A/N: Hello, dear readers. I apologise for the wait, and hope you enjoy this latest instalment :)

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1917. Somewhere in France.

The track was rough, but nothing Dickon wasn't used to. He knew how to angle himself so that the jolts of the wagon didn't hurt so much. Most of the other men had no such experience, and many of them grumbled mutinously under their breath each time their heads hit the top of the cart or they were thrown roughly against one another.

They were a mix of veterans and new recruits, travelling to a supply camp where they would be restocked, trained, and prepared for the front. It was easy to tell which ones were new, like himself, and which were returning to duty from injury or leave. The veterans had a shadow to their eyes, a darkness and bitterness that chilled Dickon's blood and made him wish that he was back in Yorkshire. He didn't want to look like that, as though he had travelled to the very depths of hell itself.

"Where you from, lad?"

It took him a moment to realise the question was addressed to him. He'd hardly spoken to anyone the entire time he'd been travelling from one military post to another. He stared at the speaker, a huge, gruff man with a grizzled black beard and crooked nose.

"Yorkshire."

"Yorkshire?" laughed one of the others, a tall gangly fellow Dickon had heard referred to as Dent. He spat in obvious derision. "Farmer, are you?"

"Gardener."

The man spat again, in exactly the same spot as before. "Pah! You won' last a week on the lines, boy."

"A week?" came a voice from near the back of the cart, the speaker's face shadowed. "I give him two days."

"He'll be crying for his ma before the first's shelling's over."

Dickon felt his hands clench into fists as several of the veterans laughed. Then the grizzled man spoke again, and they fell silent.

"Leave the lad alone."

There was a long silence. Then one of the new recruits, a nervous looking boy with an upturned nose like Dickon's, leaned towards him. "Do you have a sweetheart, back home?" he asked.

Dickon winced as the unexpected question caught him off guard, too quickly for him to protect himself from thoughts of her. He grit his teeth as images of her face came unbidden to his mind; of the sunlight glinting on her hair as she worked in the garden, her pink cheeks after their climb to the waterfall, her sparkling eyes the night of the dance in Thwaite, her body so close to his… She would be well and truly settled in London by now. Dickon coughed and swallowed, vaguely aware that he was drawing attention to himself.

"No."

"I've got a girl back home, myself," the boy chattered, apparently unperturbed by Dickon's strange behaviour. "Real gorgeous, she is. I've got a photo, if I can just find – ah, here it is – " he drew out a worn looking photograph and passed it reverently to Dickon. He looked down at the girl in the picture, a pretty girl with warm eyes and a shy smile, and tried to think of something to say.

"Wha's her name?"

"Alison," said the lad cheerfully. He took the picture back and stowed it carefully in his pocket again. "I'm going to marry her when I get home."

Dickon nodded, the words of congratulation sticking in his throat when he tried to speak. The rest of the men were silent. Dickon could feel the eyes of the grizzled man on him, watching closely. He looked up, almost challengingly, and the man stuck out his hand.

"I'm Dust."

Dickon shook it, wondering how on earth a man came by such a strange name. "Dickon."

"I'm Liam," supplied the chattering new recruit. He offered his hand to Dickon too, who shook it, feeling bemused. "From Hathersage."

"As green as the fecking grass, the both o' ye," muttered the gangly one, Dent. He made a sound as though to spit again, and Dust's arm shot out of nowhere to smack him in the chest.

"Spit again," he growled. "And I'll shove my fist so far up your arse you'll be dribbling shit for weeks."

They all laughed, even Dent, and Dickon felt something change in the air around them, as though there was a sudden warmth that hadn't been there before. He even managed a smile without having to think about it.

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1917. Somewhere in London.

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"And there'll have to be a dance, in your honour. I've already begun all the arrangements, you won't have to worry about a thing. Oh, it will be positively splendid. All the most eligible young gentlemen will be there. You must trust me, my dear, I know how to throw a good ball. Unlike that crotchety old Mrs Fitzroy, why hardly anyone even bothered to attend the last dance she threw. The music is always such a bore, and…"

Mrs Williams continued to prattle away, quite oblivious to the fact that her charge, the young Miss Mary Lennox, was not listening to a word she was saying.

Colin watched them both from the doorway to the drawing room, not bothering to alert them to his presence. His eyes lingered on Mary, and not for the first time since they'd arrived in London he wondered if there was anything he could do to make things right. On the outside, Mary was everything a young lady should be – poised, beautiful, and demure. She never raised her voice or laughed indelicately. Never acted improperly or spoke out of turn. In the five months she had been in London, everyone had remarked on what a lovely, polite, obedient young woman she was. It was only Colin who knew the truth, that this girl was not Mary at all; not his Mary at least, but a cheap imitation of her. Everything he had loved about her, everything that had made her Mary, had disappeared, and what was left was just an empty shell.

"Heavens, Colin!" Mrs Williams had caught sight of him at last. She pressed a hand to her chest and made a show of being shocked. "You devilish boy, how long have you been standing there?"

He flashed her his most charming smile, and she melted. "I'm sorry for startling you, Mrs Williams."

"That's quite alright, my dear. I wasn't aware you would be visiting today?"

"It was an impromptu decision," he said, walking forward and kissing the woman's hand. "I thought, since the weather is so fine, I might take my cousin for a ride around town?"

Mrs Williams gave him a fond look. "That would be lovely, wouldn't it Mary?"

"Lovely," intoned Mary automatically, and Colin turned his head to hide his wince.

"I was just telling Mary of the plans I'm making for her debutante ball," said Mrs Williams, pouring tea for Colin and gesturing him to sit. "I intend it to be the most talked about social event of the year."

Colin looked at Mary, knowing how much she must hate the idea. "My cousin has never been very fond of large parties…" he began tentatively, but Mrs Williams cut him off.

"Nonsense, my dear boy!" she chuckled. "Why, every young girl loves parties. Isn't that right Mary?"

"Yes Mrs Williams."

Colin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "How are your studies going?" he asked Mary, attempting to catch her eye and failing. Over the last few months she had perfected the art of looking at him and yet never quite looking at him.

"Very well, thank you."

Her flat, expressionless voice made him want to grab her and shake her. Instead, he got to his feet, leaving his tea untouched. "I think we should go for that ride now," he said. "I don't want to risk the weather changing. You know how inclement it is, this time of year."

"Of course, of course," said Mrs Williams, getting up as well. "The fresh air will do you both good. Go on now, dear, and we'll continue the party plans when you return."

Later, when he and Mary were alone in the carriage, Colin attempted to engage her in a more serious conversation. "How are you, really?" he asked earnestly, but she merely smiled; a small, tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a smile he had rarely seen at Misselthwaite, but which was becoming increasingly common in London.

"I'm fine, thank you."

He all but growled in frustration. "No you're not, Mary. You're about as far from fine as it's possible to be!"

She gazed blankly out at the passing scenery, stately terraced houses and tree-lined streets. "I don't know what you mean."

"What if I said I had news of Dickon?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and noted the way her whole body seemed to tense. She couldn't seem to help dragging her eyes to his. "Don't," she whispered tortuously, her guard down now and her emotions showing clearly on her face. Colin felt relief wash through him despite her anguished expression. So she was still in there, somewhere. He hadn't lost her forever.

"He's been transferred to France," he said in a low voice, seeing the flash of pain in Mary's eyes. "But he won't be on active duty for a while yet. First he has to be trained, then some time in the reserves line, and the supplies line, before the front. At least, that's how it should work."

"They say… they say British casualties are – are at their highest yet," she said softly, staring down at her lap. "They say… oh Colin." She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth and choked back a sob. Her chest was rising up and down in short gasps as she struggled to take in enough air, and her eyes were panicked, wide with terror.

Colin did the only thing he could think of. He moved to sit beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. "It's going to be alright," he murmured. "He's going to be alright."

She said nothing, but leant her head against his shoulder, and he felt the trembles running through her body. He held her as tightly as he could, whispering assurances, wishing he had it in his power to go to France and pluck Dickon to safety himself. After a while her trembling died down, and she was silent. But she didn't cry; Colin wondered if she had forgotten how. It seemed harder, somehow, when they were away from the garden. Away from the magic that had healed them.

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A/N: Thanks for reading, and don't forget to let me know what you think. 'Til next time, ~A