11

A year had passed since the garden was opened.

It was the best year of Mary's life. Together with Dickon and Colin, she spent every spare minute out there. They planted new flowers, weeded and trimmed the bushes - only as much as necessary, of course. Their garden was an enchanted jungle and should remain so!

Mary's uncle joined them frequently at first and the joy this aroused in Colin had been infectious. But at some point Mary had longed to return to the time when the garden had been her secret, when no one else had known about it. They could be whatever they wanted to be. There were no rules, no boundaries, the sky had been open to them.

Her uncle seemed to notice Mary's feelings, because at some point his visits became less frequent. They still ate dinner together, and Colin and his father spent a lot of time together, but when they played in the garden they were soon alone again. Instead, her uncle invited Colin and her on outings more often, to Leeds, York or the seaside. Lord Craven wanted to make up for lost time and tried both to do more with Colin himself and to show the boy the big world that had been denied him for so long.

Yes, it had been a good year.

The three of them were out on the moors. The children had sneaked out because Dickon wanted to show them the fox family near the estate. They had had cubs and the little ones often frolicked at the entrance.

The heather was in bloom and the sky was a brilliant blue, rare in the north of England. Mary could hear the bees and bumblebees buzzing and giggled as Colin stepped into a damp hole, tripped and fell. Soot flew over them screeching as if he too was laughing at the young Lord. Colin poutingly pursed his mouth after inspecting his wet trousers. His boots had protected his feet, but his knees were now all wet and brown with soil.

"How much longer do we have to go, Dickon? Surely we've left my fathers lands five times already?" he then began to moan. Colin was able to walk just as well as anyone else nowadays, and was nowhere near as pale as he had been when he was ten, but not much had changed in his impatient and complaining nature. He still tried to boss everyone around like a little Raja.

Dickon rolled his eyes with a grin and exchanged a knowing glance with Mary. They understood each other without words, they always had.

Colin watched the silent exchange and the corners of his mouth pulled down even further, if that was even possible. He reminded Mary of a carp. Then he trudged between his two friends, pacing hurriedly as if he had any idea where he was supposed to be going.

Soot settled on Dickon's shoulder and nipped at his grey flat cap. Mary stepped closer and carefully ran two fingers through the silky feathers. He was all soft and warm and the girl was suddenly taken back a year when she and Dickon had first met. She had been so afraid of the crow then, but now such a feeling was unthinkable to Mary. The boy with the broad grin also seemed to have remembered the moment, for he returned her smile and and winked at her. Then the two children set off to catch up with Colin.

The fox cubs were waiting.

12

That summer, Mary got her first kiss.

Not a friendly kiss on the cheek or an affectionate one on the forehead, as she sometimes got from her uncle or Martha. No, a real kiss. On the mouth. And she was sorely disappointed.

In the books and stories, kisses were always something very special. They awakened sleeping princesses from their curse or they sealed wedding ceremonies. They said a lot without anyone using any words. Those who kissed loved each other. And those who loved each other kissed each other. It was that simple in Mary's world.

So why did she find her first kiss so unsatisfying?

They had played in the garden, just her and Colin. Dickon was getting old enough that he needed to help out more with the work in the gardens - especially as old Ben Weatherstaff was getting too old for the heavy lifting. Mary was very sad that Dickon could play with them less often. His big grin cheered her up even on the greyest days and he always brought his animal friends with him. It was so much more fun to play outside with Soot screeching in the branches and little lambs, deer or ponies grazing on the grass.

Nevertheless, Colin and Mary were having a great time that day. It was a bit chilly and slightly cloudy for high summer, but the two children chased each other around the garden so they couldn't get cold at all. At some point Colin decided they should play Lord and Lady. Mary thought they were too old for that.

"But we must practise for later, when father is dead and we have married and own Misselthwaite!" explained Colin and shrugged.

Mary frowned. "But why do I have to marry you? I've told you so many times that I won't leave you, haven't I? Isn't that enough?"

Colin shook his head indignantly. "No, of course it isn't. You'll have to marry someone later and in that case it should better be me."
"Why do I have to marry at all?", Mary found the idea utterly repugnant.

"Well, because you're a girl! Girls must always marry, boys should marry. And before some other Lord somewhere on the other side of the world marries you, I'd rather do it." Colin explained, patting the dirt off his clothes. To him, that seemed to end the subject, but Mary was not at all pleased.

"I don't have to do anything!" she shouted angrily, knocking her cousin over so that he landed on his backside and stared at her in astonishment. "And I'm not going to marry you just because I have no other choice! I won't marry at all unless I want to myself! I'll only marry if I love someone!" she finished firmly, putting her hands on her hips.

Colin frowned and struggled to his feet. His cousin's behaviour seemed to confuse him completely, as if he couldn't understand why she didn't want to marry him.

"But, but don't you love me?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Of course I love you! But -" Colin interrupted her.

"Well then, we can get married!" he was beginning to get angry too.

"I don't even know if I love you like that!", Mary complained, running her hands through her hair. Why had it all suddenly become so complicated? She wished Dickon was here so that he could calm them both down. Dickon could calm everything down.

"Like that? What do you mean?" demanded Colin to know.

"Well, like a man and a woman, that is, a husband and a wife love each other. That's quite a different thing, isn't it?"

Colin looked at her silently, frowning. Suddenly, as if a light had dawned on him, he beamed all over. "Well, let's just find out then!" and before Mary could say anything he had grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her to him and pressed his mouth to hers.

It was a strange feeling. His lips were dry and slightly chapped and she could feel his hot breath through his nose on her face. He had his eyes squeezed shut in concentration and didn't move a muscle. They stood like that for a few seconds, he clutching her shoulders like a lifeline and she clenching her hands into fists in her skirt, both children completely motionless. Somewhere in the distance Mary heard the scraping sound of a leaf rake on the gravel paths. Finally Colin let go of her and took a step back. He looked visibly pleased with himself and stared at her expectantly.

Mary didn't know what to say or do. The game had not been fun for a long time.

"I'm going in now. I have to finish reading the one book Mrs. Medlock left for me.", she finally said and before her cousin could say anything back, she gathered up her skirts and fled the garden.

13

Dickon could not read.

Mary wondered how she had missed it all these years. Although, they had never written letters to each other. Dickon just always seemed to be hanging around the estate or Mary could send him messages through Martha. But now, as he stood in front of her, drenched and with fire red ears, staring down at his muddy boots, the little note from her clutched tightly in his hand, Mary made a decision.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I would have come earlier…", he began but she immediately waved him off. She had actually asked him to come to the garden this morning to help her plant, as old Ben had told her it was supposed to rain in the afternoon. Now it was pouring. There would be no more gardening today either way.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him deeper into the building. He stumbled after her, confused, but didn't ask what she was up to.

Mary took him to the staff kitchen, which was empty and quiet now in the early afternoon. The dirty dishes from lunch had already been washed and the cook stirred only occasionally in one of the large pots.

"I'll be right back," Mary said and spun on her heel to run out of the kitchen. Since this spring she and Colin had a governess to look after their education. Mary had the afternoon off, while Colin was to continue studying in the library for a few more hours. He had sulked a lot when he had heard that his cousin was allowed more free time than he was. From her room she fetched a blank notebook, ink and quill and dashed back through the corridors. She took the secret passage behind her tapestry, reaching the kitchen in record time. Dickon was still standing exactly where she had left him and Mary rolled her eyes.

"You might as well have sat down," she scolded him, grinning, and settled herself at the long table. Still confused, he took off his soaked jacket and hung it over a chair near the fireplace. Then he sat down on the seat to Mary's left and took off his flat cap.

He had grown a lot in the last few months and lost some baby fat. While Mary was still a child, you could begin to guess what Dickon would look like as a grown man. There were, however, drawbacks to his current situation. Colin and Mary couldn't help but regularly tease him for his pimples or his bouncing voice. One moment it was quite deep and the next breath he was croaking like Soot. Then his ears would always turn fiery red and he would grumble something about how soon it would be their turn and then he would have the last laugh.

Mary opened the notebook and began to work. Each page was given a letter once in upper case and once in lower case at the top centre. Next to it she drew a small picture. The "A" side got an apple, the "B" side a ball and so on. She left a lot of space under the letters and the pictures.

Dickon sat silently beside her the whole time, watching her work. Maybe he had already noticed what she was up to, maybe not. He kept silent and kept his thoughts to himself. The cook just glanced over her shoulder in between smiles and shook her head.

Finally Mary had finished and pushed the notebook together with the quill to Dickon.

"This is the alphabet. You'll find all 26 letters there. I drew you a picture of something that starts with the letter, so that you know what they sound like. That's how I learned it. Each letter has two cases. One is big and one is small. I'll explain to you later when to use which case. Now you practise writing the letters. All 26 of them, five times the big form and five times the small one," she explained firmly, sitting up straighter. She felt good and important. When they were out in the garden or on the moor, it had always been Dickon who explained and taught her everything. He knew so much about the nature and the animals, that she often felt small or stupid. But now, finally, there was something she could teach him.

Dickon frowned, but hesitantly reached for the quill. He held it awkwardly and far too vertically, so Mary corrected his posture until she liked it. Then Dickon began to write. The first page took him forever. He tried to trace the "A"s quite correctly and pressed the quill down far too hard. As a result, the first attempts were just ugly ink blots. But from the "F" side onwards, he seemed to develop a feeling for it and made fewer mistakes.

He was still slow.

Good thing Colin wasn't here, Mary thought to herself, he would have gone mad with impatience.

At one point the cook wordlessly put two cups of water in front of the children. As Dickon worked, Mary explained to him how each letter sounded and he repeated them several times. The boy with the broad smile was pleased when she used his animal friends for the letter pictures. A Lamb for the "L", a Pony for the "P" and Soot for the "S". He had to laugh at her drawing of Soot, for she wasn't a talented artist and poor Soot looked a bit pitiful, but before he could drive her up the wall with his jokes, they had already reached the next page.

Finally Dickon had worked his way across the alphabet and shook out his cramped hand.

"If I'd known writing was this exhausting, I'd have run away when you left me standing here.", he joked, grinning at her.

"It's only tiring at first because you're still holding the pen too tense. With practice you'll eventually be able to write for hours.", Mary replied precociously, tossing her hair back. "You should try to write the letters every day. There's enough space on the pages for you to know them by heart eventually. Do you want to try writing some words?"

Dickon nodded eagerly and opened to a blank page. "Your name." he said, looking at her expectantly, waiting. Oh, she would not make it that easy for him.

"How would you write it then? What letters do we need?"

Dickon frowned and looked at the blank page. Very intently, he mumbled her name over and over, stressing the syllables this way and that, until finally he began to flip through the notebook.

"We need an ‚M'?" he asked, turning to the right page. Mary beamed at him and nodded. Dickon studied the letter again and then, without peeking, wrote it down on the blank page.

"What next?" asked Mary, curious to see how far he would get without her help. Again the boy frowned in concentration, muttering her name to himself and flicking through the alphabet.

"One of the very first," Mary helped him and finally Dickon stopped correctly again on the "A".

It was the "R" he had a problem with. He pondered for a long time before finally landing on the "W", and he couldn't find the "Y" without help either, but together with Mary he finally managed to write down her full name.

"That's your name?" he asked again, looking at the sheet of paper with bright eyes. His writing was small and hard to read, but Mary couldn't blame him.

"That's right, you just wrote my name," she replied, taking in his proud joy. Suddenly he looked up and grabbed her hand. "Thank you, Mary.", he said very seriously and squeezed her fingers gently. Mary felt warm and uncomfortably moved to avoid his strong gaze.

„Your welcome, Dickon. Would you like to write your name too?"

So they spent the next hour together. First they wrote Dickon's name, then Colin's, and finally Martha's. At the end Dickon was completely exhausted and dropped the pen wearily on the table. The kitchen had become noisier, people were beginning to prepare dinner and more servants were scurrying around the large room. The rain outside had eased, but it had begun to dawn.

"I have to go home.", he said and began to pull on his now dry jacket. Folding the notebook shut, he pushed it towards Mary.

She looked at it in confusion. "This is your notebook now, Dickon," she said.

The boy stared at her. "What?"

"Well, what do I need an alphabet notebook for? And you have to practise somehow, after all." she declared firmly, pressing the notebook against his chest. With careful fingers he took it and looked first at it and then at her.

"I really don't know how to thank you. You didn't have to do that." he mumbled ashamed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Oh poppycock. If the weather continues to be this nasty tomorrow, we'll carry on, okay?" said Mary, smoothing her skirts.

Dickon looked like he was about to turn down the offer, but when she raised an eyebrow challengingly, he folded his mouth shut and nodded. Grinning, he slipped the notebook under his jacket and called out another "See you tomorrow, Mary!" on his way out.

Heat rose in her again, spreading from her chest throughout her body, even to the tips of her toes. She looked forward to the day ahead. It had been fun showing Dickon the alphabet, especially when she had seen how much it seemed to mean to him. She also enjoyed spending time with Dickon alone.

The next few weeks the children took advantage of the rainy autumn weather to continue their writing sessions. Dickon had a high perceptive faculty and was very eager. Soon he knew the alphabet by heart and could write his first sentences with the help of Mary. He struggled with grammar and especially the spelling because his Yorkshire dialect kept getting in the way, but when they started reading the first texts he began to show great talent for it. From December onwards they started writing regular little letters to each other, which they always gave each other before saying goodbye in the evenings. Mary loved to read his letters before going to bed. Mostly he talked about his animal friends or what he had experienced on the moor. His writing was still small and the characters awkwardly drawn. But Mary didn't care. These letters were her little secret. Not even Colin knew about them and Mary planed on keeping it that way. For a secret was worth nothing if everyone knew about it, and this was her most precious one.

14

Mary had been gone to London with Colin and her uncle for the summer when the war broke out.

Actually, she had not wanted to leave Misselthwaite, especially in the beautiful seasons when her garden was blooming and thriving, but her uncle had enticed her with the wonders of the great city and Mary was nothing but curious.

They lived there in a hotel near the Hyde Park. Mary and Colin often went for walks there or they visited the Buckingham Palace, which had had a new façade only the year before. The building shone like a jewel in the sun and the two often imagined how King George V must have resided there. While Mary, who got all warm cheeks thinking of the eldest Prince Edward VIII, tried to imagine the monarch's life realistically, Colin was too busy imagining all sorts of ridiculous situations.

He would never become a Lord behaving like that, Mary thought to herself. It takes a lot of work to be responsible for other people. And the king had most of the work and responsibility. Hopefully Colin would eventually understand what it meant to be "Lord". It wasn't just about getting your way like a Raja, Mary had learned in the last few years watching her uncle or Mrs Medlock. There was so much more to it. But Colin was still very much a child inside. He often sulked when the world didn't revolve around him and was still impatient. Quite different from Dickon, who at 16 was already very mature and adult and still formed the important calming pool between the two fiery cousins. But one day Colin would become a great scientist, Mary was sure of that. He devoured all knowledge about the foreign lands of this world and the latest technologies. He was also obsessed with aeroplanes and electricity and was already planning to renovate the whole of Misselthwaite. "Just think Mary, light bulbs in every room! Can you imagine?" Mary always just rolled her eyes at that. She had little interest in such things. She didn't mind progress, but she didn't particularly care for it either. Her garden and nature, those were more her subjects.

Their uncle tried to show them as much of London as possible. They visited museums and exhibitions, went to readings, horse races and public outings. A highlight for Mary was going to Queen's Hall where they attended a concert: "A London Symphony". The music touched her so deeply, that it even made her cry at the end. Colin later teased her about it the whole way back, until his father lovingly but firmly put him in his place. Nevertheless, Mary still wrote a letter to Dickon before going to bed to tell him all about it. They hadn't really been able to write to each other during Marys absence because postage was very expensive for Dickon. Instead, Mary sent letters to him describing all her experiences or gossiping about Colin's childish ways, but didn't expect a reply. He would tell her everything when she would return. Besides, this way it was easier to keep the letters secret from Colin. She could just go to the post office and mail them herself. If Dickon would sent her a letter, it would get to her uncle, who would ask her directly about it.

On a beautiful day in July, Mary and Colin came back to the hotel, having bought a new summer hat for the girl, and went in search of Lord Craven. Her uncle was sitting in a comfortable armchair in the lounge, a glass of whiskey in front of him. Mary raised an eyebrow at the sight, it was only early afternoon, but one look at her uncle kept her silent. His skin had a greyish tinge and his gaze seemed miles away. And then he told them about an assassination attempt they had heard about in June, but had dismissed it as unimportant because they were about to attend a race. And he told them about Austria-Hungary and Bosnia-Herzegovina and Serbia and Russia and Germany, and when he finally reached England, Mary's head was already spinning. But even if she didn't understand all the details of the conflict, she knew from looking at her uncle that a lot would change from now on.

15

It seemed to Mary that the world had become quieter since the war began. But that was complete nonsense. All the countries of the world were in great turmoil, every day there was new news from the front, from the king, from everyone.

But on Misselthwaite it seemed to have grown quiet all the same. Many of the young men had been enlisted and so the estate and the fields had become emptier too. With them, the laughter had also disappeared and Mary felt transported back to her very first year in England, despite the hot summer temperatures. The kitchen had become quieter, the servants chatted less and when they did, it was almost always about the war.

Why?

Who was where?

What were the numbers?

Oh, if only it were over already.

Mary hated it. She spent most of her time in her garden, with her flowers and plants and animals and birds. When she was in her garden, she felt all was right with the world. When she swung on the swing, she could pretend that she was still a child.

Colin came by less often. He was too busy with his education. Besides, he preferred to spend his time with his father or visiting other boys of his class. They too were always talking about the war and how they would like to fight in it and return as heroes. That's why Mary avoided the estate when Colin's friends were visiting Misselthwaite. She also didn't like the way the boys looked at her and talked to her. Either they talked over her or they acted overly friendly and recited badly rehearsed, cheesy lines to her.

Unfortunately, Dickon also had little time for her and the garden. Ben Wheatherstaff had now finally retired, having declared Dickon's education to be completed. Ben now lived in a small cottage behind the gardens all year round and was rarely seen because his aching limbs kept him from strolling around.

A croak came from above her and suddenly Soot settled on her shoulder. Mary sat on the swing, rocking slowly as she read. She had discovered "The Time Machine" by H. G. Wells in her uncle's library and this novel was refreshingly different from the classic historical novels or non-fiction she usually read. The technology aspect was not her favourite subject, but the man's ideas were very interesting. Lost in thought, she stroked Soot through the soft feathers while the crow tugged at a dark blonde strand. She had tied her hair up in a knot to allow the air to reach her hot neck, but she was still sweating terribly under the midday sun. Not even the shade of the trees or the light summer dress bore any relief. It happened more often now that Mary was visited by Soot and other birds without Dickon being there. Even the animals had realised that their best friend had to work. And so the young lady was a welcome alternative. That's why it surprised Mary all the more when she suddenly heard footsteps and a panting Dickon making his way through the sea of flowers towards her.

"It's too warm.", were his only words before he threw himself against the shady stone wall opposite her and closed his eyes.

"Have a wonderful day too, good Sir.", Mary murmured sarcastically and was about to turn back to her novel when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye.

Dickon was beginning to undress.

Mary almost choked on her tongue.

He had taken off his brown waistcoat and slipped off his suspenders and was now about to pull his dirty and sweaty shirt out of his waistband. It wouldn't by God be the first time Mary had seen him more lightly dressed, but the last time had been a long time ago and Dickon had changed a lot in the intervening years. Now at 17 he was a young man, of a tall stature and with strong arms and shoulders from the hard work in the gardens. His hair was a little longer and darker, but in the sunlight it still gleamed reddish and one began to guess where his beard would grow in the years to come. His voice also barely broke. Only his friendly blue eyes and wide grin remained. And that darned old flat cap. As he stripped off his shirt and threw it off, Mary tried to look at everything but him.

What was her novel about again?

She had completely forgotten.

Her friend didn't seem to notice her little inner turmoil and began unwrapping a loaf of bread and started eating it. As he swallowed, his Adam's apple bounced up and down.

Mary's head had to be crimson, that she was sure of.

She couldn't deny that she had always liked him. He was her best friend along with Colin, had dispelled her loneliness as a child, taught her to enjoy life and taught her so many beautiful things. All the while he had always been good humoured and level-headed, which was good because Mary and Colin both had nasty tempers. Dickon was like her own personal spring day: he made her forget the bad and let new, good things grow.

But she had never looked at him like now and it ignited a confusing firework of feelings inside her.

"Will you read to me, Mary?", he asked now, his eyes closed and his mouth full.

"Actually, it would be better if you read to me instead. I haven't gotten a letter from you in ages.", she retorted, not quite able to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

He opened his eyes and shrugged apologetically. "'Scuse me. Been busy lately."

"Well, as long as you don't lose it and all my work ends up being for nothing.", she grumbled playfully, enjoying the grin Dickon sent her.

"Wasn't it anyway, since you chose a boy from the moors, of all places, to be your student?", he joked and she rolled her eyes. A drop of sweat trickled down her back.

Suddenly she stood up, causing Soot to jump off her shoulder in annoyance and settle on a nearby branch. As she strode past Dickon, she playfully swatted at him with the book and couldn't stop her hips from swaying a little more as she walked. Peering over her shoulder to check if he was looking, however, she didn't dare.

"Where are you going?" he asked in wonder, following her. He left his clothes on the wall. She didn't answer him, but listened for his footsteps and was secretly pleased that he was coming up behind her.

Everything felt different somehow.

Did he feel the same way?

Finally she ended up at the little fountain with the water lilies and sat down at the edge. Dickon had stopped a few steps behind her and said nothing. Without looking back at him, she began to wash herself. First her hands and forearms, then her face and finally her neck and décolleté. The cool water was refreshing and made her hot skin tingle. When she was done, she still didn't dare to turn around and instead fingered the leaf of one of the lilies. Dickon hadn't spoken a word or moved a muscle and the air seemed charged with tension. The world held its breath and Mary could stand it no longer. With a fast movement she turned to face him but sweeping her hand through the cold water so that he was splashed from top to bottom.

Dickon stared at her, eyes wide, hands held protectively in front of him, soaking wet and completely shocked, while his mouth kept opening and closing like a fish out of water. The sight and the previous tension were enough for Mary to start laughing out loud. Again and again she tried to calm herself, but then the image of him, drained and indignant, came into her head and a new wave of laughter shook her body and brought tears to her eyes.

„Mary…", he muttered dumbfounded, shaking the water from his arms in vain, whereupon her giggles grew again into maniacal laughter.

"Miss Mary...", his tone had changed. Immediately she fell silent and looked at him with wide eyes. His eyebrows had drawn together and a wide grin formed on his face.

"Oh Miss Mary...!" he almost sang now as he slowly walked towards her, his hands outstretched towards her, his mischievous gaze twitching to the fountain behind her. Immediately Mary jumped up, gathered her skirts and dashed away, Dickon right on her heels. Screeching, she tried to escape his fingers as his laughter chased her. They leapt over stone walls and flower beds and danced around bushes and pillars like little children. On the lawn, he finally caught up with her with his long legs and got a hold of her by the waist. The two of them tripped over and landed in a tangled heap of limbs on the soft ground. Before she got her bearings, Dickon's wide grin loomed over her and with one hand he grabbed her wrists so she couldn't push him off her.

He was suddenly so close.

She could count his freckles. His eyelashes were long and dark and his azure irises had dark green spots near the pupils.

Neither of them laughed any more. The tension had returned.

Mary wanted to turn away, wanted to say something, do something, but the words stuck in her throat and she couldn't take her eyes off him. His breathing was heavy and his eyes darted to her mouth and without being able to stop it, she moistened her lips. And then Dickon kissed Mary.

It was very different from that time with Colin. Dickon's lips were soft and gentle and moved against hers. His eyes were closed too, but they weren't squeezed shut like Colin's had been then. He let go of her wrists and touched her face with his rough and dirty fingers. His thumb stroked her cheek as gently as a butterfly's wings, and then he began to tilt his head slightly. At that moment Mary finally closed her eyes too and allowed herself to just enjoy the moment. She gave up trying to classify, analyse and compare it, for nothing in her young life could compare to this. She had never felt such joy, had never such a kind of heat growing inside her. Never had she felt such a sensation on her lips. Strange and alien, and yet completely right.

She began to return the kiss as best she could. She had no idea how, of course, but the girl simply tried to imitate what the boy was showing her. She put a hand to his face and carefully ran her fingers through his soft hair. It was slightly damp from his sweat and the fountain water. Suddenly she felt something wet against her lips and flinched back in fright.

Dickon was still kneeling over her, breathing harder than before and like her, his eyes were wide open. He seemed to be just coming to himself, for all at once he tore his hand from her face and sprang to his feet. In seconds he was several feet away from her, rubbing his hands through his tangled hair.

"What have we done. That's not right! What have I done? 'S not proper..." he kept muttering the words to himself as Mary slowly got to her feet. Her knees were still very shaky and the heat in her belly had not yet disappeared. Her fingers unconsciously traced to her lips where she could still feel him. And before she could do anything else, say anything to reassure him, Dickon pulled his shoulders back, said stiffly: "I'm sorry, Miss Mary, but we shouldn't see each other again." and disappeared into the bushes.

16

Mary didn't speak a word to Dickon that summer. He no longer came into the garden and if she went to find him at work, she didn't find him or he fled quickly. He knew the grounds like the back of his hand and could just disappear like a ghost. He was still talking to Colin regularly, but they were both so preoccupied with themselves that Mary didn't even have a chance to step in. Summer turned into autumn and then winter and one day in January Martha put a small letter on Mary's table along with her breakfast. Without a word, the maid left, giving the young lady only a sad look.

The strange behaviour of the usually cheerful maid puzzled Mary so much that she jumped straight out of bed and hastily opened the letter.

It was from Dickon and he asked her to come to the garden in the afternoon. Mary would have liked to throw the letter straight into the fire. The writing was very scrawly and full of ink blots and Mary didn't know if it was due to lack of practice or if he had just written the note too hastily.

Throughout the day Mary couldn't decide whether to go or to ignore the request. Dickon had no idea how much he had hurt her that day in the summer. And the fact that he wouldn't even talk to her afterwards hurt her even more. From one moment to the next she had lost her best friend and she had no one to talk to about it. Colin had long since given up his crush on her, but she still suspected that he might react jealously, simply because he couldn't stand having to play second fiddle. Besides, he had gone to a boarding school in autumn to learn and live among his peers. And she didn't want to talk to Martha about her little brother and her confusing feelings towards him either. Especially because Martha had once suggested ages ago that it was actually not seemly the way her brother spent his time with the two noble cousins. No, she had no one to talk to.

She still wasn't sure what to do as she set off towards the garden in the afternoon. All day she had been struggling with a variety of emotions: sadness, anger, disappointment, hope, joy. It was a chaotic mess.

She stopped in front of the secret door and hesitated. Her last chance to turn back. Her last chance to just forget the whole thing.

But Mary Lennox was no coward, so she took a deep breath and entered.

The unknowing eye might think the garden was dead, but Mary now knew better. It was full of life, but it was resting. It had snowed a little in the last few days and the smaller plants had disappeared under the white cover. Her footsteps crunched in the snow and she could see her breath in front of her. Thank God she was warmly dressed.

Dickon sat on the swing and stared at his boots. He wore only a roughly knitted scarf and holey gloves over his normal working clothes. When he heard her coming, his head jerked up and he stared at her. All the anger Mary had been carrying fizzled out at the sight of him. He was white as a sheet and had deep circles under his eyes. Scattered stubble on his chin showed that he had not shaved for some time and it gave him a wild look.

Mary stopped a few steps in front of him and said nothing. He had asked her to come, so he should speak first. She tried not to look at the fountain or the meadow.

Slowly, as if he were a tired old man, he rose from the swing and came to a stop directly in front of her. He was so very close again, but Mary would not fold. She jutted her chin and stared up at him. He was a whole head taller than her.

„I've been drafted."

Any apologies or explanations she had expected, imagined in lonely hours, vanished from her mind as the air from her lungs.

Of course.

The war had finally caught up with them on Misselthwaite.

"When," her voice broke and she restarted, "when do you have to leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. The train leaves from Leeds."

The day after tomorrow. That meant he had only a whole day left at Misselthwaite and then he would leave.

And perhaps never return.

"Where to… I mean: Do you know where they're going to send you yet?", Mary pressed out as she tried to control her heartbeat. It was pounding up to her throat and her chest had contracted painfully.

Dickon shook his head and Mary closed her eyes.

Please not to France, please not to the trenches. But where was anywhere else better? War was nowhere pretty and there was dying everywhere.

"How long have you known?", she whispered, taking a tiny step towards him. Finally she felt the warmth of his body and his breath on her face and was silently savouring the sensation.

"The letter came a few days ago."

His eyes looked so tired. Tired and afraid. He stared at her as if he was hoping to get some answers, some assurance from her, but she had none.

"Mary, I have to go. But..." he broke off and closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and began again. "I'm sorry for the way I've behaved towards you these past months. What we did in the summer wasn't right, wasn't proper, and I wanted to protect us both from heartbreak or worse. I didn't want to leave without telling you that."

Mary wanted to be angry. She wanted to snarl at him, shout at him, accuse him of cowardice, tell him that his apology wouldn't help her now either. But all her anger had gone and she was just tired.

"I love you, Dickon. I didn't understand it for a long time, but it has finally dawned on me," she replied instead and was simultaneously surprised by herself. But as she now spoke the words out loud, she felt in her heart that they were true.

Something flared in his sad blue eyes.

"A week ago I would have told you that this can never and will never work out. That we live in two completely different worlds and it would be better for both of us to just forget about each other, but..."

"But none of that matters now.", Mary finished his sentence. Hesitantly, her hands sought the rough fabric of his jacket and clawed at it.

"Come back. I don't care what you have to do for it, but you have to come back.", she commanded, fixing her gaze rigidly on his scarf. She hadn't been able to stop her voice from starting to tremble at the last words. A finger slipped under her chin and press her face up. She didn't want to look him in the eyes, those tired, sad eyes that were supposed to be full of joy and life. He was supposed to be here, in the gardens, in the moors, not on some ugly battlefield, Goddammit! Mary clenched her eyelids tightly and hot tears escaped the corners of her eyes. Then she felt his lips on hers and the feeling was just as strange and alien and perfectly right as the first time. But this time it was different. When he begged for entrance with his tongue, she gave in to him. She put all her feelings, all her love for the boy with the wide smile and kind eyes into this kiss, trying to dispel her fear and his. Dickon's one hand clawed into the fabric of her dress while the other started gently caressing her face. Mary felt hot tears on her skin, not all of them from her, and under her hands Dickon was shaking like a leaf. So she finally released the kiss and wrapped her arms tightly around him. Dickon buried his damp face in her hair as she hid hers against his neck. She pressed him against her with all her might, childishly hoping to keep him with her and safe, even though she knew it was hopeless.

"Please come back, please come back..." she kept murmuring into the rough scarf as Dickon clung to her, sobbing softly, like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

17 (Epilogue)

He had lost his left arm.

The war was not over yet, but an ending was near.

And Dickon had lost his left arm.

The stump ended just below the shoulder. Shrapnel pieces had shredded flesh and bone to the point of being unsalvageable. After the amputation, inflammation had set in and nearly killed Dickon, but somehow he had made it through. He had first been taken to London to a hospital, from which he had discharged himself as soon as possible. Later he would always say that after all he had only been missing an arm, not a leg.

It was late spring when he finally returned home. The garden was blooming in its most beautiful colours and the buzzing of bees filled the air. Lush green leaves clothed the trees and lambs frolicked in the meadows.

It would never be the same again.

His mother had cried. Cried with joy that her child was home again and alive, cried with sorrow for the things her child had had to live through. His siblings had gathered around him, all hugging, kissing, laughing, sobbing, trying to understand.

Their uncle had welcomed him and promised him work and support for all the years to come. Colin had hugged him, pressed him to him, and vowed to be there for him, forever and ever.

Words.

So many words.

But no one really understood.

Mary was waiting for him in the garden, where else. She wore a long white dress with a blue bow and her hair blew in the gentle breeze while she stood on the meadow. He stared at her like a castaway seeing land for the first time in ages. She didn't say a word, they never needed those anyway, just took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. They had lost their glow.

He had come back, just as she had wanted. He was back, that was all that mattered.

She would be with him on his way out of this darkness, would support him and hold him when his strength failed. He had done so much for her, had shown her the beauty of life. It was only fair that she would return the favour now. Together they would find a way. Together.

And when he burst into tears and collapsed she just cradled him in her arms and whispered soft words to him.

She would be his garden, she would help him heal himself. Over ugly memories they would plant beautiful ones. Where there were shadows, they would make light, where there were weeds, they would pluck them out and make room for better things.

It would never be the same again.

But Mary believed in the future.