Yorkshire, 1919.

Martha greeted her with a beaming smile, an equally happy, round-faced baby propped against her hip. "Mary!" she exclaimed, pulling her into a warm hug with her free arm. "S' good t' see tha'! Oh, I'm so – come in, come in."

She entered the small, humble cottage that Martha had moved into with her husband Roger after their marriage. It was cosy and warm, and impeccably clean. Brightly coloured tapestries hung from the walls, and the scent of freshly baked bread hung in the air.

Martha led her over to the fire, to a pair of chairs placed on a large rug before the crackling flames, and they sat. Mary couldn't take her eyes off the baby.

"His name's Simon," Martha told her happily, bouncing the child so that he giggled and clapped his chubby hands. "Eh, but 'e is a cheeky lad."

"His eyes are… " Mary choked back what she had been about to say. That they were the mirror image of Dickon's, wide and blue and sparkling with life. "They're like yours," she finished softly.

Martha's smile slipped a little. "I know," she said in a solemn voice. "They're like his. Ma said as much th' momen' she clapped eyes on 'im. Said as it was like havin' him starin' back at her anew."

The firelight blurred in Mary's vision; she blinked her tears away. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I didn't mean to… you're so happy, I shouldn't… I'm sorry."

Martha waved aside her apologies. "We all miss 'im," she said, staring down at her little boy. "Both of 'em. Bu' – " she broke off.

"What?"

"Eh," Martha shook her head, not quite meeting Mary's eyes. "Wha' wi' Phil bein' found alive an' all… tis foolish hope, nowt more'n tha'. But it never quite goes away, tha' knows?"

Mary nodded. "I keep thinking that perhaps… that maybe Phil will know something, that maybe there's a chance…" she swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue, to give voice to the treacherous thoughts that had been creeping into her mind. "I know the Germans took prisoners. But the war's over now, and there's been no word of anything. We would have heard something if… " she trailed off, staring into the fire. The darker thought filling her mind she refused to give voice to.

Martha said nothing. After a while she set Simon down on the hearth and busied herself making tea, keeping an eye on her young son lest he crawl too close to the fire.

"Eh, I don' know how ma did it, all those years," she said, picking Simon up and turning him in the opposite direction for the countless time. "Twelve of us rascals runnin' all 'round her, an' all of us as loud as a bunch o' wild ponies. An' she never lost 'er temper without good cause. An' we never got hurt bad, an' we was allus fed an' clothed an' patched up after a tumble."

"How is she?" Mary asked. "Your mother?"

Martha shrugged, but her smile was a little strained. "Well enow," she said. "Wasnae easy for her, losin' th' both of 'em at once. Twas a big blow." She squared her shoulders. "But – but our Dickon, he allus said as our ma was th' strongest woman he ever knew, an' he weren't wrong about it neither. Dickon never was."

"Deeeeee," Simon piped up suddenly, staring up at his mum. "Deeeeee….."

Martha opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked at her son appraisingly, and shook her head. "Eh, thy li'l rascal! Tha's thy Uncle tha's tryin' t' speak of. Uncle Dickon." She chuckled.

Mary felt as though there was something solid lodged in her throat, making it difficult to speak. "An' a more graidely, handsome Yorkshire moor angel tha'll never find again, I'll wager."

Simon looked at her as she spoke, and his bright blue eyes were huge in his baby face. He stuck out a hand toward her and grinned, showing a gummy red mouth.

"Does tha' wan' t' hold 'im?" asked Martha, scooping her son off the rug and rubbing his tummy, causing him to subside into a fit of giggles.

"I… " but Martha was already giving him the boy. Mary took him in her arms, surprised by how heavy he was; he was a solid little thing, for all he was so small. But his tender warmth was strangely comforting, and the way he wrapped his tiny arms around her made something tight and bittersweet constrict within her. She stroked the back of his neck, as soft as velvet.

"He's beautiful Martha," she whispered. Simon was very solemn now, almost as though he was studying her. Mary leant forward and kissed his chubby baby cheek. "So beautiful."

Martha poured the tea and bustled around the hearth, extracting a tray of steaming oat cakes that made Mary's mouth water in remembrance. She put Simon back onto the rug while she ate, and for a while the only sounds were the crackling fire and the baby's happy gurgles. Martha fished a small bit of sewing out of a drawer, and she worked on it while humming under her breath; but Mary could feel the older girl's eyes on her, as though waiting for the right moment to speak.

"I hear there's a visitor at Misselthwaite," she said eventually, in the kind of sly, subtle voice that made Mary instantly wary. "A Cap'n someone or other…"

"An old friend," said Mary, feeling her cheeks heat. "From India. He – the Williams asked him to accompany me home, and – since he has an aunt in the area - oh, don't look at me like that, Martha!"

Martha pursed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling.

"I – I couldn't," Mary found herself saying, feeling that this was important despite how uncomfortable it made her feel. She kept her eyes on the baby as she spoke. "I couldn't… not for a long time, at any rate. Probably never. You know how much I loved him."

"Aye," said Martha. "An' he loved thee, for all 'e left th' way 'e did. But tha's a bonny young lass, Mary, an' tha' deserves t' be happy. Dickon – Dickon'd wan' thee t' be happy."

Mary blinked rapidly; her eyes were burning. "It's not that easy. I can never feel that way about another man. Not now."

"All th' same," said Martha, picking up her baby and kissing his cheek. "Tha' deserves t' be loved. An' this Cap'n Crawford sounds a good man."

"I suppose."

She left with promises to return, and a napkin of homemade cakes fresh from the oven. Her spirits had been lifted by seeing Martha and her baby, and Mary found herself wondering why she hadn't returned to Misselthwaite sooner. Then, as the Manor's walled gardens came into view over the moor, she remembered why. The ache of loss hovered there like a poisoned cloud. Dickon wasn't the only gardener that had gone away to war and not returned; but his was the presence she missed most sharply. And the moors, without his friendly smile and easy companionship, seemed almost hostile as they stretched out around her. Mary sighed. It was going to be a long time before it felt like home again.

France, 1919.

It was difficult to persuade Dickon to leave.

Colin had to repeat these words to himself several times, because it was impossible to process them any other way. Dickon Sowerby, born and bred Yorkshire moor boy, was reluctant to leave the sterile white corridors of a French field hospital.

"Don't you want to go home?" Colin found himself asking, staring at his old friend as though he could drill inside his skull and figure out what was wrong. "Back to Yorkshire, and the moor."

"Yorkshire?" Dickon barely whispered the word, the slight tremble in his fingers the only hint of how much it cost him. "To tell th' truth Colin, I don' even remember it."

"You will, though," replied Colin fiercely, willing the words to have a strength of conviction that would make Dickon believe them. "You will."

Dickon did not answer, and he would not be drawn to elaborate on his reasons for lingering. But Colin knew, of course. It was the same shadow that haunted the eyes of so many of the men he passed in the hospital corridors; the one that made their limbs shake and their bodies tense in fear at sudden movements or loud noises; the one that caused them to cry out in the night, begging for relief.

Dickon didn't say much at all. He spent a lot of time sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring out at the grey, featureless fields, his hands clenched together in his lap. He barely ate, and his skin held the pallour of a man who hadn't seen the sun for a long time. Colin was repeatedly struck by the irony of the situation as he paced back and forth beside him, the stunning reversal of their roles from childhood. Only he, Colin, was no Dickon Sowerby. He did not know the right words to clear the cobwebs from his friend's eyes.

"Everyone will be so happy to see you," he said repeatedly, but this too did not generate a reaction. And Colin didn't dare mention Mary, because every time he did the shadows on his friend's face darkened, and his shoulders grew even stiffer, and he said the same thing he always did now, in a voice that sounded nothing like him at all.

"I'm glad she's found someone else."

Colin grit his teeth as he watched his friend stare at nothing through the pane of glass. In moments of frustration he sometimes contemplated simply throwing Dickon over his shoulder and lugging him forcefully onto the train like an unruly child. He was thin enough now that it might even be possible.

But he knew, instinctively, that it could not be done that way. Dickon was injured. And not just on the outside, where his wounds were numerous and painful to look at even as they healed to pale scars. No, Dickon's gravest injuries were deeper. Inside, where no one could see or get to. Colin knew enough about self-loathing and despair to smell it on his friend from the other side of the room. And the only medicine he knew of which could fix it was five hundred miles away.

With a sigh, he turned and paced out of the room, a restless energy coursing through his veins. He found Clara bustling around an empty bed several doors down, tucking in starched sheets with practiced efficiency. She straightened when she saw Colin and gave him a soft smile.

"How is he?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"The same." He dragged a hand through his hair, unable to keep himself from confiding in her. "I try to talk to him, about going home, but he just…" he trailed off helplessly.

Clara nodded. Colin suspected she knew what he didn't say. He had come to notice the wisdom in her deep brown eyes over the past weeks they had spent together in the hospital. She was beautiful; he had come to notice that too, though he had tried his hardest not to.

"It will take time," she said to him now, her voice soft and reassuring, a balm to his troubled soul. "And patience. These men have been through so much."

"I fear..." The words rose in a lump up his throat. Clara waited patiently for him to go on. "I fear that I've found him, only to - to lose him all over again." He flinched at the weight of the confession, but Clara's face showed no judgement. "That I'm not strong enough to save him."

"You are," she said, and he glanced at her quickly, startled by the conviction in her tone. She didn't shy away from his gaze. "You are strong enough, and you will save him. know you will."

There was a charged silence. Colin found himself wishing it would last forever, the two of them together in that quiet space. It felt impossible to look away. More words, different words, welled up his throat. But before he could find them Clara broke it, turning back to the bed and fluffing a pillow rather briskly.

"There's a train to Calais leaving in three days' time," she said, her voice back to its usual formality. "All your paperwork is processed, and the medical officer has signed the discharge papers." She straightened again and faced him, though her eyes did not quite seem to meet his. "There's nothing standing in your way, if you can get him on the train."

Colin took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "We'll be on it," he said, trying to ignore the odd tightness in his chest. "He needs to get back to Misselthwaite. He'll be better there, with the fresh air and - " And her. "And his family."

Clara nodded. "I shall miss having him on the ward," she said, with a small smile. "And - " she took a deep breath, her gaze fluttering briefly to his face before darting away again. "And I shall miss you too, Lord Craven."

Colin stared at her. "Just… just Colin," he managed eventually, feeling as though his tongue were thick and woolly in his mouth.

A lovely pink blush rose on Clara's cheeks. "Colin," she said, her lips curling as though the sound of his name pleased her. Then, before he could even think to conjure a sensible reply, she turned and hurried off, leaving him staring after her, dumbstruck.