1914.

By the time of his fourteenth birthday, Colin had all but forgotten his father's threats of boarding school. So it came as an awful shock when Archibald Craven called him into his study one afternoon and announced that he would be leaving for London in one month's time.

The room seemed to shrink in upon him as he listened to his father speak in a steady, persuasive voice about the benefits of this particular school and what it would bring him. When he was finished and the heavy silence descended upon them, all Colin could do was shake his head. "I – I shan't," he said, his own voice thin and weedy as it had been in years past. "I shan't go."

But his father had a very determined set to his jaw, and deep down Colin knew it was no use. "You're to go, son," he said firmly. "I've neglected your education for far too long as it is. One day you'll inherit all this – " he swept his arm around the room, to the desk cluttered with sheets of paper, graphs and tables and other information relating to the estate. "And you must be prepared for it. I won't have Misselthwaite mismanaged due to my own softness."

"What about Mary?" he asked desperately, feeling certain at that point that he would never be prepared to manage anything. "She must come too!"

His father sighed. "Mary will go when she is sixteen, at a time when she is ready to be presented to society. There is little purpose in sending her any earlier. She is too early to marry and her current governess is doing a fine job as far as I can tell."

Colin barely heard the last part of his father's speech. His mind seemed stuck on one word. "Marry?" he repeated blankly.

His father coughed. "Well, yes, at some stage in the future we will have to begin the courting process for Mary. As her guardian it is my responsibility to find her a suitable husband."

"But that's preposterous," he said confidently. "Mary's to marry me, of course."

His father stared at him for a long time, and Colin began to sweat under his gaze. But in the end all he said was, "You will leave Misselthwaite in a month."

"But – "

"Medlock and Pitcher are making all the arrangements. Make sure you do as they ask of you."

Colin wanted to argue, wanted to throw a fit and demand to get his own way. But he remembered Mary's disappointment in him when he had done that the last time, and swallowed his complaints. Instead he muttered an obedient "Yes, sir," before turning and fleeing from the room.

He went immediately to the garden, knowing that if Mary was to be found anywhere, it would be there. And sure enough, he saw her as soon as he entered, seated on one of the old stone benches with her skirts tucked around her, the sunshine glinting on her hair and turning it golden. He opened his mouth to call out, then choked back his words when he realised she was not alone.

Dickon sat beside her, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped in a stance so uncharacteristic that it took Colin a moment to believe it was really him. Mary had her arm around his shoulders, and was rubbing his back in a slow, soothing pattern. Her other hand was entwined with Dickon's, their fingers laced together. Her head was bent to rest on his shoulder, her mouth only inches from his jaw, and her eyes were closed.

Colin felt something within him squeeze and tighten as he took in the scene before him. He took a step backwards, knowing he wasn't wanted here, that he was intruding upon something he could never hope to be a part of. But at the movement Dickon stiffened and his head jerked up, fixing on Colin with a wide, surprised stare. His normally laughing eyes were bright with pain, and there was a moistness to them that made Colin want to avert his gaze.

He opened his mouth to say something – what, he didn't know – but Mary had caught sight of him by now and beat him to it.

"Colin!" she called out, her voice not angry but holding a definite note of irritation. "What are you doing here?" She hadn't broken the contact between herself and Dickon, obviously quite unabashed to be seen holding him.

"I…" he took a deep breath and stepped closer. "I came to tell you…" she had been crying too, he could see the tear tracks on her cheeks. "I am to leave for London in a month. For – for boarding school."

Mary's gaze softened, and she looked a little abashed. "Oh," she said quietly, shifting a little on the seat to make room for him. "Well, come and sit down. We've just had some terrible news."

Colin took a few more steps closer but made no move to sit. Instead he looked at Dickon. "What is it?"

The older boy took a deep breath and made a valiant attempt to square his shoulders. "S'ma brother, John," he said hoarsely. "'E took ill a few days ago, with th' influenza. An'…well, it took 'im away in th' night, poor lad. Tha's the second for us, after little 'Beth las' month. Me poor Ma, I don' know 'ow much more she can take, what wi' Pa catchin' cold as well."

"I'll come over tomorrow," Mary said in a low, soothing voice. "Bring some chicken soup from the kitchens, and some more blankets. And some medicine, for your father."

Dickon shook his head. "Tha' munna', Mary. S'no' safe righ' now, wi' th' influenza around."

"I don't care about that," she said, but Dickon shook his head again, his jaw set firm.

"I won' have thee puttin' thysel' at risk. No' for me."

Mary opened her mouth to argue, but Colin cut her off.

"Dickon's right, Mary. It's too much of a risk. I'll have a servant take the supplies first thing tomorrow.'

She looked up at him, eyes flashing. "And what does that mean, exactly? That my life is worth more than Martha's? Than Dickon's?"

"That – that's not what I meant."

"Then what did tha' mean, Colin Craven?" she had sprung to her feet, and for all that she was a good head smaller than him he suddenly felt as tiny as a bug beneath her glare. "Th' Sowerby's are as good as family an' this is how tha' wants t' treat them?"

"I – I – "

"Don' be vexed, Mary," said Dickon, in that quiet, gentle way of his, and Mary instantly softened, becoming once again a small, pretty girl of fourteen. Colin watched the transformation with a combination of awe and bitterness, hating that Dickon had the ability to calm her so easily when he was at a complete loss as to how to make it better. "Colin's righ'. Wouldna be proper."

"A pox on proper," she answered, sounding more sad than angry. "If it's so unsafe then you shouldn't be going back at all."

Dickon smiled wryly. "Eh, don' worry bou' me. I'll be safe as houses. 'Sides, me Ma an' Pa need me righ' now. Th' little ones, too."

Colin watched as they continued to talk in soft, conciliatory voices, Mary sinking gracefully back to Dickon's side and her hand returning to his. He stood there awkwardly, his announcement all but forgotten, and felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat. Mary didn't even glance his way; she had eyes only for Dickon.

After a while the older boy looked at the sky and sighed. "Best be gettin' back now," he said. "Ma'll be needin' help, an' there's th' funeral t' arrange." His face tightened and he got to his feet.

Mary rose too, dropping his hand. "Be safe," she whispered, sniffling a little. Colin reached out a hand to pat her awkwardly on the shoulder, and she gave him a small, strained smile.

"Take all the time you need," he said to Dickon. "I'll explain to my father, if you like. And I'll have some supplies sent straight away."

Dickon looked at him solemnly. "Thank 'ee, Colin," he said. "Tha's a true friend." Then he tipped his cap and left them, a heaviness to his shoulders as though the weight of the world rested upon them.

Colin stood beside Mary in silence for a while, letting it stretch because he didn't know what else to do, before he finally nudged her. She jumped at the contact, and blinked rapidly as though she had forgotten he was even there.

"Come on," he said softly, taking her hand in his own. "Let's get you inside."

"Oh Colin," she mumbled, her face crumpling as she strove to hold back her tears. She squeezed his hand, and he felt the contact in every corner of his body. "You're such a good friend. Whatever shall I do when you are gone?"

You'll have Dickon, he thought bitterly. But he held his tongue, not wanting to ruin this moment, to bring the other boy back into the picture when he had only just left it. So instead he simply smiled and said, "It's only for a little while. Not long at all. Then we shall be together again." Forever, he added to himself. But he didn't say that either.

She was on her way to the garden when she overheard the news. Two of the serving maids were hovering in the corridor just around the corner, their voices low but crystal clear as Mary stopped to listen.

"Heard it this morning. All th' soldiers are bein' called t' fight – "

"Awful business, isn' it? I never thought it'd come t' this – "

"Me brother joined up las' year. Don' know wha's goin' t' happen t' him now." The girl made a sound as though choking back a sob.

"S'alright love," said the other in a comforting voice. "Th' war's bound t' be over soon. Why, they're sayin' it'll on'y be a month an' it'll all be finished, an' Chris'mas at th' latest. More 'n likely they won' even call 'im up – won' be a need for 'im, I spect."

"Still… "

At that moment there was a clatter of heels, and a second later Medlock's voice rang out sharply. "Enough of that, you two! Back to work right this instant, and if I see you dawdling about again I'll cancel your month's leave, so help me I will. All this talk of war, I won't stand for it! Now shoo!"

The maids murmured their apologies, and Mary quickly ducked into a room to avoid being spotted as they scurried away. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage and her skin felt clammy and cold despite the warm day outside. War? She had heard rumours about the things happening in Europe, snatches she'd overheard from the servants or coaxed out of her governess. But she had never actually thought…somehow Yorkshire simply seemed too remote, too beautiful to be touched by such a thing as awful as war.

Once she was sure she was alone again, Mary slipped out of her shelter and hurried off to the gardens, now more desperate than ever to see Dickon. She wasn't sure why – she doubted he knew any more of war than she did – but she knew that just being in his presence would be a comfort to her.

He wasn't in the secret garden. Instead she found him in the apple orchard, tending to the trees there. He smiled when he spotted her, but it was a strained smile, and from that she knew he'd heard the news as well.

"I heard the servants talking about the war," she said without preamble. "They say the fighting's about to start."

He wet his lips as though considering what to say. "Aye, so they say."

"I hate war," she said bluntly. "What a horrible, contrary thing it is."

He smiled a little at this, as she had known he would. "Aye."

"Thank goodness you won't have to fight," she said, stepping closer to him and watching his expression closely. "Sally Cotton's brother enlisted last year, I heard her telling the other maid. But you'd never go to war, would you Dickon?"

"Me?" he looked slightly taken aback. "Wha' would I do in France? I'm for growin' things, not destroyin' 'em. 'Sides, I'm too young. Tha's got t' be eighteen t' join, an' tha's more'n a year from now. Th' war'll be over by then." He spoke with such confidence that she couldn't help but believe him.

"Of course," she said, feeling better already. When she had overheard the maids she had been afraid, for just a moment, about what this would mean for Dickon. But his words now filled her with lightness, and an assurance that the war would not touch her little corner of the world, would not steal any of her magic.

"Here, Miss Mary," he said quite suddenly, and when she looked she saw that he was offering her a small, blushing apple. "Th' first o' th' season. Take it."

She beamed at him as she accepted the tiny fruit. "Thank 'ee, Dickon."

He grinned back, and she felt sure that everything would be quite alright.

A/N: Thanks to those that have reviewed. It's always good to know that someone is reading and enjoying what I post. :)