Dust, the rabbit, stood still listening with his ears cocked. His little bunny nose wiggled as he sniffed the damp air. Something was moving in the underbrush, but he still couldn't decide if it was friend or foe. He crept along the fringe of the bushes, snuffling round here and there. His nose bumped something.

A boot.

"Yah!" Dust scrambled backward from the attacker, slipping and sliding on the fall leaves. He dashed the short distance to the opposite bushes, cowering within the shelter of the leaves.

Dickon knelt, extending his hand. "Come on now, I won't hurt ye. Sorry about that, Dust. I didn't mean to scare ye."

Dust quivered in bunny anger. Yes, you did, you rotten boy. That was a deliberate attempt to scare me to death.

Dickon winced. "Well, maybe I was having just a little fun wi' ye. I didn't mean to scare you that badly though. Didn't ye know it was me? With that terrific sniffer of yours, I was sure ye'd figure out."

Soot, the old blackbird, landed on Dickon's shoulder, cawing at Dust. Silly rabbits. Scared of their own shadows, they are. Can't tell the difference between fox and a human. Not a smidgen of backbone in the whole furry body.

Dust sniffed at the blackbird. Stupid crows. Just because they can see everything by flying up, they think they know everything. Go back to your nest, old-timer.

Dickon chided them both. "Now, now. Stop it, the both of ye. You're supposed to be getting along. Each of ye is a magnificent animal in his own right. Comparing ye two would be like comparing cherries to grapes. Or was it pears to oranges? I forget. Anywho, let's just try to get along now, eh?"

A twig snapped behind him and Dust scampered away, while Soot winged his way over the trees. Dickon turned, his hand on his small knife. He sighed. It was Martha.

She nibbled her lip, fiddling with her apron. "I— I know it's been hard on ye, Dickon, but— but ye could at least visit them every once in a while. It's not like they don't care about ye anymore."

Dickon looked away and stuck his hands in his pockets. "They don't need me anymore. They've got each other. They've got the garden."

"Dickon, it's been six years you first discovered the garden—."

"Aye, six years, and Mary and Colin are engaged to each other, Lord Craven has opened the garden, and you're still working at that castle. Martha, it's over. I helped them a bit back then, but they're doing fine on their own, now. They don't need me."

"Yes, they do, Dickon—!"

"No, they don't. Are ye not hearing me, Martha? I'm not going back. I'm eighteen! I've got my own life, now!"

Martha shook with anger, her Yorkshire accent broadening. "Now, ye listen ta me, young Dickon! Ye may think that ye have yer oon life, but yer wrong, laddie buck! Ye sit aboot up here, mopin' aboot wi' yer wee animals, thinkin' aboot Miss Mary! Ye've never gotten o'er her, have ye? Yer heart still belongs ta tha wee lass from o'er tha sea!"

"She's got Colin—."

"Aye, but who've ye got? No one but yer animals, Dickon. It's not good for ye!"

Dickon scowled. "Ah'll decide what's good for me, Martha. Ah doon't need yer help."

She crossed her arms. "Ye need somebody's help, tha's fer sure." She calmed herself and her accent. "I'm just saying, Dickon. Ye need to let go of her. Interact with other humans once in a while. Ye can't spend your entire life up here on the moor."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Sure I can. I've been doing it most of my life." He walked past her to his horse.

Martha followed him, as he mounted onto the cream-colored horse's bare back. "Think about what I said, Dickon. And… come home every once in a while. Mother's getting worried. Ye can't just drop off food at the door without staying."

He bent down and kissed her cheek. "No promises, Martha."

She watched him ride off across the heath. It broke her heart to see her younger brother suffer in silence, but this was just something that she couldn't fix. He'd have to figure it out on his own.

Dust crept out to watch with her. She looked down at him and smiled. "Hullo there, little one. Are ye a friend of Dickon's? Watch out for him, will ye? He's going to need a lot of help."

The rabbit just wiggled it's nose and scampered under the heather.

"Oh, um, excuse me? Excuse me? Sir?" Paisley jumped backwards to avoid being trampled by a cart. She squeaked, dashing out of the way when she saw a carriage coming straight towards her. The blood pounded in her ears as she dodged through the fast-moving dog-carts and buggies. Why was the city so busy? (In all honesty, the "city" was actually a rather small town, but to someone from the lonely wilds of Scotland, it seemed like a rather crowded place).

She frowned as she stood to one side of the street, her English accent slipping as she expressed her consternation. "Och, all ah'm tryin' ta doo is cross tha danged street and get a ride! Is that too much ta ask?"

"I beg your pardon, madam, but are you in need of any assistance?"

Paisley turned, startled at the man who had appeared suddenly at her side. "Oh, I didn't see you there. You gave me quite a start, sir. Well, I'm not quite sure. Is there any way you could help me get across this street?"

He smiled. He was a tall, dark-haired, mustached man in a fine suit, holding a walking stick with a red pommel-stone. Paisley took notice of his silk cravat and top hat, which looked terribly expensive. "Of course, madam. Just take my arm, and I'll escort you."

Paisley took the proffered arm gingerly. "Thank you, sir."

Amazingly, they made it across safely, with several of the carriages pausing for them. When they reached the other side, Paisley thanked him, but she was puzzled. "I can't understand it. They stopped alright for you, but they completely ignored me. Even the pedestrians acted as if I wasn't there."

The gentleman chuckled. "It may be because you are a lady, and I am a gentleman. Women don't usually venture out without an escort. Might I inquire why you are doing so?"

Paisley shrugged. "You may inquire as much as you like, but seeing as we're perfect strangers, I have no obligation to answer you. As it is, I'm extremely grateful for your assistance, and I choose to reply. I'm traveling to the Misselthwaite Moors to stay with my uncle. He lives in a small house out there."

He had been taken a bit aback by her initial statement, but he expressed pleasant surprise at her last ones. "You don't say! I live out there as well. My carriage is waiting for me here, would you like to join me? I can see you as far as possible by the main road, but you may have to trek quite a while after that. The moor houses aren't usually near the main road."

Paisley bit her lip, a habit that made them red. "We-e-ell, I don't know, sir. Would it be proper to travel with a gentleman I don't know?"

"You'd have to ride with several gentlemen you didn't know if you took the carrier. It'd be much safer this way, madam."

"That sounds logical. Very well, I accept. And I'm not 'madam'; I'm 'Miss'."

"My humblest apologies, miss. You look very mature for your age."

She stared at him undecidedly. "I believe that was flattery, sir. I don't take kindly with strangers who try to get on a person's good side by giving them false compliments. I don't trust them."

"Again, I apologize."

"Your apology is accepted with my thanks for the ride you're giving me."

"Right this way, miss." He led her to a very fine carriage, waiting for them by an inn. The driver was a bit sour looking, but the four horses were magnificent. Their coats gleamed rich, glossy chestnut, and Paisley guessed that their manes would have been silken and flowing, if not for the odd looking knots they were pinned in.

The gentleman helped her into the carriage, and put her small suitcase on top, with other luggage. She settled herself there, waiting for him to finish his orders to the driver. He ducked inside, taking off his top hat and saying, "There now, it's all settled. So tell me, what's the name of your uncle?"

The carriage began moving, giving Paisley quite a jolt. "What? Oh, right. My uncle's name is Harold Burke." She paused a moment before asking, "Is the weather usually like this? Grey and cloudy, I mean."

He smiled. "On the moors? Always. Except every so often. Then we have the slightest hint of sunshine, but just as you've gotten used to it, it disappears behind the clouds until next time."

"Oh, well, I suppose I'm used to clouds. Scotland is ever so cloudy up there in the highlands. That's where I'm from."

He nodded. "I know."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you now? And how is that, pray tell?"

"I heard your accent when I first approached you."

"Ah," She colored. "I see. Going back to the weather, though, I must confess that I was expecting something a bit sunnier, but at least it'll feel like home. I don't know what I'd do without the clouds."

They continued chatting about the weather, the moors, and they even digressed into sheep, but before she knew it, she recognized her stop. "Oh, wait, hold on," She consulted a letter which she produced from her pocket her pocket, nodding. "Right, Uncle said to look for a rock wall with a red cloth stuck in one of the cracks. Look, there. Isn't that it?"

He peered out the window with her. "I do believe so. Yes, there it is." He banged on the ceiling with his walking stick, signaling the driver to halt. The carriage lurched and Paisley scrambled out, holding onto her carpetbag for dear life. The driver retrieved her suitcase and handed it to her, almost as if he was relieved she was not continuing with them further.

She shook hands with the gentleman and thanked him for the lift. He apologized that they couldn't take her further, but like a gracious young lady, she agreed with him.

The driver closed his door and he waved from within, and it was only when the carriage was already rolling and gone that she realized she didn't even know the gentleman's name. "Och, crivens."

She trudged to the wall, handling herself like a lady as she jumped over the wall with strength and precision so that she didn't land in a pile of sheep poo that lurked just beneath. She glanced around cautiously and hoisted up her skirts, marching purposefully through the heath. "Now, Uncle said to walk straight from the red cloth and eventually I'll get there. I wonder how long is 'eventually'?"

Her bags weren't terribly heavy, due to her lack of possessions, and her legs were wonderfully strong, due to her lack of idleness in Scotland, and the walk was perfectly lovely. She had heard of the famous moors that seemed to go on forever in "the bonnie wee land o' the big-britches o' England", and she was learning how right those stories were. But, as I said before, it was not a tiresome journey. She rather enjoyed it, in fact.

Paisley was about to go skipping and swinging her bags, when she saw the horse. It cream-colored and wild looking, except for the rider it bore. He was young man, about her age, strong and fierce, and she would have mistaken him for one of her people visiting if not for the fact that he was driving some sheep.

She blinked and did a double-take. No, she hadn't imagined it. He really was driving sheep from the back of the horse. He looked a bit bored though. For some reason, it irked Paisley to see someone acting so lazy on the job. Unfortunately, she'd been brought up better, and so she didn't go over and give him a right proper dressing-down. But she did glare at him pretty poisonously as she passed him.

Dickon watched the girl march past, glaring at him. What was the matter with 'er? She stopped to pet one of the sheep, which, surprisingly, didn't bit her as soon as she tried. She said something to the animal and glared at him again, before starting off again. She didn't look like she was coming back, so Dickon yelled, a bit meanly, "Oi, look at the toff, eh? Come down to say 'ello to the little fluffy pets, 'ave we?"

Paisley stood stock still. He couldn't be talking to her. He wouldn't dare. But she turned around and saw him smirking at her, and she exploded. "Ye noo good son o' a—! Ah oughter box yoor ears for talkin' ta me like tha'! Hoo dare ye call me a blinkin' toff, ye ship*-nanny! Ye're noot a gen'leman! Noot even a man! Ye're a wee babbie thinkin' he's so clever!"

Dickon blinked.

Paisley fumed.

And of course, like any sensible young lady, she stomped away angrily, leaving him in stunned silence.

His horse tossed its head. What in the name of hay was that?

"I… I think it was a woman…"

Sounded more like a sharp-fanged vixen.

"That too."

#################

* Paisley was trying to say "sheep", but her highland brogue got in the way. Also, if you can't understand what she said when she broke out in her Scottish accent, first she said, "All I'm trying to do is cross the street and get a ride! Is that too much to ask?" and when she told off Dickon, "You no good son of a—! I ought to box your ears for talking to me like that. How dare you call me a toff, you sheep-nanny! You're not a gentleman! Not even a man! You're a little baby thinking he's so clever!" Oh, and toff means a fancy rich person, or a snobbish aristocrat.

A/N: hey everybody! this fanfic is set after the events of the 1993 film, but before the events of the 2001 film, Back to the Secret Garden, with the exception being that Dickon does not die in a war like it says he does in B.t.t.S.G.