"It's worse than a shame; it's a complication." O'Brien announces.
"What do you mean?" Gwen asks.
"What do you think it means?" O'Brien snaps, once they are safely downstairs. "Mr.Crawley was the heir. Now they've got to turn somebody else so [i]he[/i] can be the heir."
"I thought Lady Mary was the heir?" Gwen replies.
 "She's a girl, stupid. Girls can't inherit. But now Mr.Crawley is dead, and Patrick was his only... son." The lady's maid hesitates to use the term. It's strange. Mr.Crawley was not his father, but he did [i]make[/i] him... She pushes the thoughts from her mind and wonders if she has time for a cigarette before Her Ladyship will be done with her breakfast tray.
Gwen, meanwhile, peels away from the caustic woman as soon as possible. Thankfully, she lays eyes on Anna almost instantly. The blonde has an armload of sheets to take to the wash, and Gwen pulls half the load into her own arms. As they walk, the ginger maid asks, "So how do they find the new heir, then? Isn't it somethin' to do with Lady Grantham?"
"Yes," Anna replies, adjusting her portion of wadded up sheets. "Lady Grantham has this way, a ritual, and it, well, it shows her who the family should...turn next."Â
Gwen pulls the door open so they can squeeze through. "Really?" she gasps. "And it works? Who tells her? It's not-" she hushes her voice, although they are alone, "- the devil, is it?"
Anna fixes her with an exasperated look. "No, it's not the devil." She shrugs. "I'm not sure on the particulars of it. I just heard that's how she knew to find Lady Mary, then Lady Edith, and Lady Sybil."
"Americans," Gwen says, sounding equally awestruck and amused.
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"Do you have everything you need, my dear?" Lord Grantham asks, surveying the room. Lady Grantham glances at her ingredients, then at the merry, freshly fed fire in the hearth.
"I believe so, yes."Â
"I'll leave you to it, then." He closes the distance between them in two sure strides, and kisses her forehead. "Good luck," he murmurs. Cora smiles at him and seats herself at a small desk. She picks a bowl of some ground dark powder and moves it to the head of a queue. There must be a dozen items in differently sized bowls, arranged on the desk. Robert cannot identify any of their contents. He quietly lets himself out, and leaves his wife to her work.Â
The Earl of Grantham makes his way downstairs, idly wondering what time it is. He hear's Carson's great voice booming, "Downton is a great house-" and makes his way toward it.He is not disappointed. He sees his old friend immediately.
"Bates!" he says, joyously. He's practically beaming, though it appears he has startles the servants, as they immediately rise amid a cacophony of sliding chairs. "I do apologize, I should have realized you would all be at luncheon," he adds smoothly, stepping into the room. Of course, Carson would have told them they were all forbidden from being on the uppermost levels of the house while Cora was...preparing. The exact nature of his wife's ritual makes him anxious, so he focuses instead on the newly arrived valet. Seeing him here, knowing he can have Bates at his side puts him at ease. There's something about Bates's blood that makes Robert feel stronger, more fortified, than when he consumes anyone else's.Â
"My good man, welcome to Downton." Robert says warmly, extending his hand. Shifting his cane to his arm, Bates shakes it. "Thank you, sir." Lord Grantham takes his leave, feeling more confident already. What hunter could trouble him now, with Bates here? What hunter would dream of taking on six vampyres in one estate?Â
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That night, he sleeps alone. Cora is still divining who the next heir will be. He turns as he dreams, worry clawing at him even as he sleeps. His restless night is interrupted by a weary, "Robert?"
"Cora!" The man is sitting upright in an instant. He quickly lights a candle. He opens his arms to her, and she approaches. Her face is drawn, and ghastly pale. Her eyes lay in the middle of dark circles the colour of bruises. "My dear, are you all right?"Â
She nods, weakly, and hands him a rough sketch of a man's face. [i]Matthew Crawley[/i] is scrawled beneath it in her flowing script. It's then he notices a tray on the bedside table. There's a glass there, brimming with ruby liquid. He grasps it and hands it to his wife. "O'Brien must have made this up. It's still warm." Cora sits on their bed, gratefully sipping the offering.Â
"I'll telegram Murray about this Matthew Crawley fellow first thing in the morning," he decides, studying the face of their new heir.
