And the last chapter. ;-)

Chapter 22

When she opened her eyes, she startled. She'd expected to find London, or someplace close. She'd expected to feel the damp, English summer and perhaps see the park. Instead, she was standing in front of a ramshackle house on the edge of a small village. The air was warm, crisp and dry. She recognized the trees as those from the forest she'd been wandering in for years. She recognized the village, because it was so very much like the one where she usually holed herself up when she didn't have charges. She was perplexed, because she been called to Oz only a few other times. And it had been years since the last time.

Mary stood very still. Normally, she would march up the steps, knock on the door, and announce her presence as the new nanny. She trusted the wind that much. It never led her astray. It always knew where she should be. Yet, this time, she felt trepidation.

It's just that it's been some time. All of the gallivanting with Miss Elphaba and being…sick. You're out of practice. Now snap out of it.

Mary berated herself. Then, she took a deep breath and marched up the porch steps. Reaching the well-worn front door, she knocked precisely three times. After a minute, the door slowly opened. A very young girl pulled open the heavy door and stared, wide-eyed, at Mary. Striding through the door, Mary smiled as the little girl pushed it shut.

A man shuffled in from what must be the kitchen, calling out wearily, "Carlita?"

"Daddy!" The little girl ran to him and pulled him forward by his trousers, saying, "Look at her…"

He met Mary's eyes then, and she sized him up. He was perhaps fifty years old, with unruly dark hair that was rapidly graying. His eyes were softened by lines and darkened with age, but it appeared they were once very blue. His skin was roughened from work and Mary could feel the calluses on his hands when he reached out and took her fingers to greet her.

Before he could speak, Mary said, "It's my understanding that you're in need of a nanny?"

The man ran a hand through his hair, further mussing it, and said, "We did discuss it, yes, but I'm afraid, right now…" He looked away, troubled, "I'm afraid we just can't afford it."

Mary looked around at the shabbily furnished home, noting the threadbare rugs and the sunken furniture. There was a definite draft and the floors were in need of cleaning and varnishing. Raising her chin with a delicate sniff she said, "Well, I always say people should get to know one another before agreeing on a partnership. We'll call this first month a trial, then?"

The man just stared at her.

Still looking expectant, Mary went on, "Now where might I put my things?"

"So, you want to stay here?" The man asked.

"Well of course. That's the way this entire arrangement works. All the best people have live-in nannies," Mary snipped.

The man sighed heavily and answered, "Well, we are not 'the best people.'"

Mary met his eyes and stated, "You are what you believe you are."

The man stared at her, his weary expression turning to wary curiosity, and he asked, "And who are you again?"

"Mary Poppins," she chirped.

"And where did you come from? How do you know that we talked about hiring someone?"

"We can squabble over this, or I can get on with helping you," Mary snapped daintily.

The man turned and looked at her squarely, then stated, "I don't have much time for conversational games. My wife is very ill and my daughter needs raising. I need to know that I can trust you before I let you stay in my house."

Mary studied his eyes, realizing he would not be as easily manipulated as the others. Drawing a breath, she said, "I have taken care of my share of children. Some quite near here. I'm sure there's a village full of people like yourself not far from here who would speak for me. If you want to inquire, I won't stop you. But now, I'm here. And you need my help."

They squared off then, each sizing the other up and wondering who would give in. Mary had the advantage, however, as she could get inside his head. Finally, as she expected, the man conceded. Dropping his shoulders he said, "Let me show you to a room. It's the only extra room we have. It's small and off the kitchen. Not what you're used to, I'm sure. But it will have to do."

And he was right. He left Mary to unpack in the tiny room with just a bed and a small dresser. When he was gone, Mary realized she hadn't even asked his name. It was not the first time she'd arrived at an assignment without knowing the name of the family, but she usually soused out the information rather quickly. She decided it was a result of being so out of practice that she had forgotten. No mind though, because she was staying regardless.

Dropping her bag and umbrella, Mary sank onto the bed. She realized, then, how much her bones hurt. She was pushing hard and she knew it hadn't been long enough since her fall to being doing so much. But doing was all she knew. Sitting idle was foreign to her, and she needed to be on this journey. She'd left because she had things she needed to know and work to do. And she'd had to get away from Bert.

Bert…

The thought of him gave her a pang of regret and she rubbed her face to clear her head. Just then, she heard a tiny voice.

From the doorway, Carlita asked, "Are you all right?"

Mary looked up at her and smiled, saying, "I'm just fine, dear."

Carlita entered slowly, carrying a worn, stuffed bear. She came to stand by the bed, and Mary guessed she was about five. Her dark hair was a mess of soft curls around her shoulders and her eyes were wide and dark blue. She looked like her father.

After a moment, Carlita asked, "Are you sick?"

"No," Mary shook her head.

Carlita looked at her bear, "My mother is sick. Papa says that she won't be with us soon."

Mary felt another pang in her chest, but this one was solely for the little girl. Still, she just listened.

"And what is making your mother sick?" Mary asked.

"I don't know," Carlita answered softly.

There was a quiet pause.

"What's your name again?" The little girl asked.

"Mary Poppins."

"Have you come to be my new mother?" Carlita looked very conflicted.

Mary glanced at her and said, "No child. No one can be your mother but your mother."

Carlita's shoulders dropped.

"But," Mary went on, "I have come to help. So let's get to it and make some lunch, shall we?"

With that, Mary was off to the small kitchen to put together what she could.

And so the assignment began. As days became weeks, Mary fell into the pattern of doing what she did best. She still did not understand why she'd been called to this place, at this time, but it was evident that this small family needed her help. The father, whom she learned was called John Rosewood, was from a family of men who, like Galinda had said, had been logging the mountains for generations. He was rough, direct, and loyal.

Mary discovered that he'd been taking care of his sick wife for nearly three years now. Her name was Adelaide, and she appeared to be dying from an ailment in her head. She slipped in and out of recognition, sometimes sleeping for days and other times crying out in the night. It was heartbreaking, and John would say very little about the situation. All Mary had been able to get out of him was that the couple had been married more than thirty years. They had two other children who were grown and gone, and Carlita had been quite the surprise. Adelaide had taken ill just two years after giving birth to her youngest daughter, and Mary thought John believed the pregnancy had something to do with her sickness. From Mary's perspective, however, it was just the unlucky course of things. It was a tragic coincidence, but she often found that people preferred to blame themselves rather than accept that some things are out of their control. It was not her place, however, to tell John that.

So Mary kept the house up, which was a little beyond her normal duties, but it needed it. And she kept Carlita. The little girl was quiet, only speaking to give instructions or occasionally ask questions. Her questions were not those of a five year-old child, however. After hours of silence she would pelt Mary with questions about where her mother would be when she died. Or why her father had stopped playing with her. Mary did her best to answer, but she knew that Carlita would ultimately have to answer those questions on her own. She also tried to influence John to spend more time with his daughter, but as the weeks became months he only became more despondent.

Fall became winter and with winter came snow. The seasons changed and the landscape became soft hues of gray and white. In the quiet moments, Mary considered her original intent when she'd left Elphaba and Bert in Kansas. She felt a lack of fulfillment that she'd made such little progress in her search. All she had of her past was an old blanket that she kept hidden in her closet. But she refused to so much as look at it, lest she be distracted from her position. The winds had called her, and this is where she was most needed right now. In spite of all that had occurred, all she had learned and done, Mary still felt an unwavering dedication to the families who needed her. She had to see this through. She had to make things a better for John and little Carlita. And then she could try again to unlock her past.

So Mary watched from the doorway as Carlita curled up with her mother in the bed upstairs on days when the late winter snow continued to fall. She noticed that Adelaide was less and less aware. She watched as John wearily trudged through the door after working long hours in the cold, and then sat up late at night nursing whisky and staring at the walls. Mary tended to Adelaide, finding this to be one of the darkest assignments she'd ever had. She couldn't put this back together. She couldn't restore this family to what it had been, or had the potential to be. She could only keep Adelaide comfortable and keep John and Carlita moving. She could only sing to the little girl and make sure her father ate. It was a long, quiet, pensive assignment. It was cold and dark in the foothills of the Glikkun Mountains, yet Mary pressed on. Because Mary Poppins gave up on no one.

One morning some weeks later, in the pervasive cold of February, Mary came out of her room to find that John was not dressed for work. He sat at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him, a half finished glass of whiskey making rings on the wood in front of him. Mary startled, because she knew he sometimes nursed a half-glass at night, but John had never been one to drink in the morning. Mary watched him for a minute and then softly cleared her throat.

John looked up. With red, watery eyes he said, "I think it's today."

And Mary knew what he meant.

"The doctor was here last night, in the wee hours," he went on, "and he said to be here, to be expecting…"

Mary watched him struggle for the words and wished her magic could somehow heal this situation. All she could do, however, was ask, "Do you wish for Carlita to be here? To be with her?"

John nodded, taking a sip from his glass.

"Are you sure?" Mary asked softly.

"Yes," his voice was breaking with emotion, "I don't ever want her asking why her mother slipped away without her."

"All right, then," Mary stated.

Shortly after, Carlita woke. Mary helped her dress and gave her breakfast. Then, she brought the little girl to her parents' bedroom. Climbing into her father's lap, both John and his daughter sat watching Adelaide. Mary's gave them privacy, checking back now and then to see if they needed anything.

For most of the day, there was no change. Just as the sun began to set, however, John asked Mary to call the doctor. Taking down the number, she did just that. And within an hour of the doctor's arrival, Adelaide Rosewood slipped from the world. She took one last shallow breath and stepped into eternity. As the doctor confirmed she was gone, Carlita began to cry softly, and Mary hurt for her, because she knew what it was to grow up without a mother.

The next few days were a blur of activity. Mary cleaned the house and prepared for guests. With the help of her magic she managed to have food ready for the friends and family who came to pay their respects. The doctor returned with a colleague who prepared Adelaide's body. Then, on a bright, crisp Thursday, they buried her. At John's insistence, Mary went with them to the church for the service. She watched over Carlita throughout the funeral and then at the graveside. She made sure the little girl had a plate of food and put her at the kitchen table while all the other mourners filled the house. Mary realized she was so much more than a nanny in this assignment. She was acting as housekeeping and cook as well. Normally, she would have made it clear where her responsibilities ended, but she knew John could not afford other help. And she couldn't call upon the wife and mother. So Mary drew on all her strength, ignored her aching body, and used a touch of magic when no one was looking.

As the guests finally began to leave, John came into the kitchen. Rubbing his eyes, he asked Mary, "Did Carlita go to her room?"

Glancing toward the table, Mary answered, "I suppose she did."

She went back to the dishes, but John returned a moment later and said, "She's not upstairs."

Feeling a twinge of alarm, Mary checked her bedroom and the pantry. Then, they both made their way through the small house calling Carlita's name. When they found no trace of her, they hurried outside, calling out with more urgency. Still, the child was nowhere to be found. Splitting up, they searched the front yard and the street. Some of the guests who remained realized what was happening and began to search as well. John's sister, Elora, and Adelaide's cousin, Lily, the only other family they had left, began to frantically call for the little girl. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mary saw John tearing out of the grove of trees behind the house. He held Carlita in his arms, and she was very still. When he got close enough for Mary to really see her, she realized the little girl was soaking wet. The air was still bitterly cold so that Carlita's dark hair was covered in frost where the water had frozen.

Calling out for the doctor, who was luckily still present after paying his last respects that day, John charged into the house. Mary followed as he laid Adelaide on the worn sofa. With the help of his sister, John stripped off the little girl's wet clothes. Without being asked, Mary retrieved the linens they used for bathing and handed them to John. While he dried his daughter, Mary put water on to boil in case they might need it. She heard John send his sister after every blanket she could find. Elora came down the stairs a minute later with most of the contents of the wooden chest in the master bedroom. Dropping the blankets beside the sofa, she began to help John wrap the little girl to warm her. Mary watched, ready to help if needed. Then, suddenly, her breath hitched as Elora pulled a blanket from the pile.

It was the same. It was the same as the blanket Mary kept stored out of sight in her closet. She recognized the color and the pattern. Trying to maintain her composure, Mary felt her heart pound and her head spin.

It's from Oz. The blankets were both made in Oz. It doesn't mean there's a connection. Someone could have made a whole passel of them, Mary told herself.

As Elora tucked the blanket around Carlita, John knelt in front of her. The doctor bent down to examine her as well, and John ran his hand over the wool of the blanket. Almost to himself, he said, "This was her baby blanket. My mother made them before she passed away. I told her they weren't soft enough, but she insisted on making them…" he dropped his head in his hands.

Mary felt her world spin again. She reached for the doorframe where she stood for support and barely heard the doctor saying that Carlita would be all right. She was cold and had a good bump on her head, but she would recover. Mary stood, unable to move, as Carlita began to stir. When the little girl began to cry and explain to her father how she'd been trying to get back to the place where her mother was buried, Mary retreated to the kitchen and dropped into one of the chairs. Leaning on the table, Mary felt her emotions reeling wildly out of control.

She was still sitting there when all the guests had finally gone. She sat there as John carried Carlita up to bed. She was still staring at her hands when he came into the kitchen and turned down the flame on the stove and used the boiling water to make tea. Eventually, realizing Mary hadn't moved, he asked, "Mary? Are you all right?"

Looking up at him, Mary felt that she should keep her thoughts to herself. He'd had enough trauma. His life was already upside down. But before she could stop herself, Mary asked, "Carlita's blanket…did your mother make one for all of your children?"

Giving her an odd look, John said, "Yes, she did."

Mary stared at him as everything in her character screamed for her to get up and forget the whole thing. She thought she'd wanted to know more about herself, but now it felt like too much. It was too big and frightening. There was too much potential for messy tears or much yelling. Still, she couldn't hide her feelings. They were too strong and she knew her face was giving her away. Her stoic façade was shattered in the face of something so momentous.

Before she could stop herself, Mary said, "I have one, too."

John gave her an odd look.

Standing up and crossing swiftly to her room, Mary unearthed the blanket from her closet and returned to the kitchen. Finding John still standing by the stove, she held out the folded cloth. It was identical to Carlita's. John took it from Mary's hand and carefully looked it over. Then, after a long time, he finally met her eyes.

"Mary?" he asked, as though he could form no other, more specific question.

Swallowing hard, she said, "It was my baby blanket. I was wrapped in it when they found me on the steps of St. Paul's."

There was no sound for a long time. Eventually, Carlita's tiny voice called out for her father. He checked on his daughter, encouraging her to sleep as the doctor had instructed. Then, he returned to the kitchen. He and Mary stood there for another long moment.

Finally, John asked, "Is this why you came here?"

"No," Mary whispered, "I had no idea. I just knew you were in need of help."

Reaching out for the blanket, which he had laid on the counter, he said, "How could you not have known? How else could you have found me here?"

Mary held her chin high and stated, "I just know. It's a gift. My gift."

John studied her a little more, and then asked rhetorically, "You're like her, aren't you? You have…talents?"

Mary glanced away and then said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

John met and held her gaze, "You're like your mother. She was…gifted."

"My mother?" Mary knew she couldn't disguise the genuine shock in her voice.

"Yes," he went on, holding out the blanket, "She must have given you this, yes?"

Deciding that the time for pretenses was over, Mary stated bluntly, "I never knew my mother. She left me on the steps of a church. In this blanket. With this note," she turned the blanket over and indicated the paper that was pinned to the underside.

John carefully unfolded and read it. She saw his breath catch as he took in the words. He crossed to the table and dropped into a chair, overcome.

Looking up at her, he asked suddenly, "How old are you, Mary Poppins?"

She drew a breath, having never answered that question aloud, but finally said, "As best as anyone can tell, I'm just past thirty."

John looked at her a little longer, and then down at his hands. Minutes passed with no sound. Mary stood, so very unsure and hating every moment of it. Finally, he began to speak again. He didn't look at her, but her spoke.

"When I first married Adelaide, I was incredibly selfish. I loved her, but I had no idea what that really meant, what it required. I was a well-liked young man. I didn't want to give up the other girls. And there were so many. But as a married man, I couldn't carry on with the local girls any more. But she was different. She called herself Jessamyn and she was like no one I'd ever met. She had hair like flame and very blue eyes. Light colored, like the stones we sometimes find in the mountains. She showed up at the pub in town, and I was young and selfish. We carried on for a few months and I was so proud of fooling Adelaide. I was selfish and smitten. Jessamyn had….abilities. She knew things she shouldn't know. She could make things happen I couldn't explain. She came from some place beyond Oz. I was spellbound. That is, until she showed up pregnant. She cursed me every way she could. In her mind, it was entirely my fault. The only person I told was my mother, and she told me I had to do right by my child. Whatever it cost me, I had to own my mistakes. She'd made this blanket for mine and Adelaide's first child, but she gave it to me and told me to prove I was man enough to do what was right," John looked at his hands, "So I tried. But she vanished. And I never saw her again. I stayed with Adelaide, a changed man. I've never looked at another woman since then. And my mother never betrayed the secret. I think she understood my new appreciation for my wife. But she kept making the blankets for the children, perhaps to remind me, so that I would never forget that the baby, that first baby, was just as much my child as the others."

Mary just stared at him, speechless. She looked at him and finally saw it. He was the right age, at just past fifty. His hair was dark but not cut through with auburn hues like hers. But his eyes were midnight blue, just like Mary's. His skin was weathered but must have once been fair. His jaw was strong and his nose straight. Mary looked just like him. He was, undoubtedly, her father.

Suddenly, Mary felt the gravity of what they'd discovered. She realized how much John had endured over the past days, weeks even. She looked at the state of his life and felt the burden of having upset his world even more. Standing to her feet, she straightened her apron over her skirt and wiped the expression from her face.

Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm so sorry for this. I should never have come. Or I should never have discussed this. You have enough to trouble you and I never should have interjected my life into yours. It was terribly inappropriate. You need a nanny and not another difficulty. I will secure you someone else to help you and be gone as soon as I know Carlita is cared for."

Mary started for her room, reaching out to take the blanket with her. However, John stood and stopped her. He seized gently by the arm and held her. Mary met his eyes and saw that he was not angry. Weary, perhaps, but not angry. Without warning, he pulled her in and embraced her. Mary bristled like a cat caught off guard who's instinct was to wriggle free.

Over the top of her head, John said, "Life is hard. It gives what it wants and takes what it wants. My heart is broken. Carlita's heart is broken. But I learned a long time ago to take what comes. Face life with open arms and a strong spine. And make right what you can. You, Mary Poppins, are my daughter. And I'll not deny you again."

He released her then, and she instinctively backed toward her room.

Still looking at her, John went on, "We all need some sleep," he started to turn away and then added, "I do hope I'll see you in the morning."

Meeting his eyes, Mary knew she couldn't run this time. It would be like running from herself, and she was through with that. It was time to seize life by the scruff. It was time to take a page from Elphaba's book. It was time to own who and what she was. The wind had brought her here not so that she could fix John's family, but so that they might fix one another. This assignment, it seemed, was to set Mary's life right. And she was finally prepared to surrender to it.

Three months later, Mary felt the call of the wind again. It was strong, waking her from sleep with the roaring in her ears. She sat up in bed, noting that the sun was just beginning to color the sky. The stars were still out, though. She stared at them for a long time as they lost their brightness to the coming day. Pushing her hair back from her face, Mary looked at her hands. They were more worn than she liked, as she'd been doing so much more work in this house. It had gotten easier over the last few months, however, since John had gone and figured out who she was. Her magick was no surprise to him, since her mother had made no effort to disguise her abilities from John.

Still sitting on her bed in the quiet, Mary was grateful that John had been nonplussed by her side of the story, when she'd finally told most of it. Carlita was enchanted by her magic, but John seemed to find it ordinary. Her father, she was learning, was where she'd gotten her sensibility. He knew who her mother had been, so he accepted the reality of Mary. He was straightforward and honest, and Mary saw herself in him. Now, she wasn't sure how she'd missed it before. He was Mary, roughened and aged, and she was glad she looked like him. John had told her that her mother had fiery red hair and grey eyes. She was beautiful, impetuous and tall. She'd given her perfect smile and porcelain features to her child, but that was all. She'd given nothing else, as far as Mary was concerned. Over the past three months, Mary had found something without knowing she was looking for it. She'd wanted answers, but she had found family. She found two people who accepted her without blinking. She saw herself in them. She made sense. And, because of that, she realized the desire to find her mother simply wasn't there.

One night, as she and John had watched the fire, Mary had gotten up and retrieved the note her mother had left her. Without a word, she had tossed it into the fire so that they could watch it burn up. And neither needed words to understand. She was gone. It was her they would cast onto the wind, because she hadn't wanted either of them.

Now, sitting on the bed in her father's house, knowing she had a tiny half-sister who adored her, Mary needed nothing else. She'd found the tie. She hadn't come from the wind, but that seemed to make it okay to want to follow the wind. Standing to run a brush through her thick hair, she was glad she had not drowned in starlight, yet. Seeing a few stray bruises on her arms, she was less bothered. After all, she was only practically perfect, after all. And the wind was calling.

Mary dressed quickly, buttoning and straightening every part of her clothing. She gathered her things and then headed from the house just as dawn streaked the sky. The wind called, which meant it was time to go. This time, however, she left a bit of a longer note.

I have much left to teach Carlita, and I would very much like to see the mountains when I return.

Till we meet again,

Mary.

Then, she followed the wind.

Mary found herself in London. In fact, she found herself across from the familiar park. Blinking her eyes against the muted light, Mary tried to understand what the wind had called her to do. After her last "assignment", however, she was starting to wonder about the intentions of the wind. Looking all around, Mary tried to determine if there was a house to which she'd been called. She could find nothing close enough to be obvious. She felt no particular pull in any direction at all. Mary was perplexed. So she sat down a bench nearby to think, and to wait.

She waited all day. She waited until the sun began to set and the families left the park. She waited until she was absolutely famished and exhausted. But the wind was silent and no one approached her. Then, as unexpected as snow in July, Elphaba's voice broke into Mary's quiet.

"So you've been here the whole time?"

Mary startled, and then collected herself.

As Elphaba came to sit beside her, she answered, "No. I have not."

"Then where were you?"

Mary knew Elphaba was asking that and so much more, so she said, "I had to find answers. You, of all people, should understand that."

Elphaba was quiet, realizing the statement was true.

"And did you find any answers?" she asked.

Eventually, Mary nodded, saying, "Yes, I did."

Elphaba waited a moment and then went on, "And you couldn't have told Bert something? You couldn't have said goodbye to him? To everyone?"

Mary looked out into the sky for a long time, and then said, "No. I couldn't."

Not satisfied, Elphaba pressed, "Why not?"

"Because," Mary snapped, and then softened, "I wouldn't have been able to walk away from him, Elphie. I would have crawled into bed with him and never left. But it wouldn't have been right, because I had to know. Before I could love him, I have to love me."

Elphaba's posture changed, as though she suddenly understood.

"I can't argue with that," Elphaba conceded.

Mary took a breath and finally told her friend what had happened. She told her what she'd found and who she'd met. She told the story and found that it felt good. She had a story, and there was solace in that.

When Mary finished, Elphaba looked at her. Taking Mary's hand, she said, "I told you before. You have to ground yourself in something. You have to have things that are worth dying for, or you may as well not live. If you want to fly, you must have a place where you can fall. Your work can be perfect, Mary Poppins, but you must have a place where you can be just Mary."

Mary smiled just a little and said, "I'm only practically perfect, Miss Elphaba."

Elphaba started to argue and then changed her mind. She caught the tenderness in Mary's voice. Instead, Elphaba asked, "And what about Bert?"

Mary tensed.

"Mary, he waited a year for you to come back. Do right by him. Even if you don't want to be with him."

Mary took a long, heavy breath. Her shoulders dropped a little and her pretense faded. She suddenly looked much more human as she met Elphaba's eyes and said, "Elphie, that's the trouble. I want to be with him. I want it so much it scares me. It scares me how strong it is. It makes me feel…"

Elphaba smirked, "Wicked?"

Mary flushed and couldn't answer.

Elphaba chuckled and said, "Go to him."

"It's not that simple," Mary argued, "What if the wind calls me away? What sort of relationship is that? What if…what if there are…children?"

"Then you will find a way. You and Bert will find a way."

"I don't control the wind," Mary whispered.

Elphaba gave her a long look and said, "I think you do. Or at least, more than you think you do. I think what you call the wind comes from your own power. You sense people in need, and your spirit senses what you need. It knows. It has brought you back to where you would find Bert so many times. Why would it do that?" she paused, "I don't think you'll have to give up what you do. I've told you before, Fiyero knows he has to let me fly if he ever wants me in his bed."

Mary sat up again and gave Elphaba a long look of consideration. Then, a look of realization colored Mary's face.

"Well?" Elphaba asked.

"Well what?" Mary was smug again.

"Are you going to find him?"

With a little smile, Mary said, "He'll be by. He always goes for a walk after dinner."

"And how do you know he's here?" Elphaba was smiling now.

"He's here," Mary said, still smiling, "The wind brought me here for him."

Elphaba stood then, saying, "Good luck, Mary. Till we meet again?"

"Of course," Mary stated as though it were obvious.

Elphaba gave a cackling laugh before she vanished.

It was nearly eight o'clock when Bert came strolling by his park. He walked at a good pace, wanting to be home. He'd put in a good day at a local carnival, making decent tips, but he was tired. Looking up at the rooftops, he allowed himself a moment's longing. Then he buried the feeling. He couldn't bear to be up there, now. With no guarantee that Mary was ever coming back, he could barely look at the stars. So he sped up, aiming for his flat.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Bert saw a silhouette. He shook himself, because his eyes played tricks on him so often. He chastised himself for still having these fantasies after he'd worked so hard to move on. But then, the figure moved. She stood and moved into the lamplight just a few yards in front of him. Bert's breath caught. It was her.

Mary.

She was standing before him. Her red coat was precisely buttoned and her hat sat on her perfectly coiffed hair. She stood arrow-straight, bag and umbrella in hand, staring at the rising moon.

Crossing to her, he asked, "Mary?"

She met his eyes and said softly, "Bert."

His insides twisted up as his name rolled off her lips.

Noting how different this reunion was from all the others times they'd found each other in London, Mary asked carefully, "Aren't you glad to see me?"

Bert's eyes darkened and he said, "You left me, Mary. After everything, you left me again, wi' a vague note. And I can't…my 'eart can't keep waitin'. Perhaps you was right, in keepin' your distance before. Now that we've…been together, I can't just wait anymore. It 'urts too much."

Mary didn't flinch, but her eyes searched his and he saw regret.

Reaching out and taking his hands, she said, "Bert, do you have a place? A flat perhaps that we can go to?"

Bert struggled, not sure that this was a good idea. He didn't want his heart broken again. He couldn't deny her, though. Her hands were warm with magick and her eyes were pleading. Cor, he loved her. So he gave in and showed her the way.

Just a few blocks down the road, Bert led the way into his building. It wasn't fancy, but it did the job. With Mary right behind, he led her up to the attic apartment. Pushing open the door, he took in the familiar space. It was all one room, with dormer windows and a slanted ceiling. There was a small kitchen area, a worn sofa, and his bed. Lighting a lamp, Bert cast the room in warm light and shadow.

Dropping on the sofa, Bert said, "It's not much, but it's home."

Mary looked around and said, "It's perfect Bert."

She sat down beside him on the couch, but said nothing. The moment was tense for two people who had always danced so easily together. To cut the tension, Bert got up to make some tea. In silence, he worked. Mary, who seemed unsure of how to proceed, accepted the cup when he offered. They drank in silence for several minutes.

Finally, feeling frustrated, Bert asked, "Mary, what do ya want?"

She met his eyes and hers were stormy. Then, her expression changed. To Bert, she looked as though she made a realization, or a decision. With renewed confidence, she stood up. She crossed to stand in front of him, between him and the bed. Mary carefully removed her hat and gloves, placing them on a small table by the door. Then, still standing, she started talking.

"I am a child of both worlds, Bert. I have terribly important things to do."

He listened, unsure.

Removing her prized coat and lovingly hanging it up, Mary went on, "But I am more than that."

She kept talking. She told him where she'd been and who she'd met. She finished the story she'd began in Kansas. She told him exactly who Mary Poppins was, and wasn't. She removed her favorite shoes, explaining why the sensibility of them made her feel confident. She reprised why Oz made her she feel she always had to be covered, why she needed the umbrella. She unbuttoned her sleeves, showing him the bruises and admitting her weakness. She told him about her mother. She told him about her father. She told him what she knew and what she didn't know, and how it didn't seem to bother her anymore. Mary bared her soul, and as she did, she bared herself. With each story, she pulled off an article of clothing until she stood before him in just her undergarments. With her back to him, she pulled them off and cast them away.

Entirely naked, she turned and faced him.

Bert stared, his heart pounding, unable to believe what she had done.

"This," she stated, "is me. To everyone else, I am Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. But to you, I am just Mary," Running her hands over her arms, she touched the bruises, and Bert saw marks on her legs and her torso as well. Acknowledging them again, she went on, "I am not perfect. But I am yours. I need you, Bert. I cannot be what I feel destined to be without you. The wind knows it. It brought me back to you. And I know it. No matter where I go or what I do, I need to come back to you."

Bert still stared, absolutely shocked. He was afraid to move. He was still afraid she would vanish. Then, she crossed her arms over chest, and he saw her eyes flicker with fear that he would reject her. He saw how much she loved him. And that's all he needed.

Bert jumped to his feet and crossed the space between them. Crashing into her, he kissed her fiercely. Plunging his hands into her hair, he pulled it from the pins. Her hands found his shoulders and their bodies collided. Pushing her back towards the bed, Bert refused to let her go. He could barely breathe as he tried to communicate the burning in his very soul with his kisses. When the back of her knees touched the bed, he kicked off his shoes. Mary hands found his vest and shirt and made quick work of tearing them off. Fumbling with his trousers, Bert continued to kiss Mary's swollen mouth as he stepped out of his clothes. Now naked, Bert pulled her flush against him, feeling every inch of her skin against his body. It was as he remembered, but it was so much more. In the light of the lamp, he could see her. He gently laid her back on his bed and worked his mouth down her neck to her collarbone. Nipping at the skin, he watched her arch back and close her eyes. This time, she made no effort to hide. She pulled no blankets over them. She called his name.

"Bert," she breathed, letting her fingers weave through his hair and then run down his spine. Then, she pushed him over, kissing him with desperation as her weight pressed them together.

Bert didn't think he could stand it. Mary was splayed across him, straddling him, her skin pale and soft, her hair mussed and her eyes needy. He reached up and touched her, daring to let his hands find her breasts and then her hips. She kissed him, hard and deep. She trailed her red lips from his chest to his ear and whispered, "I need you."

Bert groaned and writhed beneath her. He was very afraid of losing control. He kissed her again, almost pleading with her as his tongue found every bit of her mouth. Then, because he was done with holding back, he pushed her onto her back again. Working his mouth down her body, he founds part of Mary that he'd only dared to imagine existed. Even having made love to her before, this was new. And Mary grasped the iron spindles of the bed in glorious surprise. With the most improper of noises, she gave in to it. Bert drove her to madness, making her whimper before returning to her mouth.

He smirked and whispered to her, "I believe I've found your weakness, Mary Poppins. Your other weakness."

The game of teasing they were so good at playing was so much more satisfying this way, he thought. Pushing him over on the bed again, she pinned him down. Working out what she wanted, she was on top of him before he could argue. Taking his body in hers, Mary drew a moan from him. Bert felt as though his eyes might roll back in his head as she kissed him again and again. Ignoring the protesting of the bed, they moved together. The tension built and mounted, and Bert tried not to wake his neighbors.

Still, when the moment came, there was no holding back. Now covered in a sheen of sweat and entirely lost in her, Bert called her name. He lost all sense. He thought he lost time itself as she took him with her over the most glorious of metaphorical cliffs. And when he dared to look up at her, to focus again, he could tell she was lost to herself as well. Her face was entirely improper, and Bert loved it. It made the pleasure he felt touch his heart as well.

He also loved that when her breathing slowed and she nuzzled her face in his neck, she said, "I believe that will do, Bert."

And He loved that when she curled up beside him, still naked, she added, "You'll not speak of this to anyone. Perhaps someday, when I'm ready to marry you, people will simply assume we share a bed. But I'll not have any of my charges knowing now. Or their parents. Imagine the scandal."

Bert smiled and turned to look at her, saying, "So we are to keep up the game tha' I can't touch you when others is around?"

Mary turned to meet his eyes, "Mary Poppins does not fraternize in public spaces."

"Absolutely not," Bert chuckled.

Mary sobered a little, "And I may be gone sometimes. There is another land that might need me, as well. There is…family."

Bert kissed her, long and deep, and said, "I'll be right 'ere. I always have been."

She laced her fingers through his without another word.

Softly, Bert sang, "When Mary 'olds your 'and, you feel so grand…"

She cut him off then, first to kiss him, and then to do much more than hold his hand.