January, 1919.

Her studies were over, and with that the decision was made for her to return to Misselthwaite. Mary let it happen, not because she had any desire to be back in Yorkshire, but because her uncle had asked for her, and there was no longer anything that could justify staying in London. She couldn't bring herself to care either way, and so when Mr Williams broached the topic at dinner one night in early January she only gave a polite nod of her head.

"Of course you are welcome to stay here," added Mrs Williams kindly, sharing a look with her husband. "For as long as you wish, Mary."

"It's fine," she said, swallowing a bite of food without tasting it.

And so the arrangements were made, and her London life drifted away from her like a thread on the breeze. She would not miss it, and would not be missed by it. But there was nothing waiting for her in Yorkshire either. Her life was frozen in time, suspended indefinitely, a leaf half fallen from the tree.

There had been no word from Colin, but Mr Williams assured her not to worry.

"It might take quite some time for him to reach Amiens, given the state of things in France at the moment. And we don't know what condition Phil will be in when he gets there." His kind eyes settled on her, their message clear. Don't get your hopes up. Don't expect that he will be the same as he was before.

Mary could have told him not to worry. There was no hope left in her; only a dry, withered sense of resignation at whatever would follow.

If you feel nothing, then nothing can hurt you.

A few days before her departure from London, Basil Crawford called upon the Williams' house once again. News of her journey had reached him somehow, and with a gallant square of his shoulders he offered to accompany her to Yorkshire.

"I have an aunt in York," he explained as they sat together in the drawing room. There was a hesitant smile on his lips, but Mary's felt set in stone. "So it's really no bother at all, you see."

She had opened her mouth to refuse, but the words would not come. Instead she let the gushing of Mrs Williams fill the silence.

"Oh what a lovely suggestion, Captain Crawford! I'm sure Mary would just adore the pleasure of your company on such a long, dull journey."

"Is that so, Mary?" Basil's grey eyes fixed on her, seeing too much.

She glanced away, breaking the contact. "Whatever you wish." Her voice was as thin as reeds, and she felt Basil shift restlessly.

"I - "

Mrs Williams cut him off. "Of course you shall accompany her. I think it is a perfectly excellent suggestion. Now, won't you have some tea."

And so it was all arranged, without any input from her. Mary let the tide of life carry her along. After all, what was the point in resisting it?

If you feel nothing, then nothing can hurt you.

Sam had tears in her eyes as they bid each other farewell. Mary didn't know why; Lord knew she had been terrible company these last months, and not much better beforehand. But Sam was a sweet girl. She hugged Mary fiercely as they stood on the steps of their townhouse, and whispered in her ear, "I'll really miss you, Mary. Promise you won't forget me."

She nodded, her throat too tight to form words, and then Sam was pulling away and Mrs Williams was bustling her into the carriage, her own eyes none too dry. The coachman flicked the reins with a flourish, and before Mary could manage a word they were pulling away onto the street, and the Williams' family shrank away into the bustle of London. Mary watched them grow smaller and smaller, until the coach rounded a corner and they disappeared from view. The words she had failed to say stuck in her throat.

Goodbye. I'm sorry. I won't forget, I promise.

"Mary?"

With an effort, Mary dragged herself out of the reverie. She glanced around, realising rather belatedly that the carriage had come to a halt. Misselthwaite Manor loomed before her, dark and forbidding.

She blinked, and saw that Basil had extended his hand to help her out of the carriage. "We're here, Mary," he said gently. "You're home."

She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his fingers against hers. Her own body felt ice cold, and the biting wind that greeted her as she stepped out seemed to cut right to her bones.

"Thank you."

The house and grounds expanded around her as she stepped away from the carriage, its brooding visage encircling her like a chill embrace. With the leafless trees lining the driveway and the brown of the winter moor stretching away into the distance it felt more like something out of a Gothic fantasy rather than a real home.

Basil looked it up and down appraisingly, and whistled under his breath. "Sure is a mansion, that is," he remarked.

Medlock was standing at the door to greet them. The old woman looked grimmer and thinner than ever, but her eyes were fond as she surveyed Mary. "Oh, child. It's good to see you again," she said with uncharacteristic feeling. "Misselthwaite's not been the same without you."

Mary forced a smile, trying not to think of the one who would never return. His absence hung over the house like a black cloud. With an effort, she pushed it away. "Where's Martha?"

Medlock's smile stretched. "You haven't heard? She's tending her little one."

"A baby?" Mary gaped in surprise and amazement. She knew that Martha had married, the previous summer, because she had been desperately disappointed not to be able to attend the wedding; but she hadn't heard news of any pregnancy. "Why did no one tell me? I must visit her at once!"

"Now now, there's no reason to rush," Medlock said, her eyes travelling to Basil, who was standing just behind Mary's right shoulder. "You must be Captain Crawford," she greeted him, her tone a curious mixture of approval and sternness.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ma'am," said Basil smoothly, tipping his hat. Medlock's countenance visibly softened.

"Your Uncle will want to see you," the housekeeper said to Mary. "Both of you. Then, once you're settled in, perhaps you can go and visit Martha. It's a boy, you know."

Archibald Craven was in his study, his two faithful wolfhounds resting in their customary spot by his feet. When he saw Mary he strode forward and embraced her like a daughter.

"My dear child," he whispered, and Mary felt strangely comforted by his affection. It occurred to her that out of everyone, her uncle had perhaps the best understanding of her grief. After all, he too had lost the one he loved most. He knew what it felt like to have to keep living when all the loveliness had been ripped out of the world. "It's good to see you again."

"And you," she said, stepping back and surveying him warmly. He looked thinner than the last time she had seen him. "Are you well?"

He shrugged. "Well enough." He offered his hand to Basil. "Captain Crawford, a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for escorting my niece home for me."

"It was no trouble."

Her uncle's gaze was assessing, but not unkind. "I take it you will be staying in the area for a while, then?" he asked.

Basil nodded. "I've arranged for lodging in York. My aunt lives there, and she is always pestering me to visit. Besides, I thought the fresh air would do me good, after France."

"Yes, it's the best thing," Archibald agreed. "And it will be good to have another young person here, now that - " he coughed. "I'm sure you've heard from Mary about some of the miracles the fresh air has wrought here at Misselthwaite. Why, my own son… " he trailed off, and the air was heavy with unspoken things. Mary was desperately trying not to think of Dickon, but everywhere she turned she found herself reminded of him; from the moor, to the gardens, to uncle Archie's wolfhounds, who she could still see playing with him on the front lawn. They had loved him, as had all the animals. It was part of his charm. The charm that had healed them all.

"Mary?" her uncle asked softly, and she realised that both he and Basil were staring at her.

"I'm thinking of going to visit Martha," she said quickly. "I really can't wait to see her."

Her uncle brightened and nodded his approval. "An excellent idea. You can take the carriage. And perhaps I might steal your Captain while you do? There are some things I want to discuss with him."

Mary glanced at her uncle sharply. She didn't like the way he had said 'your' Captain, but there was no way to let him know without making things awkward. Basil shifted next to her, and she thought he sensed her discomfort.

"Very well," she said, and gave her uncle another hug. "We'll talk again soon."

Archie kissed her cheek. "It's good to see you, Mary. Welcome home."

She wished she could feel as pleased as he looked. But his shadow hung over her, and she knew that things could never be as they once were. Without him, there was no coming home.

France, 1919.

Colin rushed through the hospital ward, his eyes flitting from bed to bed in a frantic search. He barely saw the faces of the men he passed before moving on. At last, he spotted a nurse leaning over one of the beds in the middle of the ward, and sped towards her.

"Excuse me," he said in his most authoritative voice, and she looked up.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Phil Sowerby." He could hardly contain himself, so desperate was he for confirmation that Phil was alive. "I was told I could find him here. I have the telegram, if you need it."

The nurse's eyes had grown very round as he spoke, and for a moment Colin feared the worst. That he had arrived too late, or that it had been a case of mistaken identity after all. He didn't know if he could stand being crushed a second time round.

"I… " the nurse seemed at a loss for words. "Lord Craven?"

He flushed. "Just Colin, thanks."

"Colin Craven?" she repeated, and he shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"That's right."

"Come this way please."

She led him further down the ward, passing rows and rows of injured soldiers. Now and then she turned her head to look at him, almost as though she couldn't quite make sense of his appearance. Colin felt a cold lump of ice lodge deep in his gut at the way she was acting. Please, let there not have been a mistake.

"What is it?" he demanded at last, after she had opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it again without a sound. "If there is something wrong, just tell me."

She reddened, and shook her head. "I - I'm sorry, it's just – well you see the thing is – " she sighed hopelessly, then stopped outside one of the beds. It had its hangings drawn, shielding the occupant within. "Oh, I can't explain. See for yourself." And she drew the curtains away.

For a moment, Colin couldn't see what was wrong. It was Phil, and apart from looking pale as death and dangerously thin, there didn't appear to be anything particularly wrong with him. Then, like a falling cloud of understanding, his eyes started to notice things. Differences. The hair was a darker shade of russet. The nose turned up too much. The figure on the bed was much too tall. Colin blinked and shook his head. This wasn't Phil at all. It was –

"Dickon?" he gasped, putting a hand against the curtain rail to steady himself, for he felt suddenly as though the world was spinning all around him.

Dickon didn't reply; he was fast asleep. Colin's eyes flitted back to the nurse, who was looking hopelessly wretched. He understood her reticence now.

"There was a mix up with his identity," she explained, her eyes lingering on Dickon's unconscious form. "We thought he was Phil Sowerby, but - but he's actually Dickon. I am so, so sorry."

"It's… it's… " he struggled to find the words. What was it, exactly? Tragically, joyously, wondrously good? His heart leapt as the implications of this new discovery began to sink in. Dickon was alive. Alive. Dickon Sowerby had survived.

"Here," the nurse had conjured a chair from somewhere. "You look like you need to sit down."

He sank into it gratefully. "Thank you."

And Phil Sowerby was dead. Colin blinked several times to clear the mist that had settled over his eyes. One son for another. Oh, how bittersweet that was.

"My name is Clara," the nurse offered after a while, her voice pleasantly neutral as she tucked Dickon's blankets more securely around him. Colin watched her, noting the tenderness of her actions and the fond smile on her face as she looked down at her patient's sleeping form. So even in war, Dickon had found a way to touch hearts. Colin smiled wryly, and felt with relief the absence of any twinge of jealousy or bitterness within himself at the thought. He was just so glad, so glad, that Dickon was alive.

"You've been caring for him a while, then?" he inquired.

"Oh yes," she said. "Several months now. He's… he's taken much longer to recover than he should have."

Colin was instantly alert. "Why?"

She looked at him, and her big brown eyes were solemn. "You should know," she said quietly. "He has the most terrible nightmares. Most of the men do, of course, but his are – truly awful. He refused food for a long time, and the surgeon thought he was trying to finish himself."

Colin stared at her in horror. The thought of Dickon, Dickon, wanting to end it… it was impossible. He gazed at the other boy, at his wan features, the cheekbones prominent against the pale, sunken cheeks, the dark shadows under his eyes.

"What's happened to you?" he breathed. "Giving up? That's not the Dickon I know."

Clara eyed him strangely. "You can ask him yourself, soon enough. He'll be awake before long."

He nodded. "I… I should write to – to his family." And Mary, he thought, an electric current shooting through him. He didn't particularly want to put this news in a telegram; wanted to see her face light up himself when she heard Dickon was alive, to see the colour come back into her cheeks. But he could hardly justify making her wait for his own selfish pleasure.

"Communications are much better now," said Clara. "The telegram should get through without any problems." She hesitated for a second, then added, "The girl, Mary – I imagine she'll be glad to hear the news."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "He told you about Mary?"

"No," she blushed. "No, he never says anything about – about his past. But he talks in his sleep. Mostly about his brother, Phil. But he says her name, too. I presume she's his sweetheart."

Colin fixed his eyes on Dickon fondly. "They're more than sweethearts," he told her. "They're soulmates. They belong to each other like… like flowers belong to spring. Or – or the robin to his mate. Like… like young oaks and sunshine…"

Clara had stopped what she was doing and was gazing at him with an expression of wonder. Her eyes were wide and captivated. "That's beautiful," she whispered.

He coughed. "It's just the truth," he said, a little gruffly.

"I hope you can remind him of that, when he wakes," she said. "I think he might need reminding of the good things in life. He's seen so much sadness… they all have." She smoothed down her apron. "Well, I'd better get back to work. When the surgeon's free I'll send him over to discuss the transfer arrangements with you."

"Thank you. Thank you for taking care of him."

"It's the least I could do," she said softly. Her eyes seemed to fix on him for a long time. "It was nice to meet you, Colin." She gave a small curtsey, and left.

In the silence that followed, Colin stared intently at Dickon. He gnawed his lip for a while before sighing. "I suppose I owe you an apology," he said at last, then shook his head. "No, scratch that. I know I owe you an apology. And more than an apology, at that. If not for me, you'd never have gone to war. I was a jealous cad and I'm… I'm so sorry."

Dickon was silent, sleep smoothing his brow and making him look almost peaceful; but Colin could see the shadow etched on his features, the tight set of his mouth. He looked much older than he had when he left.

"I can't tell you how glad I am, that you're alive," Colin went on, lacing his hands together as he searched for the right words. "God, if you could have seen Mary's reaction. If you could have seen the way she grieved you, like something was broken inside her. It hurt so much, knowing it was my fault and that there was nothing I could do about it."

Dickon's hand twitched, and he moved his lips a fraction; Colin, looking down at his lap, didn't notice.

"You know, sometimes… sometimes she would look at me… and I knew she was wishing it could have been me, instead of you," Colin swallowed his bitterness and ploughed on, eyes cast downwards, oblivious that he had an audience. "She loves you, Dickon. She loves you in a way she's never loved me. And I used to hate you for it. I used to think… if only you'd go away, then surely Mary would love me instead. But then you did go away, because of me, and she hated me for it, and I hated me for it, and I realised then how wrong I'd been." He sighed. "Sending you away wouldn't make her love me. That's not the way these things work. Mary loves you. And you know what? I'm glad she does. I wouldn't want it any other way, because her love for you is what makes her Mary. And I never want to stand in the way of that again."

He glanced up, and found himself staring straight into a pair of bright blue eyes. Colin gave a start, and for a moment he didn't know what to do. Then an overwhelming lightness swept through him, and his breath left him in a heavy exhale. He didn't think he'd really believed it until that moment. But seeing his friend's blue eyes, seeing the life in them, it became easier to accept that this was real. That this was Dickon and he was alive.

"Dickon!" he exclaimed. "You're awake."

"Am I?" he croaked, and his voice was so painfully familiar that Colin almost choked. "I'm thinkin' as I mus' be dreamin'."

"I should hardly think you'd dream about me," said Colin dryly, and Dickon managed a small smile. "God, it's good to see you. You've no idea…" he broke off, because really it was he who had no idea. Now that he could see Dickon's eyes, he could see the darkened, haunted look that was in them, as though horror and madness lurked just beneath the surface. "Dickon, I have to say…"

"Don' have t' say anythin'," said Dickon very softly, his gaze never leaving Colin's face. "I heard thee well enough, jus' now. Tha's my closest friend, Colin, an' tha' always will be."

Colin blinked back the sudden burning in his eyes. He didn't deserve such forgiveness as Dickon was offering, and he shuddered to think how close he'd come to never receiving it. He hadn't realised until now just how desperately he'd needed to hear his friend say that. And if Dickon had died… he pushed the thought away with an effort.

"And you are mine," he said. "And I give you and Mary my fullest blessing."

Dickon's eyes clouded. "Mary…" he said softly, as though testing the word on his tongue. "I'm afraid I'm even less worthy of her now than I was afore."

"Nonsense," said Colin sharply. "There's only one man for Mary." He thought suddenly of that Captain, how closely he had sat beside Mary in the living room and the possessive way he had held her hand.

Dickon must have seen something in his expression, for his eyes tightened and he asked in a weak sort of voice, "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

Comprehension swept over Dickon's features, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "She's found someone else," he said, and the flat resignation in his voice made Colin's jaw clench.

"No she hasn't!"

Dickon sighed, and reopened his eyes to look at him. They were dull and lifeless. "S' good tha' she has. I'm nowt but damaged goods, no' fit for a lady. If I ever was."

Colin glared at him. "If you didn't look so fragile right now I'd box your ears for that kind of talk," he said, in a weak attempt at humour. "You know it's nonsense, Dickon."

"Who is he?"

"Nobody! There's nobody," he sighed in frustration as Dickon continued to look at him with that same hopeless expression.

"Who is he, Colin?"

"Look," he relented in exasperation. "There's been this… Captain that's visited a couple times, that's all. But it doesn't mean anything! I think they know each other from Mary's time in India. It doesn't change the fact that she loves you and no one else. You should've seen her, Dickon, when - "

But Dickon seemed to be drifting back to sleep. "T'was allus too good t' be true," he whispered, his voice cracking on the last word. "I'm happy for her. She deserves… she deserves someone whole, someone who'll be able t' make a life wit' her."

And before Colin could say anything else, he had closed his eyes and slipped away.