thomas says, already plotting how he might get them on the walls of the servant’s dining hall so they at least stop walking through his dinner plate.

“Thank you very much for your help Madame Merryweather,” Thomas says once he’s paid her for her services.

“You’re very welcome love,” she says. “And all the best of luck to you. I hope things… work out for you.”

“I do too,” Thomas says and with a tip of his hat, he takes his leave.

Jimmy’s already at the pub and half-way through a pint when Thomas gets there. His mood is exuberant as he regales Thomas with retellings of the latest tales of tomfoolery his pals got up to over plates of fish and chips and more pints of beer. Unsurprisingly enough, Jimmy’s surprise destination turns out to be the York Dance Hall.

“It’s been ages since I’ve been dancing and I know it’s been even longer for you Mr. Barrow and since we both like it, I thought a night out dancing might just be the thing for the both of us,” Jimmy explains as they make their way towards the Hall.

Jimmy pauses for a brief moment then says somewhat hesitantly, “I know the, uh, the sort of… partners available won’t be to your liking exactly, but I figure dancing’s dancing isn’t it, eh?” The smile he puts on is a touch strained at the edges, not quite covering the discomfort and dare Thomas say it, disgust that Jimmy sometimes still struggles with in regards to the type of man Thomas is.

Disappointment and shame clogs the back of his throat and Thomas feels ridiculous, idiotic even, for entertaining the notion, however briefly, of a moonlit walk and secret confession. He knew it was never going to happen, not when Jimmy was still working to accept the sort of man Thomas was. Granted, Jimmy was far better than he used to be a year ago and Thomas supposed he should be thankful that Jimmy had managed such a reversal at all when so many refused to even try. It was still a bitter pill to swallow, when his heart wanted so much more.

“Yeah, sounds lovely. Thank you Jimmy,” Thomas says, doing his best to keep his tone light and casual, but he knows his expression is probably a bit too fixed to be convincing. Luckily, Jimmy has imbibed a pint or two too much to really notice.

Thomas lasts three dances before he decides he’s had enough. The dancing is fun, the music lively, and the women he’d scooped up as partners had all been particularly skilled, but the fact remains that he’s just not dancing with who he really wants to be dancing with. The particularly grotesque visage of an eviscerated Regency era gentleman, wandering about the dance hall with his guts trailing about and simply refusing to leave for some reason, is also putting Thomas off right. The roman-era Britonian with the completely beaten in face also isn’t helping matters.

“Sorry Jimmy, I think I’m going to call it,” Thomas says when he finds the other man at the break. Jimmy is holding court with three women, girls really, in the case of two of them. Thomas sincerely hopes they’re old enough because knowing Jimmy, he’s going to try, if he can, to end the night on a very ungentlemanly note with whoever is willing enough to let him. “But you can stay if you want to. No sense both of us heading back and missing out on fun.”

“Oh come on, Mr. Barrow, truly?” Jimmy says, breaking away from his hanger-ons to follow Thomas as he moves to collect his things.

“Yes truly, Jimmy, it’s been fun, but I’m not quite feeling up to doing this all night. Must be getting old,” he says with a weak facsimile of a teasing smile. He’s slipping his scarf around his neck when he notices Jimmy’s strangely hang-dog expression.

“What?” He says pausing in his motions.

“Ah, I’ve buggered this all up.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s just, I promised Mrs. Hughes that I’d do my best to cheer you up. Don’t get me wrong, I would have tried on me own anyways, but there’s just extra pressure to get it done when someone else is also expecting you to make it happen. I thought dancing would be the ticket, even if just to take your mind off your troubles for an hour or two.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, struggling not to think of some of the other ideas he has of how Jimmy could cheer him up. “If it’s any consolation Jimmy, I did have fun during the dances I did have, so there you are. But the truth is…” Here Thomas lowers his voice so no one can overhear and get the wrong idea. “There’s a few unsettling characters around here right now.”

As if on cue, the Regency bloke wanders by again and Thomas wonders why the ghost just won’t leave the place like most of his compatriots eventually do.

“Oh, I see,” Jimmy says. His gaze skitters about the place and he looks like he’s readying himself to ask so Thomas quickly shakes his head.

“You don’t want to know Jimmy, trust me.”

“Alright, if you say so Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy fidgets for a moment as Thomes starts shrugging his overcoat on. “I feel I should leave with you though, just to make sure you’re alright.”

Thomas rolls his eyes at him. “Come on Jimmy, I’m not a delicate flower. I’ll be fine. They’re harmless anyways, just a bit disturbing to look at sometimes,” he adds in an undertone. “And,” he goes on in a normal volume. “I know you don’t get to come to the dancehalls nearly so often as you like. You’ll be whinging for months about missed opportunities, you will, and I’ll have to hear about it. Take the opportunity and have some fun. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you in the morning and you can tell me all about what you managed to get up to tonight.”

Jimmy looks ready to protest anyways, before he sighs and nods. “Yeah alright then, but you keep safe you hear, Mr. Barrow?” He slaps Thomas on the shoulder and squeezes before letting go, leaving a warm patch behind.

“You too, Mr. Kent, not too much funny business now, you hear? Need you back at Downton in one piece. Now you best be getting back to your ladies— you’ll be lucky if they haven’t been snatched up by other lads by now.”

“That’ll be all your fault if that’s the case Mr. Barrow!” Jimmy calls back as he waves a final goodbye, already craning his neck to see where the ladies in question are.

The train ride back to Downton is quiet and most importantly again completely devoid of ghosts. Thomas almost considers riding the train right on through to Liverpool, but he doesn’t have enough cash on him for the return trip anyways and he wouldn’t be back at Downton until sometime mid-morning or so tomorrow. He’s sure Mr. Carson would have a thing or two to say about that.

Unlike York, the village of Downton is already mostly asleep this time of night. The village pub is the only building showing any sort of activity, the windows still spilling bright golden light onto the cobblestone streets, faint chords of music drifting out the opening and closing doors. Thomas nods to a few of the men sharing a cigarette outside and then turns the corner and starts up the road that will take him through the empty village square.

There have been ghosts milling about on every part of the walk and Thomas has been ignoring them with great determination, letting his mind wander to thoughts of what to get Jimmy for Christmas in order to keep himself distracted. He lets his feet guide him home, automatically taking him through familiar paths and that’s how he ends up near the village hospital, quite by mistake.

It must be true of every hospital, Thomas has decided, but Downton Village Hospital is absolutely thronging with ghosts, dead men and women of every variety but especially dead soldiers from the war. After he’d walked past the hospital on the way to post some mail a week ago and found that little fact out, Thomas had vowed to stay far away from the building, even going so far as to take another route through the village when he and Jimmy had left earlier today. But he’d forgotten his vow and now he’s confronted with a veritable panoply of the spirits of the dead, the place so crowded with ghosts it looks as if they’ve been summoned there for a rally of the dead, to hear one of their own speak of things important to creatures such as themselves.

Heartbeat drumming an anxious tattoo in his chest, Thomas spins on his heels, intent on going the other way when a voice he hasn’t heard in years calls out to him.

“Corporal Barrow?”

The hairs on the back of Thomas’ neck all stand on end and unease prickles his skin.

“Corporal Barrow? Is that you?”

Unwillingly, Thomas finds his feet moving, turning him slowly to face what he knows is waiting to be found behind him.

Lieutenant Edward Courtney stands on the street just outside the hospital, bathed in the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp on one-side, the silvery light of the half-full moon on the other. His eyes are still scarred and milky white, but as if he can see Thomas, his face splits into a pale smile the moment Thomas’ eyes find his face

“My, I never thought I’d speak to you again.” His voice is clear and strong, tones still as precise and upper class as Thomas remembers them to be. Thomas’ knees go weak with horror when he realises every ghost in the area is looking straight at him.

He tries to say something, anything, but words fail him and his jaw flaps uselessly.

“I’m so sorry,” Courtney continues, taking a step forward. The ghosts shift to let their compatriot through, drawing Thomas’ attention to the trail of black dripping slowly along in Courtney’s wake. He follows the trail up, up to Courtney’s finger tips, then hands and wrists, all stained with the same dark, viscous fluid. “Ever so sorry. Can you ever forgive me, do you think? Please say you will.”

“Corporal Barrow?” Courtney says again, when Thomas still fails to find the words to answer him with. “Please, Corporal Barrow, please, PLEASE!” In an instant, Courtney’s countenance changes going from placid to wrathful rage. His face contorts unnaturally, mouth stretching out wide in a snarl of inhuman proportions, the lines of his face deepening into dark crags that turn his face into a monstrous parody of itself. Around him, the same transformation takes place on every one of his compatriot’s faces and Thomas is suddenly faced with a sea of snarling, monster-faced things.

Thomas does the only thing he can think of. He runs.

“FORGIVE ME!” The scream echoes out, a distorted, unearthly thing, filled with so much hate and sorrow. It only makes Thomas run faster, pushing his legs harder through the village side streets until the hospital is well behind him. He only stops when he’s part of the way up the paved road to Downton, leaning heavily against a nearby lamppost, his lungs burning and legs shaking from more than just fatigue.

But he can find no respite, for up the road, stands the prehistoric, fur clad woman from earlier in the day, looking right at him. Her head hanging off a broken neck, the stare naturally comes from an odd angle and is all the more disturbing for it.

With a panicked inhale, Thomas takes off for the forest trail before he can think better of it, plunging into the pitch blackness of it, tripping over protruding roots and rocks as he scrambles up the incline. Around him the trees are shadowy columns, silvery moonlight casting eerie shadows on the forest floor as it makes its way through the half-bare branches. Half-way up, Thomas is forced to pause for a break, his lungs screaming for air and his legs burning with exhaustion. Sweat rolls cold and clammy down his overheated forehead and he wishes fervently for the refuge of his bed, of his tiny, cosy room in Downton, still 15 or so minutes and a seeming eternity away.

Thomas makes the mistake of peering into the forest and finds three things peering right back at him. They do not look like normal ghosts, but something more demonic in nature, possessed of razor sharp fangs and horns and claws which glimmer menacingly in the weak moonlight. With a cry of horror, Thomas renews his flight up the trail again, the shaking exhaustion of his limbs forgotten.

The higher up he climbs, the thicker the forest seems to get, filling more and more with ghosts and otherworldly entities all peering at him from between the night-blackened tree trunks and out of the dying undergrowth. His terror and panic grows with each passing second and culminates when he crashes full-bodied into something solid and warm just at the entrance of to the forest trail. He goes tumbling down onto the ground, dry leaves crunching under him as he lands on his back, the solid weight coming to rest half on top of him. Caught in mindless terror, with the breath knocked right out of him, Thomas can only let out a breathy whimper of panic as he pushes desperately at the weight above him. It immediately removes itself and Thomas scrambles away, only stopping when he feels the solid weight of a tree trunk knock into his back.

“Whoa there!” A voice exclaims. A real solid, male human voice.

But is it really? Thomas thinks hysterically as he remembers Lieutenant Courtney speaking to him. That had sounded very solid and real to Thomas.

“Are you alright?” The voice says in a broad Yorkshire accent and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his hands, unable to face whatever ghost or spectral thing has arrived to torment him next.

“Sir, are you alright?” The voice repeats. “Well clearly, he’s not alright,” the voice mutters, almost to itself. After a moment it speaks again, “Look, sir, you’ve clearly had a fright and I’d like to help. Can you say what it is that’s scared you?”

“Ghosts!” Thomas exclaims before he can stop himself. His voice comes out as a high, reedy whimper that he hardly recognises as his own. “Ghosts everywhere and all looking at me now! They never used to! One even talked to me. You probably think I’m completely mad, but it’s true!”

“Ah,” the voice says after a moment of silence. “Yes, they do like to do that this time of year.”

It takes a moment for the words to penetrate the fog of terror blanketing his mind, but then everything stills in Thomas’ head and he looks up slowly. “What did you say?” he says when he finally makes eye contact.

“I said, they do like to do that this time of year.” The owner of the voice is a man who looks to be around the same age as Thomas though with only the silver light of the half-moon, it’s hard to be sure. What Thomas can be sure about is that the man is handsome, startlingly so, with an exquisitely square jawline and eyes that must be the deepest blue to shine so even in the dim light.

He finds himself speechless now but not with fear this time.

The man’s expression goes sheepish and he shifts uncomfortably the longer Thomas stares at him. “This time of year being close to Samhain with the veil between life and death thinning, making it easier for ‘em to come through and all that. I take it you have the Sight then? If you’re seeing them?”

“I do,” Thomas says, forcing himself to stop staring like a gormless idiot. “Now at any rate. Didn’t used to, I don’t think. Haven’t ever been through anything like this before anyways.”

“And it’s all been a bit frightening then, I presume.” The man’s expression shifts into something sympathetic.

“You could say that.” Thomas runs his hand over his neck. His heart rate is slowing now, the sweat drying on his now cooling skin. He’s starting to feel a bit embarrassed about his behaviour upon reflection, but the whole entire thing really had been quite terrifying at the time. “Well, I know they’re harmless, but it’s still a bit startling. Especially the condition some of them wander about in.”

“Say no more,” the man says, mouth tilting into a humorous smile that makes him look all the more attractive. “I once had to contend with a completely headless man wandering about for three days. He had his head tucked under his arm and the stump where it used to be kept gushing blood like the world’s most terrifying fountain. Quite the sight it was.”

Thomas shudders in sympathy and then remembers his manners. “I’m Thomas Barrow.”

“You can call me Richard. Richard Ellis,” the man, Mr. Ellis, replies.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Thomas says, suddenly feeling all sorts of rude and improper having this conversation sprawled against a tree trunk. He pushes himself to his feet and Mr. Ellis follows suit, straightening out of the crouch he’d been folded over in, revealing himself to be just as tall, if not a smidgen taller than Thomas. The fact makes something hot coil low in his gut, even as he offers his hand for Mr. Ellis to shake. “I should apologise for bowling you over like that. The ghosts in the woods, they, well they were really quite frightening. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Are you alright?”

“No worse for wear,” Mr. Ellis says, taking Thomas’ hand in a warm and firm grip, an equally warm smile on his lips. “You needn’t worry, I’m made of tough stuff. I wasn’t the one who went through such a fright and had someone land on them anyway. Are you alright?”

“No harm done,” Thomas replies, finding himself a little breathless, a helpless smile pulling at his own lips. “Still in one piece.”

“You’re quite sure?” Mr. Ellis’ handsome brow is creased with genuine concern, making something go soft and gooey inside Thomas.

“Pretty sure. A little. Okay, it might need some time.” Thomas grimaces as he shoots a wary glance at the dark forest to his back. “It’ll be a while before I feel comfortable enough to go for a walk through there that’s for sure, especially at night, but I’ll survive.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mr. Ellis says, something strange in his expression, eyeing the forest with an almost foreboding expression. “It’s quite a lovely spot around here.”

“It is, I won’t argue that,” Thomas says, nodding in agreement. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time walking through there on my days off.”

“That so?” Mr. Ellis says.

Something niggles at Thomas and he turns, giving Mr. Ellis a suspicious look. “Where did you say you were from around here again? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” Thomas is certain he would have noticed a face that handsome moving about the village. “And for that matter,” Thomas continues, suspicion building. “What exactly are you doing this close around the Abbey and at this time of night too? Lord Grantham’s a generous man, even for a nobleman, and he’s never taken issue with the public making use of the outer edges of the property but he still doesn’t like people nosing about so close to the Abbey proper and everyone knows that around here.”

Mr. Ellis arches a challenging eyebrow at Thomas. “I could ask the same of you. If it’s as you say, Lord Grantham wouldn’t like finding out either of us were trespassing so near the Abbey at night.”

Thomas scoffs, half in triumph, half in irritation. “Except I work for Lord Grantham, in his household as the under-butler. I’m just coming back from a half-day off. I’ve plenty of excuses to be here. What’s yours?”

Mr. Ellis' expression goes sheepish and a touch embarrassed then. “Ah, you’ve caught me out. I had thought we might be on equal footing here, but it seems I’m wrong. Please, hear me out before you decide to go reporting me to Lord Grantham or the constable. I don’t mean any harm, truly.”

“Go on then, what’s your story?” Thomas says, studying Mr. Ellis with narrowed eyes, bracing himself for disappointment because, really, when did he ever get to meet a handsome man that didn’t come with a thousand-and-one catches?

“Well this is it really,” Mr. Ellis says, turning away to lift a woven basket off the ground that Thomas hadn’t noticed before. He tilts it so Thomas can look inside where he finds an assortment of bundles of freshly cut plants. “These are plants that gathered under the light of a waxing moon, are at their most potent. This is wood sorrel, good for the health and to lift one’s spirits up. Meadow sweet, to calm, and hawthorn, a wonderful base for constructing charms of all sorts.”

Thomas frowns. “Are you a hedge witch of some sort?”

Mr. Ellis chuckles, a low-rumbly sound that makes something in Thomas’ chest catch. “Hedge witches are women. I wouldn’t give myself that title, but my mother taught me all I know about such things and I thought it would be a waste if I didn’t use my knowledge to help where I can every now and again.”

“And that’s what you’re doing here? Gathering herbs to make potions and charms to help people?” Thomas says glancing about the forest behind him. He glances away quickly when he spots the ghosts looking back.

“In a manner of speaking. Sorry, I can’t help but notice you’re still a bit jumpy. The ghosts are staring, I take it?”

Thomas grits his teeth, reluctant to show too much weakness, but then he sighs when he realises that ship has long since sailed and that Mr. Ellis seems knowledgeable about these sorts of things and maybe he could help.

“Yes, they are,” Thomas says, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. “I went to see some woman in York earlier today. A Madame Merryweather who supposedly specialises in these sorts of matters. She gave me some things, said it should draw the attention of the ghosts off me, but I very much beg to differ. I was wondering, well, seeing as you seem to know a thing or two about matters such as this, have you got any ideas that could help?”

Mr. Ellis’ smile is blazingly bright and Thomas feels a bit dazed looking upon it. “I’d be happy to help! I think I might just have the thing for you.”

He watches as Mr. Ellis sets his basket on the ground, fishing about in his trouser pocket and coming out with a folded pen knife. He then pulls out a bundle of hawthorn cuttings, undoes the twine and sets to examining each cutting with a careful eye before finally settling on one, though for what reason Thomas couldn’t fathom.

Mr. Ellis unfolds the pen knife and with a practised hand, begins carving strange arcane symbols on the chosen cutting. Thomas watches, his hands work with mesmerising speed. Mr. Ellis glances up once and shoots a quick smile at him that has Thomas glancing away in embarrassment.

“Here, this should do it,” Mr. Ellis says a mere moment later and hands the carved piece to Thomas. It feels warm to the touch, like it’s still carrying some of Mr. Ellis’ body heat. “It’s nothing fancy, just a quick job but it should be doing the trick, even now.”

And it is, Thomas finds out when he looks up to check. The ghosts who had been close enough to stare are no longer looking at him, back to their mindless wandering again. Thomas breathes an enormous sigh of relief.

“It does so!” He exclaims, running his thumb over the freshly carved edges of the symbols. “Thank you ever so much Mr. Ellis. You don’t know how much this means to me. I— How can I repay you? I’ve some cash, I could pay you with.”

But Mr. Ellis is already shaking his head. “No, no, I couldn’t take payment for this. Think of it as a good turn, a friend helping a friend out. And if it really bothers you so, then you can owe me a favour.”

“A favour then. I’ll owe you a favour.”

“If you like. Now remember, be sure to keep the charm near you at all times. It won’t work if it’s not on your person.” Mr. Ellis smiles, wide and lovely and glances at the moon in the sky. “But I should probably get going. It’s getting late and I imagine you’re tired and would like to head to bed soon.”

Thomas goes to protest, reluctant to leave the company of this mysteriously handsome and enchanting man, but suddenly finds he’s tired just as Mr. Ellis says. “I suppose I should do that. Wouldn’t do for me to fall asleep during breakfast service tomorrow. But how will I find you again?”

“Oh, that won’t be too difficult,” Mr. Ellis says. “I’ll come find you. But if you’re looking, I’m just over there.” He points behind them back into the forest, but in a direction opposite of the forest trail.

Thomas nods, imagining some sort of little stone cottage, small and equally as charming as Mr. Ellis. “Good night then Mr. Ellis.”

“Good night Mr. Barrow. It was ever so lovely to meet you.” And with that, Mr. Ellis is gone, disappearing back into the forest.

Thomas stares after him, before shaking himself and heading for the Abbey and for his bed.

***

That night Thomas dreams.

It is a strange and fantastical dream.

Mr. Ellis is there although not as he was but as something wilder; a pair of sweeping antlers, sharp teeth and pointed ears turning his visage monstrous but beautiful all the same. Before them, beings possessing the heads of animals— foxes, deer, donkeys, sheep and more— and the bodies of human men and women cavort around a roaring bonfire. In the air, tiny winged beings small enough to fit on the palm of his hand flit in complicated patterns of their own. The air is warm, perfumed with the scent of summer flowers and overhead, the moon shines, a full, fat silver disk in the sky.

Mr. Ellis turns to Thomas and smiling a smile full of pointed teeth, offers Thomas his hand, palm up, with an accompanying genteel bow of his head. Blushing, Thomas accepts, taking it in his, and Mr. Ellis spins the pair of them into a sudden gap in the cavorters and with hardly a pause, they fall into easy step with them. The dance is unfamiliar, a strange wild thing, all sinuous lines and undulating hips, yet Thomas moves in perfect synchrony with Mr. Ellis, like he was born to know this dance.

The music is equally strange and wild, flutes calling out like the song of night owls, lutes humming the buzz of a bee in flight, harps vibrating with the struggles of prey caught in a spider’s web and drums beating the staccato rhythm of summer rain on a canopy of leaves. It gains tempo, and with it the speed of the dance picks up until Thomas feels as if he is flying, his feet a blur over the thick carpet of green grass, Mr. Ellis, a similar whirl of movement right alongside him.

Faster still, the music plays and suddenly, with a swing and leap, they take to the air, their feet no longer bound to the ground. Thomas laughs, unfettered and free, his heart bursting with joy as they spin and leap about each other, dancing on the moonlight now, the stars growing ever closer above their heads. The music reaches a pounding crescendo, Thomas barely knows what he is doing any more, only that he is dancing, dancing, with the most handsome man he has ever known, and then with an almost almighty bang, the music finishes in a crash of roaring rivers and tumbling stones.

The silence is sudden and deafening and the dance ends with Mr. Ellis holding Thomas tightly against his chest and Thomas clinging back just as tightly. They are suddenly alone, but for the moonlight and a lake of stars. Thomas stares into eyes that seem to hold a thousand shades of blue.

“My love, my darling beautiful love,” Mr. Ellis breathes reverently into the space between them. “Stay with me forever.” And Thomas nods his head and leans in for a kiss.

***

In the midst of pulling out the extra seats required for the dozen-and-a-half guests that were due to arrive for the Halloween soiree, Thomas thinks about Mr. Ellis. He knows he’s prone to overly wishful thinking that can get him into all sorts of trouble but he swears that there had been something there last night, hanging in the air between them and Thomas desperately wants to find out for sure.

It won’t be possible at all during this week leading up to the Halloween party, but Thomas is sure he could find an hour or two to steal away some time after the party, just before the mad rush of Christmas preparations begins, to make a visit to Mr. Ellis. Afterall, he’d said he was nearby, not too far away, just over the hill— no actually in the forest in a little cottage with a— no through it, by the—

Thomas stops and loses his count of the chairs as his train of thought comes to a screaming halt. He frowns to himself as he carefully reviews his encounter with Mr. Ellis. Somehow Thomas had never thought to push Mr. Ellis on just why he needed to gather his plants so near the Abbey. Wood sorrel, meadow sweet, and hawthorn were not exactly uncommon around the English countryside. Thomas is no herbalist, or botanist or anything of the sort and even he knows what those plants look like. They’re everywhere. Mr. Ellis didn’t have to go anywhere near the Abbey to find an ample supply for his stocks. What more, he’d never mentioned exactly where he lived, let alone anything about a little cottage— that had all been Thomas’ imagination.

It’s nothing egregious per say, but very suspicious and extremely suspect all the same.

Thomas sinks down slowly on one of the chairs, the almost cheery mood he’d started the day with now completely gone. How stupid is he to have been taken in yet again by a handsome face and a charming smile? Whatever Mr. Ellis had been doing up near the Abbey, gathering herbs for his potion making or some such business hadn’t been the only thing had it?

For once, just for once, couldn’t something ever go his way?

The next day, after breakfast service is done, an irritated Mr. Carson pulls Thomas into his pantry.

“When I agreed, and I’ll have it noted, agreed to it against my better judgement, to allow you to take another half-day a scant two weeks after your last one and at the same time as James took his, it was with the express understanding that you would use it to good advantage and return fully able and ready to perform the work required of you to the highest standards. I do not see evidence of this having occurred Mr. Barrow! You are more distracted and jumpier than ever! Were I less generous, I would accuse you of having taken advantage of His Lordship’s unparalleled generosity and sack you here on the spot! But I am, so I will give you one final warning and one more chance Mr. Barrow. Get it together! We have much work to do before this Halloween soiree and I would not see you forcing James and Alfred to take up your slack simply because you are too delicate to handle a bit of pressure. Now the Victorian floor mirror, the mahogany one, must be taken out of storage and given a thorough dusting off and polishing. I trust, just barely, you will be able to oversee James and Alfred in handling this endeavour. Do not, as they say, muck this up Mr. Barrow! Now get on with it!”

Thomas barely contains his seething rage as he stalks out of Mr. Carson’s pantry. He doesn’t think for a minute that Mr. Carson hadn’t meant every single possible interpretation of the word delicate when he’d used it.

What a total, utterly sanctimonious, priggish arsehole.

For the rest of the week, Mr. Carson barely gives Thomas a moment’s rest, his bushy-eyed disapproval present around every corner he turns and in every direction he happens to look. The presence of the ghosts beginning to bleed into the morning time is of particular trouble to Thomas who had found comfort in the certainty that his mornings at least would be free from the ghastly spectres of death. Not so anymore as Samhain drew ever nearer. Like a man clutching at the salvation of a single floating piece of flotsam in the ocean, Thomas clutches at the charm Mr. Ellis carved for him, hidden deep in his livery pockets. Suspicious character that Mr. Ellis may be, there’s no question that his charm works. Though still entirely too present, not a single ghost has looked his way or spoken to him since that night. Out of paranoia, Thomas has kept Madame Merryweather’s satchel and iron amulet in his other pocket too, just in case they are managing to help in some way unbeknownst to him.

The runes also work so she is not a complete charlatan either, and he has snuck them on every available wall he can get away with so thankfully, the presence of ghosts in the servant’s dining hall and in his bedroom have been eradicated and he is both sleeping and eating a bit better now.

Mrs. Hughes notices the day before the Halloween party. “You seem a bit better rested, Mr. Barrow,” she says with a kindly smile as they wait to be able to take their mid-day luncheon. Miss Baxter, hovering nearby, gives a tiny, almost nonexistent nod of agreement.

“You are looking much better,” Anna chimes in with the weird smile she always has for Thomas like she’s trying to be friendly but also feeling very uncomfortable doing it.

It irritates Thomas, it all irritates him, them acting like they care. It irritates Thomas yet more that something deep inside of him basks under the care, yearning for more like a flower straining for sunlight.

The scathing retort he has waiting on his tongue is only stopped by the bustling entry of Mr. Carson who proceeds to take five minutes to berate Thomas in front of the whole table for his unseemly behaviour at luncheon service. Trust Carson to choose the exact moment of Thomas’ distraction to come sailing into the dining room so he could witness Lady Mary trying to get his attention for a refill of her water glass. In Thomas’ defence, the appearance of the mangled peasant had been extremely startling, even more so because she had been so mangled her face had been barely recognizable as human.

The 31st of October is a rare clear morning and begins with Thomas coming immediately face-to-face with William Mason the moment he opens his bedroom door. The rest of the day runs much the same, ghosts hovering every which way he looks. Worse, where they had been transparent in prior weeks, they have become more solid in appearance, so much so that Thomas has trouble discerning them from living humans sometimes. It’s a problem during the party when guests, people who Thomas are not very familiar with, arrive decked out in elaborate costumes, some in period dress so similar to what some of the ghosts wear that he finds himself hesitating to offer up drinks and canapes to them until he’s completely sure they’re actually alive and there.

“I say Mary,” a posh voice rings out in haughty tones. “Has service slipped so far you’ve been forced to accept ninnies and idiots amongst your staff? I was all but required to perform a dance to get your servant’s attention.”

“I do apologise Larry,” Mary says, sailing over to Larry Grey in a swirl of lace and colourful feathers, all part of her elaborate peacock get-up. Grey himself is dressed as a Regency era aristocrat. “The staff have been working ever so hard to get this party together. I’m sure it’s just tiredness. Now Larry, I know it seems rather strange and only for women but I don’t see why men shouldn’t have a go at looking into the mirror to find their spouses, so…” Lady Mary tilts her head at Mr. Carson, and Thomas just knows they exchanged a look, before disappearing into the Green Room with Grey in tow, her voice fading out of hearing.

Across the room, Mr. Carson shoots him what he can only describe as the evil-eye. There’s a possibility he might find himself sacked tomorrow now that Lady Mary is complaining. Thomas thinks he manages dinner service admirably but the increasingly dark looks he’s getting from Carson and the pinched look Lady Mary shoots him say otherwise.

In lieu of after-dinner drinks in the drawing room, the guests are drawn out to the lawn to enjoy a roaring bonfire, which the outdoor staff have been stoking since the early hours of the morning, along with mugs of hot apple cider or hot chocolate.

Just as Thomas is distributing some of the mugs to the guests, after having to carry them a frankly ridiculous distance from the kitchens, Mr. Ellis arrives.

“Hello Mr. Barrow,” he says in his broad Yorkshire tones as he steps out of the shadows and into the ample circle of light thrown by the bonfire. He is dressed in an overcoat that accentuates the broadness of his shoulders and a stylish fedora sits atop his handsome head. Thomas freezes, wariness and irritation warring with excitement and joy over the sudden appearance of the other man.

“Barrow?” Comes Lord Grantham’s puzzled voice. “Who’s this?”

Thomas finds to his horror that most of the party guests are looking at him, the firelight gilding decorative masks and elaborate headdresses in gold and shadow. Mr. Carson looks the most enraged Thomas has ever seen him, bushy eyebrows almost writhing with fury. Jimmy and Alfred look on with undisguised fascination, serving trays forgotten in their hands.

“Don’t worry about them love,” Mr. Ellis says. “They’re unimportant.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Carson sputters out, but that’s the furthest he gets. Like magic, something comes over the party and one-by-one their expressions glaze over and their attentions return to their drinks and the conversations they’d been having before Mr. Ellis’ arrival. Alfred and Jimmy return to offering out drinks and Mr. Carson’s expression returns once more to his usual look of stern disapproval. No one seems to remember Thomas is there, even the baroness he’d been presenting his tray to smoothly changes the course of her hand from a mug handle to waving Jimmy over as he moves past.

Thomas turns to stare at Mr. Ellis, fearful and wary as his mind struggles to make sense of all the clues he’s been given. He takes an unconscious step away from Mr. Ellis, the tray of drinks he’s holding coming up between them like the world’s most pathetic barrier. “What happened to them? That was you, wasn’t it? You’re… I don’t know what you are, but you’ve not been truthful with me, not entirely. I’m sure of that. What were you doing so close to the Abbey that night? Hawthorn grows just about anywhere you like to look around here, so does wood sorrel and meadowsweet, you needn’t have been so near to collect what you needed. And you never even gave me an answer about where you lived, just pointed over your shoulder, and I just accepted it, for some reason.”

“Mr. Barrow,” he says, taking a step closer to Thomas. He stills when Thomas edges away . “Alright, I see. I understand, things are confusing, but please, if you hear me out, I promise, all will become clear.”

“Okay then,” Thomas says heart fluttering with fear and anxiety.

Mr. Ellis pauses for a moment, eyebrows creased in thought, and then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Before Thomas’ very eyes he begins to change. The edges of him blur and shift and when they come back into focus, he is no longer as Thomas knew him but something different; strange and otherworldly, monstrous and beautiful.

A pair of horns swoop gracefully from atop his head, nestled amongst locks of neatly shorn hair that gleam gold and copper in the flickering firelight. His face has narrowed a touch at the jaw and widened at the cheek, giving it a fox-like quality but his eyes remain the same, twin jewels as deep and blue as the summer sky. Firelight glints off sharp, pointed teeth and when he turns his head, Thomas can see his ears are pointed as well. He is clad in a flowing white linen shirt and black fitted trousers and about his waist, a golden sash hangs. His feet are bare on the cold ground.

Thomas is at a complete loss for words. He can only stare in slack-jawed amazement at the sight before him, marvelling that no one else around him seems to notice this otherworldly creature in their midst.

“I’m of the Sidhe, of the Aos Si to be more accurate. The fae to use simpler human terms. I prefer to be called Elisedd though Richard, Mr. Ellis or any combination thereof remain accurate.” Though his appearance has changed so drastically, Elisedd’s voice remains the same. “I don’t mean to frighten you Mr. Barrow. I never meant to. That night outside the Abbey, you’re right, I wasn’t entirely truthful, but it was meant with the best of intentions. I was there for you. I hadn’t seen you in a while and you had me worried. I wanted to come see you, see if you were alright. And I also knew you’d need my help with the spirits of the dead. What with the Sight finally coming to you but still being as you are, I knew you’d be confused and frightened. The basket of herbs was just a plausible explanation for all that. And as for why I didn’t tell you where I lived— well I’m fae and I can’t lie. I could hardly tell you yet that I lived in the fairy realm, so I simply avoided answering, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Ellis or Elisedd, Thomas supposes, is clearly speaking words but most of it hardly makes a lick of sense to him. Despite his confusion, he still finds his heart leaping at phrases like wanted to come see you and I was there for you.

He takes a deep breath and gives himself a small shake. “But how– why would you feel that way about me? I’ve never seen you before last week, I hardly know you! And– and why would you say the Sight is finally coming to me?”

“To answer your first question, I do know you,” Elisedd says, making Thomas’ heart jump again, but this time with worry and alarm. “The glade, by the old servant’s burial site. That’s near the entrance to the fairy realm.”

“The cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“The cemetery where I—”

“Where you sit and smoke, read books and do crosswords, nap and daydream. Sometimes you brought your secret assignations there, though not in the last few years that I saw. And sometimes you go there when things seem to get too much.”

“You—” Thomas shakes his head, feeling disturbed and confused, even a little bit angry. “You’ve been watching me! Spying on me more like! How long? And why?”

Elisedd draws himself up at Thomas’ accusative tone. He’s still just a smidge taller than Thomas but he seems to tower over him anyways. “I’ve never spied on you! You’re the one who came into the glade, right up to our doorstep. At first I kept watch to make sure you weren’t making trouble. But then, you kept coming back and I couldn’t help but notice, well, how beautiful you are and so I kept watching you. Beings like me, we like beautiful things, you know.”

“I’m not a thing!” Thomas snaps, reluctantly flattered even as anger wars with fear and confusion for dominance.

“Of course not,” Elisedd agrees quickly. “Of course you’re not a thing, and I don’t think of you like that. If I did, I'd have stolen you years ago, had my fun then left you to wander without a single thought to your well-being.”

Thomas’ eyes widen with alarm, fear winning out. He takes a step back, the drinks sloshing dangerously on the tray sitting half-forgotten in his hands. “Stolen me away? You’ve been watching me since I first started working at the Abbey, all without my knowing. Is that what you’re going to do now? Steal me and— and—” He struggles to remember something, anything of fae in folktales, but his parents had not been the sort to read fairytales to their children at bedtime– Bible passages being more their suit– and in adulthood, Thomas had read other things. His knowledge is sorely lacking.

“No that’s not— you’re misunderstanding me.” Frustration rushes over Elisedd’s face. He huffs in annoyance and before Thomas can react, Elisedd is suddenly in his space, a hand holding his chin in a firm yet gentle grip. “I’m calling in that favour you said you’d like to owe me. You’re going to calm down now for me, Mr. Barrow. No struggle, no protests,” he says, a strange vibration entering his voice.

Thomas goes to protest but then he recalls that it’s true, he did say he’d like to owe Elisedd a favour and if this is what he’s asking… Thomas finds himself calming just as Elisedd said, his mounting panic suddenly draining away into non-existence. The immutable calm that follows is as alarming as everything else he’s learned tonight but he can’t seem to muster up the wherewithal to be concerned about it.

“There, we are,” Elisedd croons. He looks down at the drinks tray still balanced on Thomas’ hand between them and tuts under his breath. “Let’s get this out of the way shall we?” His hand slides under the tray beside Thomas’ hand, their fingertips brushing and then suddenly the silver tray and the mugs of cider on it disappear in a burst of glowing fireflies. They flit about Thomas’ head for a moment before rising, up, up into the night sky until they look like nothing more than sparks rising up from the bonfire. Thomas finds himself only to be mildly impressed.

“Much better,” Elisedd says. “Now, Mr. Barrow, let me show you. I’m not stealing you away at all. In fact, you agreed to this, you agreed to everything, with all your heart.” Then he steps closer, into the empty space the tray used to occupy and plants a tender kiss on Thomas’ lips and suddenly, Thomas remembers everything. Stealing away to the cemetery in the middle of the night last summer, when he and Jimmy hadn’t yet patched things up and he’d been dragged down with the weight of a thousand maudlin thoughts. In the glade, under the light of a full moon, he’d considered, very seriously considered, drowning himself in the creek he knew to be a ten-minute’s walk away. That was when Elisedd had appeared, when they had danced and he’d made his offer to Thomas.

“That wasn't a dream? I thought that was a dream. I had it that night after we met,” Thomas says, his tone of voice dreamy even as he fishes for a terror he knows he should be feeling but simply isn’t there.

“No love, not a dream— a memory.” Elisedd strokes a gentle hand down the side of Thomas’ face. “You said you’d stay with me forever. And the only way you can do that is to become one of what I am.”

Before he can quite stop himself, Thomas finds himself briefly nuzzling his cheek into the palm of Elisedd’s hand, enjoying the sort of touch he hasn’t felt in a while. Irritation at himself flares but drains away immediately and the most Thomas can manage is to pull his cheek away to give Elisedd a narrow-eyed look. “You’re turning me into a fae,” he says, tone not quite as flat and disapproving as he’d like it to be.

“Always a quick one Mr. Barrow.” Elisedd smiles with approval and admiration, moving his hand down to rest on the side of Thomas’ neck. The touch is equally as appealing there and Thomas finds himself nearly purring with pleasure. “Yes, love. It’s taken a while, as all such things do, but tonight you’re ready to complete your transformation, to do away with your human flesh and become one of the fae. Then I’ll take you away from this world that has hurt you so and we’ll be together forever, free and unfettered. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I know you would. I’ve seen it in your heart.”

And curse Elisedd if he isn’t right. Thomas just wants to be free and to be free to love and to be able to make his own choices and be his own man. “I do, but you’ve hardly given me a choice here. You didn’t explain a thing about this to me. And what more, what makes you think, you’re the one I’ll want to be together with forever?”

That seems to strike a nerve and Elisedd’s expression turns sharp and dangerous. “You agreed, love, to be mine. Forever.”

Thomas feels too calm to be overmuch afraid of challenging an immortal being with powers unknown over a few key details. “You hardly told me a thing about what I was agreeing to, and I thought most of it was an extraordinary fever dream even while it was happening. If anything, none of it should count.”

A muscle in Elisedd’s jaw ticks and his grip tightens fractionally on the side of Thomas’ neck, before something seems to relax in his expression and he suddenly looks inexplicably pleased. A thumb gently strokes Thomas’ pulse point and his heart skips a beat.

“I suppose you could say that’s true,” he says in a silky tone. “But now that I’ve told you and you know it’s not a dream. Now that you know that you’re to become one of the fae, that you’ll live for an eternity, and you’ll be able to live as you like and be as you like. Love who you like. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn’t have agreed to it anyways had I explained it all earlier?”

Thomas opens his mouth to refute Elisedd, but hesitates. Elisedd waits, a knowing smile growing on his face as he struggles for an answer. “Well, I suppose. Yes, it’s true. I would have. But it was still awfully presumptuous and most of all, I hardly know you. In fact, most of what I know of you right now is that you’re incredibly overbearing and presumptuous. And for all you claim to know me, all you’ve done is see me by myself in the cemetery, you can’t possibly really know who I am.”

“I do,” Elisedd says with conviction. “I’ve looked into your heart, a skill that all fae have, and I know you. I know you to be far kinder than you’ll ever let on with a strong sense of justice and a mischievous and mercurial streak that’ll keep things interesting. And that you’re lonely and hurt and far sadder than you’ll ever let on. And when you’re fae you can look into my heart too and know me as well. Everything else, that will come with time.”

Thomas finds his defences softening, the heartfelt way Elisedd spoke of him capturing him in a way no other words ever have. He’s teetering dangerously. This is a bad idea, he’s sure, but what Elisedd is promising is too appealing to ignore.

“What if we get tired of each other?” Thomas says in one final protest. “Eternity is a long time.”

“It is,” Elisedd agrees. “Some straying is only natural, but I know we’ll find our way back to each other. Always.” Then Elisedd leans in the rest of the way and kisses Thomas again, this one just as tender as the last. Thomas feels the last of his doubts slipping away, draining away just as his panic did. Without thinking, he opens his mouth to Elisedd and the kiss deepens. Elisedd’s hands come up to cup his face and the back of his head and Thomas brings his own hands up to hold Elisedd’s waist, feeling possessed yet also like he possesses in return. When the kiss comes to its natural end Thomas feels drunk and giddy like he’s been dancing on the moonlight again.

“What happens now?” He says, even as he leans in to plant a kiss on the corner of Elisedd’s jaw.

“The main event, of course,” Elisedd replies, looking all too pleased. “A small thing first, however,” and Thomas feels a nimble hand slip into his trouser pockets. When it emerges, Elisedd has the satchel and iron amulet from Madame Merryweather in hand. He flings both into the bonfire and Thomas can see a circular burn where the amulet touched his skin. He makes a noise of alarm as he pulls Elisedd’s hand towards him. Before his eyes the wound begins to heal and seconds later there is nothing but clear unblemished skin.

“Cold iron,” Elisedd says by way of explanation when Thomas looks up with a questioning frown. “It burns our skin. Your Madame Merryweather did try her best, but there was nothing that was going to stop this from happening and she should have known better.”

Foreboding ripples up Thomas’ skin. “Don’t hurt her,” he says.

“Of course not love,” Elisedd says. “Just a little trick to remind her not to interfere in the matters of the fae. Now, put that from your mind. It’s time for the main event.”

Suddenly, Thomas is seated on living vines and tree branches, twisting and curling artfully together into the shape of a chair. Before him, the party guests still recline on the grass in a loose circle about the bonfire while Mr. Carson, Alfred and Jimmy have vanished, presumably for their supper. Further out, Thomas can see the shadowy forms of drifting ghosts.

Elisedd steps forward and in a raised voice that rings loud and clear, addresses the gathering of humans and ghosts. “Tonight, we gather to bear witness to and celebrate an event of great significance.” Here he takes a dramatic pause. “The transformation of Thomas of the Barrow from one of simple human nature to that of the eternal fae.”

Elisedd turns back to him and Thomas sees he now holds in his hands a drinking horn and an apple. He offers both out to Thomas. “Drink of our mead and eat of our food,” he intones. “And the transformation will complete.”

Thomas hesitates for the briefest of moments, but calm ripples over him and he reaches to take the horn in one hand and the apple in the other in a mirror of Elisedd’s gesture. The apple is small, round and perfectly golden in colour. It is the most delicious looking thing Thomas has ever laid his eyes on. He bites into it— the texture is crisp, the juice sweet and bright with the flavour of summer. He devours the fruit until nothing but the core is left then turns his attention to the horn inside which sloshes mead of the deepest honey gold. It is equally as sweet and flavoursome and Thomas closes his eyes, drinking eagerly of every last drop.

When he is done, he opens his eyes to find that his audience has grown substantially. Standing in the firelight, the servant’s of Downton Abbey have now arrived, standing equal to their betters, all still and watchful. Further out, the spectres of the dead congregate, spread out as far as the eye can see. And amongst them all, strange otherworldly beasts and beings stand, possessing all manner of appearance both monstrous and beautiful. Beings like Thomas recalls from his dreams stand in and out of the boundaries of the firelight, animal heads casting strange shadows on the ground. Creatures as small as the tiny winged fairies of children’s tales hover in the air overhead and at their feet, creatures that look no different from rocks or mushrooms gather in grey and brown patches. Thomas can only presume these are the fae. All look solemnly on Thomas.

“Are they all gathered… for me?” Thomas asks, puzzled.

“Yes, of course,” Elisedd replies like it is a simple fact of nature.

Before Thomas can reply, he feels it then, deep in his bones, first as a small ripple then a tidal wave, a great shifting feeling as if the very shape of him is changing. It is not painful, but it is strange as the world tilts and twists around him. When it resolves, the angle it settles on is no longer one he is familiar with but feels entirely right and natural anyways.

He shakes his head to dispel the sudden dizziness and notes a strange weight atop his forehead. When he lifts a hand to investigate, he feels something that seems very much like horns.

“Here love, look upon your new self,” Elisedd says. With a wave of his hand he summons a hand mirror made of twisting branches of silver and gold, adorned at the top with a single jewel that shines with reflected firelight, and holds it up for Thomas to peer into.

He tilts his head from side-to-side in consideration of his new reflection.

His colouration has stayed the same and his features remain recognisably Thomas Barrow, but like Elisedd, there is an animal-like quality to them now and like Elisedd, he too has a pair of horns, though shorter and more compact in form. His ears have become pointed, his eyes now a luminescent silver, like the full moon. No more does he wear the livery of a human servant but now he wears a fine linen tunic and fitted trousers, both black as night and about his waist a sash of silver is draped. His feet are bare as well. Most noticeable of all, two pairs of wings fluttering from his shoulders, shaped like dragonfly wings and smoky-black in colour, struck through with lines of the finest silver.

“Beautiful,” Elisedd says, reverent. “Are you pleased then, my love?”

“Very,” Thomas says, for indeed, how else should he feel about so fortunate a change? When he smiles, he can see, he too now has sharp pointed teeth.

Elisedd smiles, wide and joyful and turns to face the crowd. “The transformation completes!” He shouts grandly. “Rejoice fae! Celebrate and be glad! For we welcome tonight, a new one amongst our number, Tomas of the Sidhe! ”

A cheer goes up, a wild, joyful clamour of stomps and snorts, growls and shrieks. Music springs up and the fae begin to dance, grabbing up human partners and other fae alike. Some even try to take the spirits of the dead through a turn or two, though most seem largely uninterested in taking part. The dancing is unrestrained, strange, and wild.

“Shall we dance then, Tomas of the Sidhe?” Elisedd says, holding out a genteel hand for Tomas to take. He laughs to see such refined manners from one such as they, but lays his hand in Elisedd’s anyways. Elisedd smiles as he guides them into the throng of dancers and soon they are caught up in the strange and wild movements as well.

“Is that my new name then, Tomas of the Sidhe?” Tomas asks. He’s careful with the pronunciation, testing out the sound of each syllable, the syllable which sounds like toe and the second, which sounds like moss.

“Do you not like it?” Elisedd says as he guides them skillfully through the crowd. Tomas finds his feet taking each step with perfect ease even though he’s never even seen the dance before.

Tomas shakes his head quickly. “It’s acceptable, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem like much of a change does it? I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” he adds quickly. “Considering you’re the one who’s given me the name.”

“Not at all my darling. You’re welcome to change it for something that suits you better. Or you’re welcome to do away with any name entirely if you like. Fae often do not possess names. There is power in a name after all and that power is removed if one simply does not have a name at all.”

“You have a name,” Tomas says, but Elisedd shakes his head.

“I have some things I can be called, to make things easier when I traverse other realms, but they are not my name. I have no name.”

Tomas nods and suddenly the music changes and so too does the dance. He and Elisedd spin together for a moment then spin away to other partners. And so it goes, Tomas moving through a few partners until he suddenly finds himself arm-in-arm with Jimmy.

“Hello Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy says, eyes unnaturally bright with a glazed look to them, an unfettered smile on his face. His eyes slowly sweep over Tomas’ form with blatant appreciation, ending on his face with a look of open admiration. “You’re looking ever so handsome tonight.” His tone is flirtatious, the one he usually uses on Ivy when he’s trying to charm her.

For a moment, Tomas is sure Jimmy has mistaken him for someone else, a woman of similar colouration and height he has been admiring, perhaps. Then, he realises, Jimmy addressed him by his old name. There is no mistake.

“Why thank you Jimmy,” he answers with a coy smile even as he tilts his head in careful study of Jimmy, as if he can glean the answers just from the human’s face. Suddenly, he realises that he can, he can see all the answers to his questions. He can see past every shadowy layer, every obfuscation, right through into the heart of what makes Jimmy Kent Jimmy Kent. Every secret, shameful or otherwise is now laid bare for Tomas’ examination and what he finds is astonishing. This must have been how Elisedd came to know him. An extraordinary gift of the fae to see into the hearts of humans and it is now Tomas’ as well.

At first he finds attraction, sharp, bright and lustful. But it is just the surface, a thin veneer over a well of darker emotions; fear, doubt, hatred, revulsion. The deeper he goes the better he understands. Jimmy Kent, Tomas now knows, is one who finds both men and women equally appealing. But prejudice taught by society and life has made Jimmy fearful and revolted by this side of him, made him turn his back on it, forcing it into the shadows, never to be acknowledged.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you that,” Jimmy continues contemplatively. “But I think it all the time.” His eyes flick to Tomas’ lip and he smiles coquettishly when he glances up at Tomas again.

The admission is genuinely startling to hear. The fae charms are reducing Jimmy’s inhibitions, allowing him to feel comfortable enough to express this side of himself. Thomas Barrow’s old feelings rise up and suddenly Tomas is filled with excitement and hope, but also anger and bitterness. If Jimmy were nearly the same as him and knew it all along why couldn’t he have been even just a little bit kinder to Thomas last summer? Why had he treated him with such contempt and malice for so long?

He is not sure who it is that leans forward to kiss Jimmy Kent, Thomas Barrow or Tomas of the Sidhe, but kiss they do. Jimmy groans with delight, his mouth opening up eagerly to Thomas or Tomas, tongues tangling lewdly in the open air. The dance continues on around them as Tomas dips a hand to fondle Jimmy between his legs and Thomas slips a reverent hand into Jimmy’s beautiful golden hair. Thomas is the one who gentles the kiss, turns it sensual and romantic and Tomas is the one to turn it rough, almost brutal again. Jimmy takes it all greedily, mewling with wonton desire.

“Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy says, his eyes feverish with arousal, cheeks bright with colour. “Please can we— I need you to—” Tomas slips an obliging hand downward again, caressing the hardness straining against the cloth confines of his trousers. Jimmy moans, his hips thrusting mindlessly against Tomas’ hand, heedless of the eyes they are drawing.

Tomas can sense Jimmy’s climax approaching and Thomas yearns to find somewhere quieter so the both of them can— Tomas draws up the memory of Jimmy’s face, the small twist of a sneer, before the dance hall from last week and Thomas goes quiet and fades away.

Tomas spins away from Jimmy at the last moment, laughter ringing out as he takes to the air for the first time with his brand new wings. He alights, invisible to the human eye, into a nearby tree to watch the results of his actions or lack thereof.

Jimmy stumbles through the frolickers, arousal a prominent shadow between his legs as he calls out in confusion for Mr. Barrow. A shadow appears next to Tomas and he turns to find Elisedd sitting on the branch beside him watching him, expression dangerously mild.

After a moment he says, “I know I said we might stray from each other love, but I had hoped it might take a century or two before we needed an interlude from each other.”

“It was a trick,” Tomas says, avoiding Elisedd’s gaze to track Jimmy’s progress.

“Is that all it was?”

Tomas opens his mouth, intending to say, yes, of course, but the words stick in his throat and bile, acrid and bitter, rises up in its place. He finds himself coughing and gagging.

“Remember love,” Elisedd’s tone is mild. “Fae can’t lie.”

The feeling only recedes when he stops attempting to say the false words. He is relieved when, “It seems to be rather complicated,” makes it out of his mouth unhindered. “Residual feelings from a previous life,” he adds.

Elisedd is quiet as he watches Tomas for a few very long moments, before he nods in seeming understanding. “Understandable, I suppose. This new life is only hours old and the old will still have an effect for some time. I don’t mean to try to threaten or control you, darling. I wouldn’t, in fact. I wouldn’t like it. But know I’m not above a bit of trickery to get the outcome I want.”

“I know,” Tomas says. If he had still been human, the implications would have been sinister and alarming, but now Tomas expects it, welcomes it even, keen to see just what Elisedd might come up with and what he could come up with in reply, should it come to such things. “But like you told me, give it time. I already think you’re far more interesting and handsome than Jimmy ever could be.”

This seems to please Elisedd, just as intended. Tomas leans forward to kiss him then, drawing a pleased sound from him as the kiss lengthens. There’s no heat behind it, just warm sensuality and an exchange of the first blushes of affection and they draw away from each other moments later. Tomas can’t resist laying one more brief kiss on his lips much to Elisedd’s amusement.

“So if that’s the trick you play on someone you still half-like then what do you do to someone you don’t like at all?” Elisedd asks with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Tomas tilts his head in consideration. “Is this a theoretical ask or are you looking for a practical demonstration?”

“You’re new to being a fae,” he says with airy casualness. “So many new things to learn.”

“Of course,” Tomas says obligingly. “Practice makes perfect after all.”

“And what better time to practice than now?”

Tomas watches the festivities with a considering eye. He catches sight of Lady Mary carousing with Anna, both laughing as they hold each other’s hands and spin.

Tomas smiles in sudden delight. “How fitting I should think,” he says. “That master should become servant and servant should become master. A feast for my former cohorts for none have yet had a chance to sup, and it shall be served to them by their so-called betters.”

Elisedd smiles, a grin full of sharp teeth. “An excellent idea, darling.”

They can find no suitable glade so one is made, wide and grand, to serve as their dining hall, in view of the starry night sky. Tree branches and vines of ivy and wisteria are coaxed and woven together to create a large and majestic dining table and seats.

With a nod, Tomas summons his guests and his erstwhile servants.

The servants of Downton drift into the glade first: Anna, Mrs. Hughes, Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, Miss Baxter, followed by Jimmy, Alfred, Mr. Bates, Mr. Carson, the hallboys and assorted maids who came and went like a revolving door to the point where Thomas could hardly remember their names, and the outdoor staff, roused from their slumber to join the festivities. Tomas takes a seat at the place of honour, Elisedd, across from him and the rest take seats at random about the table. A wave of his hand and the table is set with the flatware of the finest silver and drinkware of the most delicate glass.

Tomas considers the servant’s attire, the demure blacks and whites cut from cheap cloth of the indoor servants, the grease and grass stained uniforms of the kitchen and outdoor staff. “That won’t do at all, not for this feast” he murmurs and with a grand gesture the air around each servant shimmers. When it settles each servant is dressed in suits and gowns made of fabrics so fine and exquisite it would bring any human weaver or tailor to tears just to touch such a thing. The gowns are encrusted with jewels of starlight and the shadow of the moon and upon each brow he lays coronets and tiaras wrought of the finest silver and gold and set elaborately with the rarest of gemstones.

On a whim he adorns his own brow with a coronet and Elisedd’s too, both more elaborate than the rest, as well as their fingers with rings weighty with gemstones that glimmer brightly even in the low candlelight. He turns their linen tunics into that of the finest silks and luxuriates at the exquisite feel of it against his skin while he watches each servant exclaim over their new attire. He smiles with satisfaction as Anna and Miss Baxter and Daisy marvel at their silk gloves and artfully styled hair.

With a tilt of his head, he summons tonight's servants. They enter the glade in a procession led by Lord Grantham carrying a carafe of wine filled with the finest vintages from Downton Abbey’s wine cellars. He is followed by Lady Grantham and Lady Mary and then the rest of the lords and ladies each bearing platters filled to overflowing with the finest meals Downton Abbey has ever offered in its storied history or will ever offer into its foreseeable future, dishes such as roast pheasant, swan and boar, meat pies stuffed full of quail egg and venison, spiced curries, fluffy souffles, jellies, creamy soups, elaborate cakes, ice creams, tarts and more.

They stand in an obedient circle around the table, heads held high and shoulders pulled straight, attempts at inscrutable servant’s blank on their faces that look more like someone suffering from mild constipation much to Tomas’ amusement. With a wave of his hand, he bids them to begin their service, each lord and lady obligingly circling the table, offering their platter to each guest to select a preferred morsel from. Lord Grantham, obligingly follows after, filling glasses with ruby red wine as he goes.

Tomas watches it all with a smug smile.

Movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention to Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates off to his left, both digging enthusiastically into their plates. His lip curls as an idea comes to him. He waves his hand and both men pause looking contemplatively at their plates, before lowering their faces down into the food. Soon they are snorting like pigs and feeding like ones too, sauce and food smearing in their hair and on their faces indiscriminately as they chase their food about with their mouths, knives and forks forgotten in their hands. The feeding becomes enthusiastic to the point where Mr. Carson falls to the floor beside the table on his hands and knees chasing the food that has fallen there like a dog looking for scraps.

Tomas laughs to watch it. Anna’s slightly pinched expression at her husband’s antics is the only reason Mr. Bates returns to his seat at the table. Mr. Carson seems to have no such rescuer and continues to nose through the grass for more scraps.

When the servant’s have finished gorging themselves on food fit for kings and queens, Tomas moves onto the entertainment for the evening.

“What do you have in mind to amuse our dinner guests?” Elisedd asks.

“A play, of course,” Tomas replies.

“What of?”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, what else?”

Elisedd throws his head back and laughs heartily. He reworks the dining table and chairs into a stage and seating for their guests while Tomas carefully considers his cast of would-be actors. Because he wants to see Mr. Carson wearing a donkey’s head, Tomas puts him in the role of Nick Bottom. He allows the rest of the cast to decide amongst themselves who they will play. A careful search of each mind reveals only vague familiarity with the play amongst the lords and ladies. With a smile he coaxes to the fore what knowledge there is, from half-remembered studies at school to vague recollections of attendances of plays. Then he instructs that for any forgotten part of the play that each player may simply imitate an animal of their choosing instead.

Larry Grey is the first to succumb. Playing Theseus, he’s on his hands and knees in the first second of the play mooing like a cow. It doesn’t take long before all the players are simply imitating animals on the stage. Lady Edith appears to have the strongest grasp of the play, warbling out lines in her role as Hermia while around her Lady Mary roars like a lion, rather fitting in her role as Snug, Lord Grantham howls like a wolf and Lady Grantham trumpets like an elephant while the rest of the lords and ladies add their own animalistic sounds to the cacophony.

The guests roar with laughter at the sight and Tomas laughs heartily as Mr. Carson appears on stage with a donkey’s head affixed on to it, his face peering out beneath the donkey’s muzzle, hee-hawing at the night sky as he prances about hand-in-hand with a howling Lord Grantham.

When the play reaches its end, Tomas coaxes the players off the stage and tells them to let their instincts take them where they will. The menagerie continues and with little encouragement from Tomas or Elisedd turns into a wild spinning dance punctuated by hoots and howls. A few of the men, including Larry Grey, roughhouse with each other, tearing at once stately and elegant dinner clothes and applying bruises to each other’s faces. In the shadows, a lord and lady, naked as the day they were born, neither married to each other, begin to gyrate against each other on the ground, the lady shrieking her pleasure to the air. Mr. Carson bumbles his way between his vaunted lords and ladies, hee-hawing like a donkey still.

While this happens, Tomas lines his guests up for a stately and dignified waltz, and then with Elisedd as his partner, begins leading them in a graceful line that cuts through the animalistic roughhousing and increasingly hedonistic gyrations of the menagerie. One waltz bleeds into another and by degrees, the waltzers begin to rise up slowly into the air until they are dancing on air, high above the heads of the menagerie down below. The orderly dances taper off and soon the guests are free-wheeling through the air, spinning and leaping with wild abandon, laughing and shrieking with joy all the while. Elisedd shows them how to dance the wild dances of the fae while stepping on nothing and then how to do it while using the heads of their betters like stepping stones. Tomas shows them how to rise high into the air and then dive back down again stopping just short of the ground and to do it all over again

Tomas steps back to take in his machinations. He watches with satisfaction the unfettered joy and fun of his guests floating and flying through the air while a veritable orgy of violence and hedonism goes on down below, far beneath their notice.

“What marvellous tricks you play darling,” Elisedd says, his lips curled in his own amused smile. “But look, the sun will rise soon and the hour of our departure to your new home grows near.”

And Tomas looks to the east where he sees that it’s true. “Well we can’t keep the guests up all night even if they’re having fun. Wouldn’t be fair, especially if they have to work tomorrow.”

With a wave of his hand he sends his guests to their rest on beds stuffed full of the softest down and dressed in the finest sheets of cotton. He leaves the menagerie alone.

When the time comes, the rising sun heralded by blushes of pink and bursts of fiery red and orange, Elisedd takes Tomas by the hand and leads him and a procession of their fellow fae to the glade. The spirits of the dead parts placidly before them and Tomas marvels that he ever feared them.

In the glade, a mound, a barrow, rises up, wreathed in mist and covered in grass and trees still green and vibrant as if it were still summer. Elisedd reaches out and murmurs a few words. A section of the barrow seems to fade from green into an otherworldly scene of rainbow forests and towering mountains wreathed in shimmering mist. The land of the Fae.

Elisedd steps through the portal first, his deep blue eyes shimmering with bright humour as he cocks his head to the side and playfully dares Tomas to step through. The first rays of sunlight burst over the treetops to burnish the square spires of Downton Abbey in golds and oranges, but Tomas does not look back to see any of this. Instead, he returns Elisedd’s playful smile with one of his own, steps through after him, and disappears from view.

***

In an hour or so, the servants and outdoor staff will awaken amongst piles of crisp, dry leaves, puzzled but refreshed and energised for the day, the memory of sweet and good dreams putting a smile on all their faces. They will make their way out of the forest where they will find, much to their amusement, last nights’ party guests strewn about the lawn still deep in slumber, not one wearing a stitch of clothing on them. Mr. Carson will awaken with his head pillowed on Lord Grantham’s feet while the rest of the lords and ladies will find themselves completely exhausted with the most awfully embarrassing recollections of last nights’ events.

All will refuse to speak of this lost night ever again.