Please bear with me at the moment, I'm entering a very busy period of my life, and I realistically will only get the chance to write/upload chapters at the weekend. I will keep trying to be as regular as possible, and thank you very much for continuing to read this story. :)

Dickon was now home for good. Finally, after years of lurking terror and anticipation, the war was over. Mary couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. She wanted to scream in joy, because now her loved ones were finally safe, but in the back of her mind were all the poor men who would never make it back. Misselthwaite seemed hollow, despite it being fairly crowded with soldiers, without the familiar faces of John, the first footman, Alfred, the gardener's lad, and, almost worst of all, Charlie, the little boot boy who'd lied about his age to go and find glory. There were more, Mary knew, but those three men were the ones she had known best. John had always been the one to carry Colin around when they were 10, good-natured and surprisingly patient considering the irrational temper of the young Rajah. Mary had liked him, found his presence comforting in some way.

Alfred had been Ben Weatherstaff's young apprentice, and, although Ben had been gruff, she knew that the old man had cared deeply about him. She hadn't seen Ben recently, and she wondered how he was taking the loss. Alfred had been the only other gardener that they'd let help tend the garden once old Ben had become too stiff with his rheumatism to really do any work. Ben had sat on the bench like a Lord himself, ordering around the young lad who'd so looked up to him.

And Charlie, the boot boy, had been at Misselthwate for almost three years. Mary had taken a special shine to him when she'd found him wandering an upstairs corridor on his first day. He'd looked so lost, this little scrap of a lad with his thatch of ginger hair, that Mary had completely forgotten to scold him for venturing upstairs, and had instead escorted him back down and asked Cook to give him some toast and jam. He had, he said, wanted to see what it was like upstairs. His mother, who'd worked at Misselthwaite when "th Missus was 'ere" as a chambermaid, had told him stories of the grandeur of "upstairs", and so Charlie had snuck up to take a peek himself. He'd ended up getting himself rather lost, and had been "wanderin' 'round for hours!" before Mary had found him. He'd reminded her of one of Dickon's lost lambs, scrawny and hungry but a tough little thing.

Mary was pacing up and down in the hallway as she thought all of this, eyes darting to the grandfather clock impatiently. 6 o' clock, he'd said. It was now 6.05 and there was no sign of him. It wasn't like Dickon to be late. A soft dragging sound was coming from behind her. Without turning around, she knew that it was Colin, wheelchair making steady progress over the carpeted corridor, before coasting along when it hit the polished parquet flooring of the hallway. He came to a stop beside her. She looked down at him, expecting him to say something. He didn't.

"So, it's over."

He nodded, eyes fixed ahead.

"Sometimes I thought it would never end." Her eyes watched the seconds tick away, restlessly.

He nodded again.

"Are you listening to me?"

He nodded once more and she glared at the top of him head.

"Well, are you going to say anything back? At the moment, I might as well be talking to a brick wall." She huffed and folded her arms.

"Sorry." His voice was lifeless.

She frowned at him.

"Honestly, Colin!"

He didn't look up, didn't even nod this time.

She grabbed the back of his wheelchair and dragged him, helpless, towards the stairs.

"What are you doing?!"

She didn't answer, just positioned him beside the steps and then sat on the second one up herself, so that she was at eye level with him.

"Better?" she asked, forcing him to look her in the eye.

He said nothing.

"For God's sake, Colin! What is the matter with you?"

This time she got a reaction- a bitter laugh and a pointed look downwards.

"I'm not sure, Mary. Perhaps you could take a guess?" His tone was sarcastic and cut-off, as though he were behind a wall.

She snorted. "Oh, stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself!"

He ordained to look at her, a sneer on his face.

"Language, cousin, there are people about."

"Shut up." She could feel her temper rising, blood beginning to boil.

"I haven't said anything."

She took a deep breath before she answered. It wouldn't do to get wound up now. "That's precisely the problem."

He raised an eyebrow, giving her his most withering look.

"Really? I was under the impression that the problem was that I currently can't walk."

"Mmm," she replied, thinking about his choice of words. "Currently."

His head whipped around sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Feigning innocence, she widened her eyes. "Nothing- I was just repeating what you said."

He turned back again, eyes fixed on the wall.

"What is wrong with you today?" she asked, voice softening. "And nothing sarcastic or bitter, please- I am very much aware of your inability to walk, thank you."

His voice had no trace of anything in when he said, "I don't know."

"Really?"

He was silent for a minute.

"Elizabeth was in the library."

Mary raised an eyebrow. What possibly could have happened with Lizzie to bring on such a change in temper?

"Go on."

He took a deep breath. "She didn't really do anything wrong, I suppose. It was my fault."

"What did you do?" asked Mary, half dreading the answer. The last thing she needed was to be caught between her cousin and her best friend.

"I told her that Jane Eyre was stupid."

"Aah." Mary shook her head. "You shouldn't have done that. It's her favourite."

"I know. She told me."

"Did she tell you before or after you insulted her?"

"Before."

Mary paused and looked her cousin in the eye. "And she hurt you back?"

"Yes."

She sighed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "So now you know how you make people feel when you refuse to listen to their opinions."

He laughed bitterly. "I thought we didn't listen to opinions."

"Sometimes we do. When it's the people we care about."

"I don't care about her!" His eyes were flashing, but there was something behind that...

"Well you're hurt quite badly, so you must have cared."

Colin sighed and rested his chin on his hand. "When did you get so wise?"

"When I thought I'd lost you."

"Oh."

There was silence, and then Mary spoke.

"Maybe I'm not the only person who can handle the one and only Colin Craven. Have you finally met your match?"

She was expecting a quick put-down of that idea, but instead Colin turned slowly back to look at her, and he seemed both confused and slightly terrified.

His answer was slow and almost disbelieving. "I think I might have."

At that moment there was a quick knocking on the door. Mary felt a grin spreading across her face, but she turned back to Colin and gave him what she hoped was a stern look.

"Be nice. He's worried about you."

Colin gave her a crooked smile- a little halfhearted but Mary noted that it did at least reach his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll be the very model of decorum."

She poked him lightly on the arm, allowing herself to break into a grin again.

"You'd better be."

Dickon took a deep breath and knocked quickly on the door, hoping that it was loud enough for someone inside to hear. He was uncharacteristically nervous, his usual calm interrupted by the fluttering in the pit of his stomach. His hand went to his pocket- yes, it was still there. He had been saving for so ridiculously long, he only hoped it hadn't been for nothing. He shifted from foot to foot, anxiously patting down his hair. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime, the door swung heavily open and a bundle of lavender silk and blonde hair flung itself at him.

After the initial bone-crushing embrace had subsided somewhat, Dickon held Mary at arms length and surveyed her. His mouth broke into its wide, curly smile as he took in her sheer beauty; the piercing hazel eyes which reminded him of a particularly watchful doe; her graceful, willowy frame, which was by no means gangly; the blonde hair which was a shade or so darker than Colin's, but was no less like spun gold in the sunshine; the dainty, quick hands which were deceptively pristine; the small, full mouth which could flatten with anger or smile like no other. Oh yes, this was the lass he loved.

Right now, the mouth was pulled downwards slightly in displeasure, and the hazel eyes were reproachful.

"Tha said tha would be 'ere at 6. 'Tis nearly ha' past now!" The tone was accusing. "Where were thee?"

Her tongue flowed easily over the words, and he chuckled as he remembered a ten-year-old little wench trying to make the them come out right.

"I'm only a bi' late," he said, fixing her with his innocent stare. "Tis not ha' past at all."

"I said nearly, not that it actually was," she snapped, though her hand held his tightly. He grinned again. She always reverted to the Queen's English when she was annoyed.

"Sorry Miss," he said, bowing to her. "Might I be allowed in now, 'tis awful cold out here."

She snorted, and lead him through the doorway.

Dickon never could quite get used to the sheer size of the place. He reckoned that he could fit his Mother's cottage in here 6 times over, and that was just in the entrance hall.

His gaze swept the cavernous space until it alighted on a figure in a wheelchair, positioned to one side of the broad sweeping staircase.

Dickon's face broke into a grin again, and he strode forwards and sat down lightly on the second stair, so that he was relatively level with Colin.

"Dickon," Colin was grinning at him. Dickon breathed a sigh of relief, so glad to see his friend apparently happy again.

"What took thee so long? Thy lass was practically tearin' her hair out!"

"Eh," Dickon said, smiling happily at the thought of Mary wanting him so badly. "Mother was fussin'. She only hasn't seen me for a couple o' days- I went to see 'er before goin' back down to London. I was jes' goin' to get on th' train from there when a lad comes runnin' up sayin' as how th' War's over and we don' 'ave to fight anymore. My God," he said, shaking his head, "I've never been so glad to 'ear somethin' in all m'life!"

Mary had settled herself on the floor in front of the stairs so that the three of them formed a little triangle. She was cross-legged and her skirts were spread out around her.

"Aye," she said. "It was a graidley day for us all."

Dickon nodded. "And how's things 'ere? How're th' troops keepin' up?" He glanced at Colin as he said this, and his friend's voice seemed falsely bright as he answered.

"Eh, we're doin' alright. Mary's been keepin' busy- tha knows 'ow she likes to always be doin' somethin'."

"And how're thee doin', Colin?" asked Dickon quietly, searching his friend's face.

"Better," answered Colin, smiling sadly. "But I jes' keep thinkin' 'Why me?'"

"Aah," Dickon sighed heavily. "Tha' canna' think o' it tha' way. I' wasn't jes' thee. Look around thee. I' wasn't' jes' thee." Dickon shook his head, and his heart was heavy with loss. "How many folks did Misselthwaite lose?" he asked, half dreading the answer.

It was Mary who replied.

"Quite a lot," she said, softly. "I only knew three well- John, Alfred and Charlie- but Mrs Medlock says we've lost more. I know there were some stable boys, the third footman..." she trailed off, looking as though she were going to cry.

Dickon replayed her answer in his head.

"Charlie?" he asked, frowning. "Charlie West? That young-un?"

Mary nodded miserably.

"Bu' 'e could only ha' been 15, a' th' most!"

"He ran off," said Mary listlessly. "Lied about his age."

Dickon shook his head again and scuffed the floor with his boot. "Bloody stupid lads, thinkin' war is a game. Bloody stupid."

There was a long silence, during which none of the three friends moved a muscle. To Dickon's surprise, Colin broke the silence.

"Art thou stayin' 'ere, Dickon?"

"Umm," Dickon looked up. "I was hopin' to, if tha's got space t' spare."

Colin smiled then, a genuine smile. "O' course we've got space. A hundred rooms, remember?"

Dickon still looked a little uncomfortable. "Aye, I know that, but I thought th' house might be full, what with th' soldiers stayin' an' everythin'."

Colin shook his head. "They're mainly on th' ground floor an' in th' East wing. There's bedrooms near Mary that still 'ave no-one in 'em." He looked slyly at the two of them. "I'm sure tha' wouldna' mind, eh Dickon?"

Dickon saw Mary's foot flash out as she kicked her cousin in the shin.

"Ow!" Colin exclaimed, and then his eyes widened in surprise. Mary's eyes had flown upwards at the outburst, but it was Dickon who dared to bring up what they were all thinking, after a long pause.

"Did tha' feel that?"

Colin nodded slowly. "Aye, I think so."

The three were quiet again, wondering what it meant. Dickon was watching Mary carefully- he had an inkling as to what she was going to do next. Mary glanced at him and their eyes met. Dickon knew exactly what Mary wanted him to do. Cause a distraction. He cleared his throat and looked around the hall, as though seeing it for the first time.

"Hey, Colin, has that there picture always been there?" He pointed, and as Colin's head tilted back to look, Mary's foot flashed out again.

"Ow!" Colin exclaimed again. "What have I done now?!"

Dickon looked across at Mary. Her eyes had lit up and a smile was lingering on her lips.

"I wanted to see if tha' could still feel it if tha' wasn't lookin'at my foot and expectin' to feel somethin'," she said. "And tha' did, didn't tha'? It wasn't a trick o' th' mind?"

"Aye," said Colin, trying to sound reproachful. "I definitely did."

"Well then," said Dickon, smiling his wide smile. "We munnot give up hope yet."

And Colin's face began to glow.