A/N: I left this story at such a dramatic moment, it's terrible. Shame on me.

Mary had no more tears left to shed. She felt empty and drained, like a cloth that had been wrung and squeezed and then wrung some more, until it was limp and haggard and a sorry shadow of its former self. Her appetite disappeared, and her energy with it. Instead, she lay on her bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, thoughts chasing themselves in agonising circles around her head.

How could he have done it? How could he have left, just like that, with barely a word? Vanishing as swiftly as though he had never existed at all, as though he really was that Yorkshire moor angel she once imagined him to be.

At first she had been furious. When she returned from town on Monday and saw her Uncle's drained and worried face, and listened as he told her that Dickon had been called away to the war and was to leave on Friday, and didn't want to see her, she had felt her veins pulse with a thick and righteous anger. Who did he think he was? Surely this was some kind of bad joke – Dickon knew there was too much between them for him to simply disappear like that, war or no war. Surely… surely… so she had flown to his cottage the next morning, thinking that if she could just see him, and talk to him, and look straight into his clear blue eyes, then everything would be alright again. But he hadn't been there, only his sad-eyed mother, and the truth of it had begun to sink on her at that moment, the reality that this was not something she could stamp her way out of. He had indeed chosen to leave her, and there was nothing she would be able to do about it. Lord knew that if anyone could avoid being found for a week, it was Dickon Sowerby.

And so she had waited, still sure that he would come back to Misselthwaite, that he would return and account for himself. Surely, if he loved her, then he would never be able to stay away. She made her way to the secret garden early each morning and sat there almost in a daze the entire day, waiting for him. But he didn't come. The days ticked by and suddenly it was Friday morning and she woke up knowing that he was gone.

That was when the tears had struck. Before then she had held them at bay with the supreme confidence that he would come for her, that this would all turn out to be a horrible nightmare. But Friday morning, when she watched Horace's brougham rumbling empty along the cart track, she had truly collapsed. Quite literally, on the spot, her knees had given way and she had crumpled to a ball on her bedroom floor, hugging herself and choking out such painful, desperate sobs that she felt sure her chest would break from the force of them.

Martha had found her there after a while. The serving girl had run to embrace her, and the two of them had shared their grief for a while, tears mingling together and their sobs eventually drawing the attention of Mrs Medlock, who came in and found them both on the floor, and ordered Martha back to work and Mary into bed. And there she had remained, the days blurring together, her tears coming in a never ending stream of heartache until she was left utterly lifeless, and then stopping abruptly, leaving her empty, a living shell. Martha brought her up trays of food, her own face pinched and withdrawn, then took them away again untouched.

She didn't know how many days passed, except that too soon Mrs Medlock was back in her room, telling her briskly that she was to leave for London in a week, and it wouldn't do to mope around any longer.

"There's too much to do," she told her, opening Mary's wardrobe and rifling through the dresses there. "You're going to need some new clothes. You'll have to travel to Leeds to get fitted. And the fashion is changing so quickly these days. Heaven only knows what they're wearing in London this month. Come along girl, time to get up. The lad's gone and you weeping about it won't change that."

And so the business had begun, and Mary's days went from empty and blank to filled with a furious activity. But in a way they were just as empty as before. The world seemed veiled and distant, as though even when the sun shone it couldn't quite reach her. She wondered where Dickon was now; if he was thinking of her. Had he learnt to shoot a gun yet? Did he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Maybe she had only imagined that he had loved her. Maybe it had all been a dream.

And, on the night before she was to leave for London, her trunk packed and standing ready, and her room bare of all but a few essentials, Mary discovered that she did in fact have more tears to shed. She lay in bed and listened to the wind wuthering out on the moor, and the thump of the rain against her window, and felt like nothing could ever make things right again.

Colin watched his cousin out of the corner of his eye, as the two of them made their way to the waiting carriage. His left arm, the one closest to Mary, was tense with readiness to catch her should she fall. For it seemed to him that Mary was nothing but a walking shadow, and that the slightest breath of wind might blow her away.

The plan was for the two of them to take the train to London, where they would be met by Mr Williams and his wife, with whom Mary was to stay while she completed her education. Colin would stay there too, for a few days, while Mary found her feet and adjusted to city life. Secretly, Colin doubted whether a few days would be sufficient for him to be willing to leave her. She looked so frail, so vulnerable, that just watching her made him quite wretched.

But the reality was that Mary hardly saw him; in fact most of the time Colin was almost certain she looked straight through him, as though he wasn't there at all. She would never forgive him for what he had done. That had become more than plain in the days after Dickon's abrupt departure. Her hatred cut at him like a rusty knife, but he welcomed the pain. It was no more than he deserved.

Mary boarded the carriage without a backward glance, not even bidding her uncle farewell. Archibald Craven stood beside the carriage with a deep, worried frown etched on his features, looking much older than his forty-eight years would suggest. Colin knew that had the plans for Mary's departure not already been arranged, his father would have changed his mind and had Mary stay at Misselthwaite. And he, Colin, would have agreed with the decision. If he'd known what Dickon's leaving would do to Mary, he would have gone to the fool's cottage himself and forced him to stay. He had never wanted this…

"Take care son," his father said, clasping his shoulder and jerking him out of his dark thoughts. "And take care of her," he added under his breath, with a sad look toward the carriage. "I fear…"

"I know," he said, hearing his father's words without them needing to be spoken. Colin cast a last glance around the Manor, which was deceptively bright and warm looking in the late summer sunshine, before getting in himself. "I'll write as soon as we're settled."

His father nodded and stepped back. A moment later and Martha hurried forward, her eyes red rimmed and swollen from weeping. She placed a small envelope in Mary's lap. "This is from me ma," she said. Mary blinked and for a moment she seemed aware of where she was and what was happening around her. Her eyes flicked to Colin and back to Martha.

"T'isn' much," whispered the serving girl. "Jus' a little token t' 'member us by. An' him." Her lower lip trembled dangerously. "Take care, Miss. I'll miss thee, till tha' comes home."

Mary opened her mouth. "I… I would…" she began, her voice hoarse from lack of use. But Martha had already covered her face with a handkerchief and turned away, and Horace clipped the reigns, sending them lurching into movement. Within a few moments Misselthwaite was nothing but a looming structure in the distance. And soon enough they had ridden over a hill and even that was lost from view, and there was only the moor stretching away from them on all sides.

"Well," said Colin, trying for a strained smile. Mary was staring out the window, her delicate hands holding the parcel in her lap with no attempt to open it. "This is it, then."

She made no reply, her eyes glazed again as though she was far away. Colin couldn't help leaning towards her and touching her hand gently with his own. She jerked violently, and her eyes went wide and fearful, like a trapped animal confronted by its hunter. As though she didn't know him at all.

"Mary, please," he said somewhat desperately. "It's me, Colin. Your cousin. You know I'd never hurt you." He winced then, because hadn't he already hurt her, more than words could say? He sighed and stared out the window at the sea of purple heather. "You'll like London," he tried after a while, with painfully fake cheer. Still there was no response, and in his desperation for some kind of reaction he grasped for the only thing he knew would reach her. "I'll get a contact for Dickon as soon as I can. You'll be able to write him then." He recalled his words to Dickon in the library – a common moor boy who can barely spell his own name – and resisted the urge to punch himself in the face.

Mary's eyes flickered, but it wasn't with the excitement he was expecting. "There's no need," she said in a small, tight voice that was entirely unlike her normal one. "I've nothing to say to… to him. And he obviously has nothing more to say to me."

"He loves you," said Colin quietly.

Mary made a sound of derision. "Don't be foolish. If Dickon loved me he'd never have left the way he did."

"That's – "

"I don't want to talk about it," she said flatly, staring out the window again. The sun ducked behind a cloud and suddenly everything was shadowed.

Colin didn't know what to say. He knew he was responsible for this, and the guilt tore at him. And deep inside, a vicious voice whispered in his ear, reminding him that hadn't this been what he wanted, all along? Dickon was gone, and Mary would be his alone for two years. So why did he feel as if he would do anything in the world to put things back the way they had been, that day when he stepped out of the carriage and was greeted by a smiling, laughing Mary, and a grinning Dickon, and the love had crackled between them, innocent and pure and good. He, Colin, had destroyed that. Just like he had destroyed his mother, and come close to destroying his father. It seemed everything he touched was cursed…

A/N: Ah, angst... and I'm afraid there's more around the corner. Do let me know if you're still around, won't you? ~A