And here's more. Just a reminder...I'm not following the plotline of what happened in Oz during Son of a Witch. Definitely going my own way. :-)

Also, interesting note...one of the first lines in the move Mary Poppins, when the children see her flying in, is: Michael - "Do you suppose it's a witch?"; Jane - "No...witches have brooms."

Last note...I've also pulled something else from the movie, as I try to make all things silly into serious. During Jolly Holiday, Bert sings to Mary and makes a list of at least twenty girls and their good qualities. He ends with..."but the tip of the top, is Mary Poppins, and there we stop." Just something to think about.

Chapter 11

Over the next few days, at Fiyero's insistence, Elphaba was forced to take things much slower. As she explained, somewhat begrudgingly, to Bert and Mary, Fiyero wanted her to be at her best before she started a campaign in Oz. He was understandably afraid that, if she wasn't well, she might push herself to the point of sickness, or madness, again. Elphaba had also promised Mae that she would be home for Christmas. Fiyero had used that promise as another way to get her to agree to rest. So Elphaba had decided they would stay in Kansas at least through the first of the year. Bert, therefore, found himself spending Christmas in an entirely different environment than usual.

Typically, the holiday went by without much fanfare for him. He didn't generally mind, but he also found it hard to get into the same, energetic spirit as the people around him. He thought perhaps it might be because he'd never had the things most people had that made the holiday nostalgic and magical. When he was a child, there had never been Santa Claus or stockings filled with treats. In the orphanage, with the nuns, there had only been extra stew and a longer church service. Then, when he'd run away, Christmas was merely a day when people might show compassion and give him a good meal or a bed for the night. He'd never been terribly upset about the whole experience, but he'd never latched onto the sentimental warmth of the day either. And as he got older, he naturally fell into enjoying the holiday in the same way as the other young, somewhat nomadic, working class men.

Looking back, he had memories of going out to the pubs on Christmas Eve with the other sweeps or the factory workers. Young, single, and mostly broke, they would split the cost of ale between them and toast the holiday season. Then, they would play cards and flirt with the bar maids. When the ale ran out and the games lost their appeal, they would follow the girls upstairs. For a young man, it seemed the perfect life. He wasn't tied down by location or relationship. He'd been free to do as he pleased, to stay out late or leave town and explore the world, if he had the money. Holidays were merely an extension of his carefree life.

However, as he got older, it started to feel a little hollow. Not that he'd ever wanted to settle down entirely. Bert had always looked at the white-collar men, hurrying to and from the same monotonous, indoor work every day, and felt badly for them. Still, with age, he began to realize his life could be a bit lonely. So he tried to fill the void. He made a lot of friends. He traveled whenever he could scrape together the shillings. He had a few flings that didn't last long and usually ended in someone's broken heart. The wounds weren't deep, or lasting, however, and he moved on. Then, he'd met Mary.

It was because of her that he'd started to really see how the other half of society lived. He got to know the families she worked with. He saw how the husbands and wives lived, worked, loved, struggled, and overcame those struggles. He watched the children, and was struck by how different their lives were from his. Bert began to realize what he'd missed, what he'd been without, as a child. Because of Mary, he started to think that there might be more.

It wasn't a horrible realization. He didn't suddenly regret and resent his life. It was what it was, and Bert was not one to agonize over a past he couldn't change. Still, he couldn't help wondering what he might've made of his life, if he'd had the chance. He asked himself if he would be willing to give up his freedom for the chance to have a family, to have a wife. He wondered if marriage was really all that different than the flings he'd allowed himself. He wondered if family really was so wonderful. He also clearly remembered the Christmas when he'd answered the question.

It had been several years previous, and the weather had been bitterly cold that year. Bert remembered that Mary had been in London, working for a family. It was one of the households with whom she'd stayed for quite some time. He remembered they had three little girls, all with flax-colored hair. On that Christmas Eve, Bert had curled himself up on a park bench to watch the stars. He had a small room to go home to, but the space felt somewhat claustrophobic that night. He'd decided to stay out in the fresh air until he was just too cold to tolerate it. While he was staring at the sky, Mary had come upon him. One of the children had left their scarf in the park earlier, and she'd come to look for it. He remembered how startled she'd been to find him.

"Why ever are you out here? In this cold?" she'd asked in her light, sweet voice.

Bert had looked at her, not sure how to answer. Finally, he'd just said, "I guess home seemed a little small and lonely tonight."

Mary had given him a sad look, as though, even after all this time, she'd only just realized that he had an existence apart from her. She looked at him as though, until then, he'd just been a part of her fantasy life. Then, she'd straightened herself up and insisted that he come home with her. Home to where she was working, anyway. Bert had protested, not wanting to impose on strangers, but she'd reached out and taken his hand. That was all it took, and he followed her. He followed Mary back to the tall, Victorian walkup where she was staying.

That evening had been wonderful. He'd sat next to Mary while the family sang Christmas carols and drank hot cider. He'd listened as the father read aloud from a book of Christmas stories. He'd helped bring in firewood and watched as they dressed a real Christmas tree. It had been a surreal evening, and it further emphasized how lonely he was.

The one thing that stood out the most, however, was listening to Mary sing. She'd sung for him before, to make the children smile during games. The Christmas songs, however, had been slow and haunting, and her voice was clear, light, and perfect. The youngest little girl had climbed into her lap, and the firelight had danced over them as Mary held the little girl and sang. It had stirred up something in Bert that he couldn't exactly name, a longing of sorts. It was a night Bert would always remember, a night that made him smile when times were hard, a night that made him understand the value of family.

It was also after that Christmas that he'd started to realize how strongly he felt about Mary. He wasn't just swooning because she was pretty. He'd gotten old enough to understand that girls who would go to bed with him after a pint of ale would never touch his heart. He understood that the life he'd chosen, while exciting and always changing, had its disadvantages. Namely, he would never win over a lady like Mary. Mary deserved someone educated, well-bred, and respectfully employed. She made him want to be better. She made him want to be able to take care of her. She made him think about things like commitment and family. Yet, in the same turn, he also understood that no matter how he changed himself, he would most likely never tie her down.

So Bert tried to be content with her friendship. He treasured the way they could chat for hours on the rooftops on her evenings off. He lived for their walks in the park and their trips to her magical place. He told her everything about himself, and she never put him down. She never flinched when he talked about his unconventional childhood. She never downplayed his significance or compared him to more affluent people. In fact, she treated him like a gentleman, like royalty, even.

After that night, Bert found himself spending his holidays alone more and more often. The frivolity of youth had worn off, and he was in love with a woman whom he could never have. Most of the time, he made a peace with it. He had Mary's friendship, and that was worth everything to him. However, at times like Christmas, he would find himself alone in his rented room with a bottle of wine. He'd never been a heavy drinker, and he couldn't stomach whiskey, but the warmth of the wine helped him through the lonely evening. Then, he got on with life.

This year, however, was entirely different. Much like that one, magical holiday, he got to spend Christmas with a family. He got to watch as Mae handed out gifts to each member of her unusual family. He got to have dinner at a table full of people, chatter, and food. He watched all the children open stockings filled with sweets. He marveled as Mary helped usher them all home when they were giddy and full of sugar. He watched Elphaba try to pretend she didn't love the chaos. He watched Adrian fawn over a more pregnant Tessy. Bert saw how they all loved each other in their own way, and he appreciated it more than usual, because they were all so different. They came from all walks of life, all backgrounds. They were not all related by blood, but they were bonded by their experiences. It gave Bert a vague sort of hope.

He also found himself with a little money for the first time in a while. Wilbur had insisted on paying him something for his work on their farm, as he did with all the other farmhands. He'd declined, at first, but Wilbur simply placed the money in his room. Deciding to graciously accept, he'd tucked it away. Bert decided, however, to use a little bit for Christmas. The day before the holiday, he'd gone into town and strolled through the shops, looking. After meticulous searching, he'd found a gift for Mary. It was something that was appropriate for a single man to give a woman, but personal enough that it wouldn't just seem polite. It was something only he would know to give her, and he hoped it would communicate how much he cared for her without crossing any boundaries. So he wrapped it carefully, and waited.

At the end of Christmas day, when the children had gone home with Fiyero and Elphaba and the others were heading to bed, Bert saw his chance. He followed Mary as she climbed the stairs. His room was just down the hall from hers, but instead of continuing past her, he stopped.

Just as she reached for her doorknob, he said softly, "Mary?"

She turned and asked, "Yes Bert?"

Swallowing over his nerves, Bert carefully produced the small, wrapped package. Handing it to her, he said, "I…I wanted you to 'ave this, for Christmas."

Taking the package from him, he could tell she was surprised, "Why Bert…you don't need to spend your money on me. Your friendship is more than a gift."

Bert nodded, "I know, Mary, but…"

He had no answer, and so he just watched as she carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside the box was a gold locket on a long, sturdy chain. It was heavy and well-made, and was meant to hold a photo. Mary turned it over in her hands quietly.

"I know you gave the other one to the Banks children, after you were with them so long," Bert explained, "And I know you end up giving the children a lot of your things…'cause you love 'em. So…I thought someone should give something to you…"

Mary continued to look at the locket, as though all words had escaped her.

Bert continued, "I figured you can decide 'ose picture you want in it. I've got no way of getting a photo that small anyways."

When she finally looked at him, Mary's eyes were full of things Bert couldn't exactly identify. She looked at him for a long moment, and then said very softly, "Thank you, Bert. You are truly one of the sweetest people in this world."

Bert smiled, pleased.

Then, she surprised him. Mary stepped in and kissed him softly on the cheek. It was something she usually reserved for when she was leaving, so Bert was unprepared. It could have been that he was just giddy that she touched him, but he thought she lingered a moment longer than was necessary. Bert felt like she kept her cheek pressed against his for an extra second. It was over before he could say for sure, though. Mary turned on her heel then and escaped into her room, leaving him with just the resounding click of the door latch and the feel of her soft skin against his face.

Over the next week, Elphaba stayed true to her word and didn't press the issue of returning to Oz. Instead, she used the time to try to formulate a plan for what they wanted to accomplish. She realized that they couldn't simply storm into Oz and demand the Animals' freedom. They would also never convince the Animals to stand up for themselves without some sort of plausible plan. So Elphaba threw herself into her work. She reread her books on Ozian History and the History of the Animal race. She studied the political details and the accounts of how things had changed during the reign of the Wizard. She tried to give herself a well-rounded perspective on Oz's cultures, strengths, and weaknesses.

It was only in doing this, Elphaba knew, that they would have a chance of making any difference. Returning in a blaze of fiery magic and demanding the Animals' rights by force would only work for so long. With that approach, she would only be seen as another tyrant, and someone would eventually rebel. She knew that to create permanent change, she had to make change that benefitted everyone. So she studied and planned, and the days passed.

She spent time observing Mary, as well. Elphaba realized that if they were to be partners in anything, they had to at least be civil to one another. They had to find some common ground, or at least understand each other. Some of the animosity between them had been tamed by Mary's willingness to help Elphaba through her paroxysm. Their discussion about the elixir had helped as well. Still, they kept each other at a distance. Elphaba, however, could not forget what Mary had said about being born of two worlds. She couldn't shake the memory of the bruises on Mary's arm.

So Elphaba watched her. She forced herself to use the keen observation skills she'd developed over the years. In doing so, she noticed a few things. Mary did indeed refuse to touch dirty dishes or carry the washbasins. She used magic to lift plates and cups, and even bed linens. She cleaned up toys and shoes when the children visited without so much as touching a thing. At first, it seemed as pretentious and vain as Elphaba imagined. On the surface, it appeared as though Mary was simply too 'perfect' to risk soiling her clothes or damaging her delicate hands. However, Elphaba noticed that Mary avoided contact in general. She wasn't just distant with Elphaba. She touched no one. She governed Dorothy, and occasionally the younger children, without so much as taking their hands, usually. She never picked them up, and tended to shy away from being embraced or tugged at. It was odd, but in light of what Elphaba knew, it started to make sense. In her mind, she started to form an explanation.

Still, there was no way she could broach the subject with Mary. They were far from being friends, still, and Elphaba knew it had been unusual for Mary to say as much as she had. Based on what Bert had told her, Mary generally said very little about herself. Elphaba was surprised to discover that not even Bert knew anything about Mary's life, her family, or how she'd first realized she could leap between worlds. As much as he had shared with Mary, she had told him nothing in return. She would talk for hours about the children, their trips into Oz, the people they met, or the good times they had, but she would not share her story. Bert thought it had something to do with him. Elphaba thought it had more to do with Mary, herself. What exactly Mary's secrets were, however, Elphaba couldn't guess. So she tried to keep her focus on planning their mission. That is, until one day just after the first of the year.

It was bitterly cold, finally, and there was a dusting of frost on the ground. The farm animals had been given extra hay and were tucked into their stalls. The fields had been prepped to survive the season. All was quiet on the Proctor farm. That morning, Elphaba had come over to help Mae can some late season vegetables for the winter. She knew very little about food preparation, but Fiyero wanted her to get out of her room for a little while. Elphaba was mostly willing, until she saw Mary sitting at the kitchen table shelling sugar snap peas. How a nanny from the city knew how to do that was beyond Elphaba's understanding. Elphaba stood there for a minute, considering her options.

Eventually, Mary spoke without looking up, "There's more than enough of these for both of us."

Elphaba took that as an invitation. Not wanting to risk ruining the truce between them, she crossed and sat down at the table across from Mary. She took one of the bowls for herself. They worked silently for a few minutes, and Elphaba tried to remember what Mae had shown her last year about the peas.

After a time, Elphaba asked, "Did Mae leave you alone with this?"

"She went down to the mill to check on the grain, for market," Mary answered.

"Ah," Elphaba replied, remembering that winter was when the farm made most of its money off of the grain harvest.

Another few minutes went by in silence. As they worked, Elphaba realized this might be her opportunity to learn something about Mary, to perhaps gain her trust. Unable to think of anything she wanted to know more, she asked, "So…have you always been so very obsessed with 'perfect'?"

Mary cut her eyes toward Elphaba for a second, "It's not an obsession, Miss Elphaba. It's simply my reality."

Elphaba bit her tongue, "Then…what made you first decide that you needed to be…perfect?"

"It wasn't a decision either," Mary said flatly, "I've always been. This is how I was born, and also what I was meant to be."

"You were meant to be perfect?" Elphaba scoffed.

Mary sighed and finally looked at Elphaba, "Not in the way you think. I can no more control the physical traits I was born with than you can. You had no say in being born green. I had no say in being born lovely. I never asked to look this way. I never asked to be stared at. It is simply who I am. Perhaps it helps the children to take to me. I like to think it's an advantage in that way."

Elphaba tried not to sound too sarcastic, "So, you really do think you're beautiful? Perfectly beautiful? To everyone?"

"Perfect does not necessarily mean 'better than everyone else', Miss Elphaba. Perfect means 'satisfying all requirements' or 'without fault or defect'. Someone once told me that…that I looked like a doll. Perfectly made. In other words, just right. Not devastatingly beautiful, but not unpleasant. I know that beauty is subjective, but if you take out the sentiment, there is such a thing as a perfectly formed person."

"Still, it's off-putting, to call yourself 'perfect'," Elphaba argued.

"Maybe," Mary cocked her head, "but it's true. However, what I called myself was 'practically perfect'. What I was referring to has nothing to do with looks. Practically perfect can be as simple as not allowing sentiment to muddle your thinking."

Elphaba sighed and snapped a few more peas, "And what does that mean?"

"Most of our greatest downfalls, as people, come from letting sentiment rule our lives. When we surrender to our emotions instead of choosing what is the most practical, necessary, or mutually beneficial, we generally end up with a mess. Kingdoms have fallen and wars have been fought because of unchecked emotions," Mary explained.

"I'll admit, I used to think that way myself…but not because I thought I was perfect," Elphaba replied.

"You will be what you allow yourself to think that you are," Mary said, in an open-ended sort of way.

Elphaba grit her teeth and thought about it. Begrudgingly, she then asked, "Don't you ever worry about offending people? Or making them feel less significant than you?"

Mary thought for a moment, "No. I tell the truth. Sometimes the truth is a little offensive, but people appreciate it in the long run. And I've never put you, or anyone else, down. You are not less important because you are the way you are. I was made this way for a reason, for the work I'm given. Perfection is necessary. What kind of role model would I be otherwise?"

Elphaba thought for a moment, trying to keep her mind open, "So you're saying…you have to be perfect because your job is to cause others to aspire to be better?"

Mary took a moment, and then said, "Yes. When it comes to character, discipline, and control, I strive for perfection. As for looks, I am what I am…and it is sometimes more of a burden than you know."

Elphaba thought about that, and then countered, "Are people born perfect, or do they have perfection thrust upon them?"

Mary looked at her strangely.

"I was once told that I am an example of sin, and all that's wrong in the world" Elphaba continued, "I was told I was born that way. Do you think that's true as well?"

Mary studied the peas for a minute, and then asked, "Do you?"

Elphaba looked in Mary's eyes and answered, "I think most of us are more than the labels we're given. I don't think the world is that black and white. I don't believe that never getting messy, angry, or acting impulsively means you've led a perfect life."

"Actually, it does," Mary argued softly.

Elphaba looked at her for a moment, "Well, then I guess I have no interest in perfection. I believe in giving of myself. I work hard to be excellent with the animals I help. But I need the freedom to scream and rant and rave if I want to. I need to be vulnerable, sometimes. And I'm not enough, on my own. I need Fiyero. Perhaps if I were perfect, I could get by on my own, but I proved a long time ago that I can't. I have that weakness, but through it, Fiyero makes me stronger. If having a weakness makes me imperfect, then I'll take it."

Mary looked away, and was very still for a moment. Then she went back to the peas, refusing to say anything more.

The following morning, Elphaba woke to find that it was snowing. She'd never been much for snow, especially having spent most of her life avoiding it. In Oz, a good snowfall made the landscape a minefield of ways for her to burn herself. The negative impression had yet to fully wear off. So she sat in her room after breakfast, reading.

After about an hour, Fiyero knocked on the doorframe, saying, "Fae? Bert's at the door. He says it's important."

Elphaba set her book aside, wondering what might be going on. She crossed through her house to the foyer and greeted Bert, "Yes?"

Bert looked at her with wide, concerned eyes, "Elphaba…it's Mary. She's gone."

"What?" Elphaba looked confused.

"She left a note for Dorothy this morning, and she's gone. Just like all the other times…"

"What other times?" Elphaba snapped.

"You know," Bert explained, "when the wind changes…and she leaves…"

Then, Elphaba realized what he meant, "So…she just left? On her own? She left you here and went…where?"

Bert bit his lip, "She always leaves me. I don't travel with her. Only she knows where she's gone. Only she can 'ear the wind, or 'owever she does it. Something calls 'er to the children or calls 'er away. I don't understand it, but I see it 'appen."

Elphaba fought back the urge to get angry, "So she went back to the children? In London?"

Bert shrugged sadly, "I'd assume so, but I don't know…"

"Did she tell anyone she left?" Elphaba demanded.

"She left a note for Dorothy, but that's all," Bert answered.

With an exasperated sigh, Elphaba stormed past Bert and took off across the field towards Mae's house. Bert followed, watching as she hugged her arms around herself and picked carefully through the snow. When they got to the big house, they found Mae, Emily and Dorothy in the kitchen. Dorothy looked quite despondent as she clutched a piece of paper and a hardbound book.

Elphaba asked immediately, "Did anyone see her leave?"

They all shook their heads.

"She left me this," Dorothy handed Elphaba the paper.

Elphaba took it and quickly scanned what it said.

Dorothy…keep reading the stories. 'Till we meet again, Mary Poppins.

"All her things are gone, too," Dorothy said softly, "Except for this book. She left me the book we were reading..."

"She tends to do that..." Bert said in a sentimental sort-of way.

Elphaba stood there for a moment, considering her options. On one hand, she could simply let Mary go. Since she'd already figured out the spell that allowed her to fly and do any number of other things, she didn't know that she needed Mary for that anymore. Still, Elphaba hadn't been able to go to Oz yet and figure out what her potential was. She hadn't explored her new abilities. Then, there was the fact that Mary also seemed to have some sort of unnatural influence over people. She drew people in the way Elphaba usually repelled people. It was something that could be invaluable in trying to influence an entire society.

I need her, Elphaba told herself, not wanting to admit that there was also an unexplained connection between them. In spite of their vast differences, and in the same way that Elphaba had been drawn to Dorothy, there was something that made her want to know more about Mary. They were both, after all, children of two worlds. So she drew a deep breath and handed the paper back to Dorothy.

Turning towards the door, Elphaba said, "Mae? Tell Fiyero I'll be back shortly."

Mae gave her a worried smile and a quick nod.

Elphaba then stormed out the kitchen door and into the yard. Over her shoulder, she called, "Come on, Bert."

Looking confused a little afraid, he followed, asking, "What are we doing?"

"We're going to find Mary," Elphaba snapped.

Bert's expression lightened, and he nodded. Then, Elphaba took his hand. Focusing hard on Mary, she closed her eyes and hoped that this would work. She hoped that, like the times before, she could simply focus on Mary and find her.

When Elphaba opened her eyes a moment later, she found herself in Oz. It was only then, after looking around, that she remembered a potentially important detail. Focusing on Mary in order to find her should only work if they were in opposite worlds. They couldn't leap through space alone. Elphaba, however, had thought that Mary would've gone back to London, which would've placed them in the same world. However, logic seemed to dictate, since she'd been lead into Oz, that Mary must be here.

Turning to Bert, she asked, "Usually, when Mary's called away from London, has she ever told you where she goes?"

"No," Bert shook his head.

"Has she ever taken on children from Oz, that you know of?"

"She's never told me about it, if she 'as. She won't say much about what she does when she disappears."

Elphaba considered what he said. Then, she took Bert's hand again and focused on Mary. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited. Nothing happened. This time, they remained where they were. They were still in a field in Oz. Looking around again, Elphaba considered her surroundings. She determined that they must be on the outskirts of the Emerald City, just off the Yellow Brick Road. Elphaba then tried to guess where Mary might be. After all, there wasn't much around, as far as places to stay went.

Scanning the landscape, Elphaba spotted a large house off in the distance. There was also a driveway for carriages a ways off that most likely lead back to the Yellow Brick Road. With Bert trailing behind, Elphaba took off toward the house. When she got within a few paces, she stopped. Something was oddly familiar. It took her a moment to realize that this was the same place that used to house the Mauntery where she'd once stayed. It had been so many years, however, and she'd been in such a poor state when she'd left, that it was a fuzzy memory. Now, Elphaba wondered why Mary would be here.

With a heavy sigh, she led the way across the scrubby field to the large, three-story house. As they got closer, she noticed how poorly maintained the yards were. The house was also sorely in need of a washing and painting. The shutters hung haphazardly, and there were no animals grazing in the fields. Climbing the steps to the porch, Elphaba pounded on the heavy, double doors. Bert stood next to her, uncertain.

There was some shuffling inside, and a long time passed before anyone came to the door. When it was opened, Elphaba was shocked to find Mary on the other side of the door. Still dressed in her crisp, black walking coat and her black, straw hat, Mary had clearly not been there long. Elphaba stared at her for a long moment, not sure what to ask first.

Finally, she said, "What in the name of all Oz are you doing here?"

Mary, for one of the first times since they'd met, looked uncertain. Looking around the yard carefully, she finally gestured for Elphaba and Bert to come inside. Closing the door behind them, she folded her hands together and considered what to say. During, the pause, Elphaba looked around, taking in the very poor condition of the house. It was a large homestead, with a sprawling foyer and a good drawing room. She vaguely remembered it being decently appointed and housing perhaps a dozen maunts. There used to be a garden and well-kept courtyard. Now, though, it was in a state of disarray, as though the occupants had left in a hurry.

Finally, after a few minutes, Mary spoke, "I think, perhaps for the first time in my career, that I may have misunderstood my calling."

"What?" Elphaba looked at her in confusion.

Mary looked flustered, which was entirely out of character, "I've…well I've only been called into Oz three times, in all these years. All of those times, it was in the north, where the forests are. And only for about a week, each. I've always been a bit…afraid…to stay here too long. But…I know I felt the wind pulling me here. I'm sure. But…this is no home. This is no family…"

As Mary struggled, Elphaba looked around. She saw no one, and had to agree, "The house is empty…" she stated.

"No…" Mary shook her head. Taking a deep breath, she led them down the hallway and through the kitchen. Just off the large room was the pantry. Mary crossed to it and pulled open the door. Inside, huddled in the corner, were several Animals. They were all children and, after a moment, Elphaba recognized some of them.

They were the Animals from a few weeks previous, when they'd visited the city. There was the Leopard and the Monkey. There was one of the Dogs. There was also a Capuchin, a pair of Kittens, and a Foal who looked barely old enough to speak. They were dirty, shaking, and clearly terrified. Elphaba looked them over, and then looked back at Mary.

"They claim they've run away from the city. Their parents were killed in a raid on their ward…" Mary said softly.

Elphaba could see the torment on Mary's face, and the absolute terror in the Animals' eyes. It both broke her heart and made her livid. Turning to back to the pantry, she said, "My name is Elphaba Thropp, and I've not come to hurt you."

They calmed somewhat, and Elphaba motioned for Mary to follow her. Leaving the children, who wouldn't dare come out of the pantry, they walked outside through the back door. Bert followed quietly.

Once in the yard, Elphaba looked at Mary intently for a moment, and then asked, "Tell me…what happens when the 'wind changes'? What do you hear?"

Clearly uncomfortable with the question, Mary said, "I can't say…"

"Well, say something. The time for secrets is over. You've got no reason to hide from me, and I can't help you figure this out if you aren't honest with me. How do you know where to go?"

Mary struggled again, and then said, "I…don't know exactly. I feel it, like the rush of the wind. It comes over me, usually in the morning when the sun's in the east. I feel the children's need, and I focus on it…"

"Well," Elphaba stated, "I think this calls your anti-sentiment method of living into question."

"What?" Mary snapped.

"I think it's interesting that not three weeks after seeing these children for the first time, something pulled you in their direction," Elphaba answered.

"I've no idea what you're talking about…" Mary looked away.

Then, something else occurred to Elphaba. She looked at Bert, who still looked confused, and then back to Mary. Then, she said, "Have you ever wondered why it is that you are consistently called to London? Aren't there children all over the world, in two worlds, that might need you?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at," Mary adjusted her gloves.

Elphaba allowed herself a tiny smile, "I'm saying that something, or someone, draws you in the direction of London. And now something has drawn you toward these children. I'm saying that you're 'wind' may not be as objective as you think. It may be swayed by your own feelings."

Mary cut her eyes back toward Elphaba, "That is absolutely untrue, and somewhat offensive."

Elphaba crossed her arms, "Then explain what brought you here, to these particular Animals."

"They're in need," Mary said quickly.

"Lots of children are in need. Why these, over all the others?"

"I've been called into Oz before, Miss Elphaba."

"And who did you care for?" Elphaba asked.

Mary hesitated, "Children from the only village I'd visited. Children who's parents had business elsewhere for a short time."

"Children whom you'd seen before?" Elphaba asked.

Mary was quiet for a moment, "Yes. They were orphans, adopted by a family who traveled now and then to earn a living."

"You see then?" Elphaba exclaimed, "There is a connection."

"It's a patchy theory, at best," Mary snipped.

"Your constant denial doesn't make it less true," Elphaba shot back, "and I think we can all guess at what your connection to London might be…"

Mary cocked her head and gave Elphaba a hard glare, "I don't think I appreciate your implications, Miss Elphaba."

"Again, that doesn't make them untrue," Elphaba shot back.

"I think," Mary said evenly, "that I might need to handle this on my own."

Elphaba grit her teeth and fired back, "No, I think what you need to do is let yourself care about this. You need to get angry at what's happened to those children. You need to be enraged and devastated at how these Animals have to live. You need scream or cry or whatever it takes to summon up enough courage to do something about it!"

Mary sounded less confident when she said, "I do not scream and cry."

"Then maybe it's time!" Elphaba shouted, "Maybe it's time to step out of your perfect, protected little shell! Maybe it's time to do something! Get involved! Get your hands dirty! Stop worrying about the image you project, and worry about the difference you can make!"

"Dirty!" Mary cut in, raising her chin, "The very thought!"

Elphaba plowed on, "Your influence is so much greater if you're willing to get a little messy! In fact…"

Elphaba took a step forward then, so that she was much closer to Mary than would generally be comfortable. In one, quick, flurry of motion, she pulled off Mary's hat and thoroughly mussed her hair. Elphaba pulled it loose from its pins and tangled the perfect waves at her face. Then, she stepped back, the hat still in her hand.

Mary gave a little squeal and jumped backward as though she'd been stung. Her hands flew to her face, and then to her hopelessly disheveled hair.

"How dare you!" she managed to squeak.

"It's just hair, Mary, and it's not so bad, is it? Being messy?" Elphaba challenged.

Mary's expression wavered somewhere between angry and afraid, as she tried to fix her hair, "How absolutely impertinent!" she squealed in Elphaba's general direction.

Realizing her hair was hopelessly ruined, she started pulling the pins out. At the same time, she took off back towards the house. Elphaba and Bert followed close behind. Once inside, they followed Mary to the foyer, where there was a large mirror hanging on the wall. Mary's features were set in a frustrated grimace as she pulled out the last of the hairpins. Then, she stood there, with her hair hanging loose. It was longer than Elphaba would've guessed, and was deepest, chestnut brown. For a fleeting moment, Mary looked incredibly young and innocent. Without the austere, upswept style, she was even more delicately pretty. What she lost, however, was the appearance of authority. The effect merely reinforced Elphaba's belief that much of Mary's self-worth was wrapped up in a façade she had created. In the moment, however, there wasn't time to make such an analyzation.

Instead, Elphaba said, "Hair can be fixed. Messes can be cleaned up. So it's worth the risk of a mess, if it means making a great difference."

Mary didn't answer, as she wound her hair back up behind her head and stabbed it with hairpins.

"Real love, real commitment, a real experience…those things are all worth the risk of failure or heartache. Trust me…I've risked everything, lost everything, and yet somehow found it all again," Elphaba said softly, "You have no idea how it's changed me, and made me better…"

Mary still said nothing.

During the entire exchange, Bert had said very little. He now stood just behind Mary, watching her. His eyes were full of longing, concern, and pent-up, unexpressed emotion. After a long moment of silence, he said, "Mary…I think she might 'ave a point. You won't know 'ow much good you're capable of doing, unless you try. And…I know I'll never think less of you, no matter 'ow messy you get…"

Mary continued to fix her hair, but she slowed down. Some of the anger faded. Elphaba could see how much Bert influenced her. She had become intuitive enough, with age, to see that Mary valued his opinion above everyone else. It made her wonder why Mary kept him at such a distance. Mary seemed to value marriage and family. She wasn't against love and relationships, in general. So Elphaba wondered why she kept herself from him, when Bert was clearly a kind and faithful person.

After another minute, Mary finished perfectly pinning her hair. Then, she turned and, with a heavy sigh, finally conceded, "All right. I will consider helping you. If you'll tell me what you have planned, I'll consider it."

Elphaba forced herself not to smile too broadly. With a nod of her head, she led the way into the drawing room to sit down. Momentarily, she sent Bert back to the pantry to check on the children. He returned after a minute, stating that they were no worse off, for now. Satisfied, Elphaba started talking.

"I think we need to start by going to the Animals themselves. There are several large, reservations where they've been forced to move. We need to gain their support, to see if they are willing to go to battle for their rights, if it comes to that. Then, we need to go the Emerald City and appeal to the current leadership. I believe the Palace has exchanged hands several times since the Wizard disappeared, and things have been rather unstable. That, actually, makes this a good time to act. We can appeal to the uncertainty of a new leader. Hopefully, we can convince them to let us act as a mediator between the government and other regions of Oz. If we can peacefully negotiate a way to reintroduce Animals into society as equal citizens, we'll avoid conflict. It has to benefit everyone, though, because the Wizard convinced most of the population that the Animals were simply another drain on already limited resources. If we can make this work for everyone, we can change things peacefully."

Mary listened carefully, her hands folded in her lap. After a minute, she said, "And what would you have me do? I'm no political leader."

"No, but you are even tempered and a good negotiator. You understand people. Sometimes, I even think you can read their thoughts a little. You influence people. We need that," Elphaba answered.

Mary still wasn't convinced, "So, suddenly, my even temper is an asset? After you've been trying to convince me to abandon it and act on whatever whim strikes me?"

"An even temper has its place, sometimes. All I said was that it's okay to lose that temper once in a while," Elphaba countered.

Mary studied her, thinking.

"I also need your magic," Elphaba added, "I don't know that I'm as adept as you, quite yet."

Mary still said nothing. The next few minutes were very quiet.

Eventually, Mary said, "All right. For the children, I'll help you. I'll do what you've said. But I will fight no battles. That is something I simply cannot do."

Elphaba gave her a tiny smile, "That isn't something I would ask of you."

They all looked at each other then, knowing things were about to get messy.