Note: Sir Thomas Barlow (Nora Barlow's father-in-law) owned a country estate outside Wendover, Buckinghamshire, called Boswells. Additionally, Alan Barlow wasn't knighted until 1918, and did not inherit the baronetcy until Sir Thomas died in 1945 (at a mere 99 years old!). Therefore, in 1915, Alan would have still been plain Mr. Barlow.

.

.

.

"There never was a good war, or a bad peace."

- Benjamin Franklin

.

.

.

"I can't believe it's over," Alek says.

Deryn gives a sleepy hmm. She's happy too that those German bum-rags have decided to admit – six months after it became obvious to everyone – that they've lost the war. But right now she's full of warm sunlight and country scents and the sound the wind makes as it runs through the trees, and she wants to take a nap, not talk about war.

Alek sighs. "I thought – I suppose I thought that it would never end."

"Everything ends," she says a bit crossly, yawning. She opens her eyes and turns her head so she can see him. He's lying in the grass beside her, frowning up at the sky, hands folded on his chest, a snoozing Bovril flopped across his stomach. "My nap, for example."

"Sorry," he says, though he's not sorry enough to stop talking: "It just seems like such a waste. Nearly a year of fighting, and for what? Germany wanted the war so badly, and it's ruined them."

That's true enough. Germany is crumbling fast, and it won't be an empire after the peace treaty is signed. It won't be much of anything, if Dr. Barlow's husband is right. Mr. Barlow, who works for Parliament, joined them all here at Boswells last week. He mentioned straightaway that the rest of Europe will be coming to the peace table with their carving knives sharpened. Kaiser Wilhelm will be lucky to keep his britches.

So Alek's right to say that those German sods haven't benefitted. But something in his tone makes Deryn wake a bit further, and she rolls up on one elbow, squinting down at him. "Blisters. Would you rather the war went on for ages?"

"Of course not." He looks up at her. His eyes are greener than any stretch of Buckinghamshire grass, but filled with sad ghosts. "It's only… my parents truly died for nothing."

"Alek," she says softly.

The breeze picks up, bending the grass, ruffling his hair, tugging at the open collar of his shirt. It does nothing to chase away his sadness.

"It wasn't for nothing," she says, her voice barely a whisper.

He closes his eyes and looks so suddenly tired that she wonders if she shouldn't do something drastic. "What was it for, then?" he asks, voice dull.

"Bovril," she says, grabbing for the first thing that pops into her attic.

Alek's eyes fly open. "Bovril?"

Bovril chuckles in its sleep, but doesn't wake.

Deryn reaches out her free hand and takes one of his. "Aye, and me."

He stares at her a bit longer, and then his fingers tighten around hers and the sadness fades from his eyes. "Und du," he agrees. "Especially you."

It seems the moment for it, so she ducks down and kisses him. Despite the drowsy summer heat, a shiver runs through her when he runs his hand up her arm and along her neck. She bites lightly on his lip and pulls away.

"Come here," he says in German, voice catching, drawing her back down. She hasn't anything better to do than kiss him again, so she obliges. The war's over, after all; they might as well celebrate. And she can think of worse ways to celebrate than by trading slow, lazy kisses under a blue summer sky.

It's lovely. It would be even lovelier if they were aloft, of course – but she'll work with what she has.

After a minute one of them bumps into Bovril, who wakes up with an indignant, "Barking spiders! How rude!"

Alek chuckles and Deryn laughs outright at the beastie. It sniffs, wee snout held high, and climbs down from Alek's stomach to curl up on the grass.

She takes advantage of the loris's absence to rearrange herself, laying her own head on Alek's chest, just below the hard line of his ribs. His fingers find her hair and stroke through it, gently.

"I wish your parents could come down that road right now to fetch you home," she says, turning her head to look in the direction of the long, tree-lined drive that leads to Wendover. She swallows and adds, "I wish my da could be with them."

"I wish that too," he says quietly. The words vibrate through his stomach; she feels it in her skull.

"But if it's destiny, it all had to happen," she says, nudging him a bit with her shoulder. "Even the pure dead awful bits."

"You're right, of course," he says, still playing with her hair. His smile is audible. "Please continue to remind me."

"Aye, and I sodding will," she says. She yawns and closes her eyes on the sky and its great scudding clouds. Alek makes a terrible pillow, truth be told, but she wouldn't move just now for anything. "Right after my nap."

Unseen, Bovril hmphs. Alek chuckles again, then falls silent. Between the warmth of him, the warmth of the sun, and the steady drone of insects, it's not long before she's sliding into sleep again.

"Deryn?" he ventures. The word rumbles straight through to her brain and jolts her awake again.

She turns her face towards his and glares – both in annoyance and because the sun is barking bright. "Blisters, what?"

"The French government has invited me to witness the treaty signing," he says, as if he's confessing a sin. "Mr. Barlow brought the letter."

So much for sleeping. She sits up, rests her arms atop her knees, and looks at him. "D'you mean to go?"

He pushes himself up on his elbows. There's a piece of grass in his hair, she notices. "Only if you come with me."

"Dummkopf," she says. She reaches over and plucks the grass free, tossing it into the breeze. "I would anyway."

His mouth quirks up into a mischievous half-smile. "You may have to wear a dress."

"Lad in a dress," Bovril says, then cackles.

Deryn gives the beastie an unamused glare. It cackles again, then uncurls, stretches out, and rolls over onto its back. She's not going to scratch its sodding belly, she decides, no matter how adorable it is. She deliberately looks back at Alek instead. "What sort of dress?"

Alek laces his hands behind his head and lies down again. "Several, I would think. Quite possibly a ballgown."

Blisters, he doesn't have to sound so pleased about it.

Deryn allows herself one more jaw-cracking yawn, and then, before Alek can suspect a thing, swings a leg over so that she's sitting on his stomach.

He gives a surprised oof as her weight hits him. "Deryn –?"

She bends down and brushes her nose against his. "I'll have to sleep on it," she says, "but I reckon my answer's yes."

And then she kisses him.