"Mary, that rose is positively shocking! Tell me, my dear, have you ever seen an orange rose before?"

Mary scowled. She never used to scowl. It felt deliciously naughty.

"Mary!" There was a warning in Ms. Delayney's voice. She was a decent woman, probably in her early thirties but always appearing several years older than she actually was, with a commanding chin and an affectedly expressive demeanor. She was terrifyingly good at sounding dangerous while maintaining a ladylike curve of a smile on her lips. Despite Mary's recent change in attitude, she couldn't quite bring herself to ignore that particular tone of voice.

"No, Ms. Delayney."

"Well, for goodness' sake, child, pick it out and do it again, in a pleasant color this time. A nice pale pink, perhaps. Think how nicely that will go with your new dress!"

It was absolutely shameless, Mary thought, the underhanded way in which Ms. Delayney tried to make her interested in the most mundane things like new dresses. It was a mystery to her, how she could once have thought so much of them. What was another dress, anyway? She had plenty of them. She would gladly give up all her fancy dresses and shawls for the freedom that a life on the streets could provide. Oh, how bored she was…!

"Mary? Go on, then, pick it out. Don't sit there lounging in that unladylike manner."

Mary ignored her for a full three seconds, just to prove that she could, before picking up the embroidery and using her needle to pry the firey-orange thread out of the white muslin, using more force than she probably needed to. Why did she even have that color of thread in her sewing basket if she wasn't allowed to use it?

The bell tinkled downstairs, calling Ms. Delayney to help with some duty regarding the youngest Poppins, a gap-toothed five-year-old named Christine. Ms. Delayney stood with stately haste, obviously rather glad for the possibility of a change of scene. Mary's sewing lesson had been going on for at least two hours, during which Ms. Delayney did nothing but read silently from her book of Keats and cough gently every so often.

As soon as Ms. Delayney was out of sight, Mary dropped her hands and her embroidery into her lap and slouched down again with a gusty sigh. It really was intolerable. Ever since that day in the park two years ago she had had a profound sense that something about her life wasn't quite right. The feeling had grown throughout her ninth and tenth years and the beginning of her eleventh, until finally something unknown in her snapped. Suddenly her mother's smile didn't seem quite so sincere; her father was not quite so much of a hero; her house was not quite home. And ever since that something inside her broke, she had been trying unsuccessfully to put her finger on what exactly it was that had caused her contented existence to come undone.

Mary sighed again and propped her elbow on the armrest of her chair, resting her face in the palm of her hand. She was sure Ms. Delayney would have a dignified fit if she saw the unbecoming way in which Mary's hand pushed her cheek up and stretched her mouth into an unpleasant grimace, but Mary didn't care. It felt glorious to stretch her face out after all the serene smiling and nodding that she found herself doing, morning, noon and night, more out of habit than anything else.

A bird chirped outside. Mary's eyes fell on the window and lingered. She had always loved birds. She felt a certain kinship with them and liked nothing better than to sing along with their whistled songs. Oh, how she envied their freedom! How wonderful it would be to be free, just for a little while; free to lounge about as much as she pleased without needing to worry about Ms. Delayney seeing and scolding her, free to run and skip, free to frown and free talk back as much as she liked and free to make her own choices. If only she had somewhere to go that no one else knew about, where no one could find her…

At that moment, a slightly ridiculous idea fell into Mary's head. She pondered it, shooed it away, beckoned it back, and pondered it some more. After all, why not? The window opened right onto the roof. It wasn't so very high up – only two and a half floors – and if there was no easy way down she could caper about up on the roof for as long as she wanted without Ms. Delayney being any the wiser. Did she dare? Yes – she had made up her mind. She stood and strode over to the window before she could second-guess herself. It was an easy matter to pull her old dollhouse under the sill and climb up atop it, and from there the roof and freedom were only a dainty step away. Mary breathed deeply and took it in one purposeful stride, holding onto either side of the window frame as she did so to keep her balance.

Once Mary was actually out the window, however, and no longer separated from that two-and-a-half floor drop by a solid foot of wall, she found that her courage deserted her as quickly and feebly as she could gasp. She was about to try to turn around, a prospect that didn't seem particularly attractive to her, and go back inside, when she was nearly startled from her perch by a voice.

"Coo!" it said. "What's this?"

Mary looked around so quickly that she had to snatch gropingly at the window frame once again to keep from sliding down the shingles to the street below. The speaker was a boy of about thirteen, sitting on the edge of a chimney pot with a large black chimney brush in his hand and soot covering every inch of him. Mary did her best to draw herself up indignantly at being addressed thus by such a person, which was not easy in her position and ultimately only resulted in her wavering and clinging even more tightly to the ledge behind her. Feeling rather foolish, and consequently all the more indignant, she lifted her chin and adopted her best imitation of her mother.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well," the boy said, somewhat apologetically, but with an undeniable glint of humor in his eye, "it's just a bit odd, that's all… fine ladies such as yourself don't regularly go about on the roofs, at least so far's I know."

"Well, can't I? It's my roof!"

"Sure you can, I don't mean to say that there's anything wrong with it. I only mean, young ladies of your obvious class don't often choose to do so."

Mary sensed, quite accurately, that she was being mocked. She sniffed disdainfully and looked away, pretending to be interested in watching a pigeon hop along the ridge of the roof next door. The boy grinned, letting the silence stretch and wondering what the girl would do if he simply refused to be out-classed into submission. Finally he stood and slid down the tiles to stand beside her, pulling off his hat with a cheeky expression of apology.

"I'm sorry, how abominably rude of me. We haven't even been introduced. How d'you do, miss? Name's Bert." He stuck out a grimy hand.

Mary eyed his hand with disdain. "Mary," she replied primly, more out of manners than because she felt that he deserved an answer. "Mary Poppins."

"Mary Poppins," he said slowly, as if to get a taste of the name. "Well, I'm right pleased to meetcha, Miss Poppins! First time up among the chimney pots?"

Mary regarded him sourly down her nose. "Whatever makes you say that?"

"You looked a little uncomfortable, that's all. Not quite at your ease, like."

"I was – I am – perfectly all right, thank you," She answered briskly.

Bert nodded soberly. "I don't doubt it. But be that as it may, how'd you like a tour? It's frightful nice up further. You can see for miles."

"That would be entirely improper," Mary said, but despite her cold tone there was a gleam of interest in her eye.

"Not in the least!" Bert exclaimed. "Me mates are up here as well, someplace. We'll be perfectly chaperoned."

"But – Ms. Delayney – "

"This Ms. Delayney of yours has never been up on a roof in her life, I'd wager. She couldn't possibly understand, could she?"

Mary recalled the way Ms. Delayney had scoffed at her whimsical rose just ten minutes ago. Bert was right – Ms. Delayney didn't understand anything about anything besides place settings and making tiny stitches. Mary lifted her chin defiantly.

"You're right. I'm positively certain she hasn't." She stood up straight, then wavered, remembering all too suddenly that she was, indeed, standing only several feet from a two-and-a-half story fall to the pavement. Bert grabbed her elbow with one sooty hand.

"Steady on! It's perfectly safe once you're used to it, but you've got to be confident, otherwise you'll never get far. Also, lose the shoes – they'll make it twenty times harder to get a good grip with your toes."

Mary, feeling certain that she ought to be shocked by such an idea, stared at him, wide eyed. Bert raised his eyebrows, waiting. A long silence ensued. Finally Bert sighed pointedly.

"Well, if you're too scaredthen I guess there's nothing I can do about it." He turned as if to go, reaching up to tip his hat. "Good day, Miss Poppins."

"Oh, very well, then, there's no need to be that way about it!" Mary snapped. She eased herself down into a sitting position and untied her slippers.

She had to admit, once she had gotten them off and struggled into a standing position once again, that there was something rather blissful about the feel of her bare feet on the warm shingles. She felt a silly thrill. Fancy her, Mary Poppins, sweet, proper little Mary Poppins, standing barefoot on her roof! She almost smiled at the thought – but it wouldn't do to let that sooty, impolite boy Bert know that she was pleased. She lifted her chin and looked at the boy with lofty impatience.

"Well? Are we going or aren't we?"