So...I know it's been an eternity, but I am finally bringing you the end of this. Life threw some curve balls, but my muse finally said, "Finish This!" So I am. I have to do my Mary Poppins fanfics justice, so I will also be taking up Fall From Grace again. So maybe check out that one too? Either way, I hope you enjoy. I wrote this all as one chapter, but I had to split it into two because it was too long. Again, so sorry for the hiatus. I do really, really hate when things are unfinished. :-)

Chapter 21

When Mary left Kansas behind, she refused to look back, literally or metaphorically. She was changed, that much she couldn't deny. Elphaba had changed her. Bert had changed her. And Oz had changed her. She had discovered things about herself she hadn't known existed. Innocence had been lost in more ways then one. It was because of all these things that she had to walk away. She was mostly healed physically, but emotionally she was the most unstable she'd ever been. She was terrified of her future, and she'd never been more unsure of her next step. She'd never been more uncertain of herself and her place in the world.

Deep within herself, Mary knew she shouldn't have abandoned Bert. She knew that she owed Elphaba more of an explanation, more of a friendship, even. Still, there were demons that had been unearthed that she couldn't go on ignoring. Mary couldn't go back to her old life, or move into a new one, in her current state of mind. So when she left Kansas, she went back to London, to the first place she'd ever called home, to find answers.

In the hazy warmth of an English summer, Mary walked briskly, bag and umbrella in her hands, up the street to St. Paul's cathedral. She'd rented a small room near the center of the city, warring with herself for several days before making this journey. This was the first time in years that she'd been in London without a family to look after. In fact, she wasn't usually in this world at all without charges. In the times the wind called her away and didn't immediately give her a new family, she would stay in Oz. The tiny village near where she took the children on outings usually had a room where she could stay, and the working class townsfolk had grown used to her. They rarely asked questions.

Now, however, she was alone in the great city of London, working up the courage to explore the place where she'd spent her childhood. As Mary approached St. Paul's, she felt her stomach flutter. On the outside, she never flinched, never showed how unsettled she felt. Her spirit, however, was troubled. When she'd walked away from this place, some eight years ago, Mary had sworn she was starting a new life. She'd wanted Sister Amelia and her days in the orphanage to be nothing more than a vague memory. Beyond interacting with the Bird Woman, Mary kept her distance from the church. Elphaba, however, had made her remember, and, in remembering, to wonder.

Making her way up the steps, Mary swallowed over her trepidation. She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until there were no more steps. She told herself to push open the doors and walk carefully through the echoing vestibule. Standing still for a few minutes, Mary studied the arching expanses of the walls. They were covered in fresco and ornamented with icons. She listened to the stillness and remembered how large, how vast, and how frightening this place had felt when she was a child.

Footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and Mary turned to find an elderly nun making her way towards the interior chambers. Noticing Mary, the woman stopped to study her with curious eyes. Mary knew that she was well-dressed enough not to raise too many questions, but this was still an odd time of day to be visiting a church.

In a low, crackling voice, the nun asked, "Have you come for confession, my dear?"

Unexpectedly, Mary felt a sudden sting of conviction and wondered if she might be in need of repentance. She did, after all, feel as though the past few months had soiled the impeccable character in which she took so much pride. Mary found it hard to be entirely sorry, however.

Shaking off the feeling, she smiled tightly at the nun and said, "No, I'm not here for confession. I was wondering if there was someone still here who remembers Sister Amelia? And her home for orphaned girls?"

The nun looked surprised and then studied Mary for some time. Her eyes were keen in spite of her obviously advanced age. After a time, studying became recognition, and the nun said, "It's you, isn't it? The pretty one. The one who refused to marry."

Mary hesitated, startled that someone had recognized her so quickly. Eight years seemed like such a long time. To Mary, it felt as though the orphanage had been another lifetime. She had to admit, however, that an entire congregation of nuns would not pass away or move on in just eight years.

Taking a deep breath, she answered softly, "Yes. I'm one of the orphans."

The nun stared, not unkindly, and said, "You are still quite lovely. Amelia's most perfect charge…"

Mary dropped her head, modest for one of the first times in her life. It was harder to maintain her unyielding confidence in the face of someone who might have helped change her diapers.

"What is your name again, dear?"

Looking up again, Mary stated, "Mary."

"Oh yes," the woman smiled slightly, "The daydreamer. The wanderer. The singer."

"You remember?" Mary couldn't help asking.

The nun faced her, "I remember somewhat. But I was not directly part of the orphanage."

Mary drew another breath and asked hesitantly, "I was wondering if you might remember anything about how I came to be one of Sister Amelia's orphans?"

The nun cocked her head, "Surely Sister Amelia told you what she knew, while you were living here. Surely you don't think we keep secrets."

Mary thought for a moment, and then said, "No, I don't. But I thought, perhaps, there might be something left out of the story. Some detail that no one thought important, maybe?"

Studying Mary, the nun asked, "What brings you back now, child? What do you hope to find? You look as though you've done well for yourself."

"I have," Mary stated, "But I've reached a place in my life where, if there are answers to be found, I'd like to find them. If not, so be it. But I will have at least tried."

The nun looked her over once again and then nodded slightly. She indicated for Mary to follow her, and then she led the way through the dark hallways of the church. They wound through vestibules and prayer alcoves, eventually passing into the portion of the church where the nuns resided. Mary had brief flashbacks as she remembered sneaking into the kitchen for snacks and peering into the library at the walls and walls of books. As they made their way up a curving staircase, she remembered the dormitory on the second floor and the tiny room where they all were tutored. They were not bad memories. They were simply flat memories, devoid of much feeling. There had been no great displays of emotion, good or bad, in her upbringing. There had been no overwhelming love or hate. Just perfection. Constant perfection.

Mary tried to shake off the sudden sense of dissatisfaction as the nun continued up the staircase. They wound their way up several flights until they emerged in an attic of sorts. It was a small chamber lit by a tiny, round window in the far corner. There were misty cobwebs and the faint scent of old wood and parchment. Crates and trunks were scattered around, gathering inches of dust.

The old nun crossed to one large, buckled trunk and said, "These are all the things left over from the orphanage. It shut down after Sister Amelia died, and she didn't leave many possessions. If there's anything to be found, it's in there."

Mary stared at the trunk, uncertain. She wasn't sure what she was more afraid of, finding some buried secret or finding nothing at all. Swallowing over the fear, she crossed to the trunk. Unlatching its heavy closures, she opened the creaking lid. Coughing and waving the dust away, she stared at its contents.

There were a few books, mostly grammar and mathematics. There were some letters from former orphans who'd chosen to share what their lives had become after leaving the church. There were a few articles of clothing and stacks of records about each of the girls Sister Amelia had taken in. Mary flipped through the papers until she found hers. She grimaced as she saw the careful documentation of her growing up, compared to that of the other girls. Sister Amelia's notes on Mary always consisted of praise for her outer beauty and poise, and frustration over Mary's antisocial nature. Setting the records aside, Mary dug deeper.

At the bottom of the trunk she found something soft. Pulling it out, Mary realized it was a blanket. It was part of a bundle containing a stack of yellowed papers. Untying the string that held it together, Mary looked over the papers. After a minute, she realized they were records of how each girl had come to the church. There were newspaper clippings describing an accident that had killed one girl's parents and a hospital form confirming the illness and death of another's. There was a faded legal document showing where one girl's mother, at only sixteen, had signed away her illegitimate daughter to St. Paul's. There was some sort of documentation for each of the girls. And then, there was the blanket. There was no other record of Mary. Not so much as a mention. Turning the blanket over in her hands, Mary studied it.

It was rough, most likely hand-spun wool, and it had an interesting pattern. In golds, greens, and bright blues, the geometric pattern hinted at a range of mountains against a bright, unbroken sky. Mary ran her hands over the careful stitches and felt a flash of remembrance.

We found you wrapped in a blanket on the steps, naked as birth.

It was something Sister Amelia had told her. With a sudden hitch in her chest, Mary wondered if this was the blanket. As she turned it over in her hands, something fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Mary felt her breath catch as she looked at the cracked parchment. Scrawled in faded ink was the phrase:

Here is my child. Name her, raise her if you like, or cast her ashes on the wind, because that's where she belongs.

Mary felt frozen to the very floorboards on which she kneeled. Her heart beat in her ears as she realized this was her blanket. And this was the note her mother had penned. This was how she'd decided to discard the daughter she hadn't wanted. In spite of already knowing this much of her beginning, Mary had never felt more alone than in this moment. She'd never felt more unwanted. With this note in her hands, her abandonment was tangible and horribly real.

Sensing Mary's distress, the nun asked, "Have you found something?"

Standing to her feet before her emotions could get the best of her, Mary snapped, "Do you know anything of this?"

The nun stepped forward to look at the blanket and the note, and answered, "That's how you came to us, I suppose."

Taking a shaking breath, Mary asked, "Do you know anything about this blanket? This fabric? Anything at all?"

Fingering the frayed edge, the nun shook her head, "No. I've never seen anything like it. Not here in London, anyways."

For a moment, Mary felt utterly deflated. She wanted to run back to what was familiar, what was safe, and forget she'd ever opened this mess of feelings. Still, she knew she couldn't turn back now. She was too far down this path. So she stood there, clutching her one, pathetic link to her ambiguous past. Then, from the depths of her frustration, the nun's words replayed themselves in her mind.

I've never seen anything like it. Not in London, anyways.

Mary felt the spark of an idea. She knew it was a very thin thread to grasp, metaphorically. Still, it was something. And it was all she had to go on. So, taking the blanket with the note, she strode out of the church without further explanation.

Then, before the elderly nun could object, Mary disappeared, having leapt herself into Oz.

Mary spent the next several hours wandering around the Emerald City, feeling incredibly lost. She was more than a little afraid, since she'd effectively helped to start a civil war in this country. Although it was Elphaba's face that everyone knew, and it was now Galinda that they looked to for leadership, Mary knew that there were those that would recognize her. She also had no idea how the peace treaties were coming together, since she'd spent the past two months recovering from her injuries. She wasn't sure whether the majority of the citizens were still grateful for what she, Galinda and Elphaba had done. So she wandered cautiously, trying to decide who she might ask about her blanket or where she might stay.

It was frustrating, because Mary was usually so confident in her actions. She knew where to go, how to handle people, and how to get what she wanted and avoid questions. Here, however, she was thoroughly out of her element. This was Elphaba's world, and Mary suddenly found herself wishing the green woman was with her. In spite of herself and her stubborn independence, she longed for the company of her first, real, female friend. Mary's pride, however, wouldn't let her act on the desire. She had to find out the secrets of her past on her own.

So she walked aimlessly, trying to look nonchalant or aloof while desperately wondering what she was doing. She wasn't sure where to go, or who she might ask all the questions swarming in her head. Mary was afraid of being ridiculed or laughed at for producing an old blanket and hoping to wrestle answers from it. She was afraid of being assaulted or propositioned. And she was angry with herself, because it ran against the very foundation of who she was to be so afraid and lost.

Eventually, when the sun had set and the streets lit up with nightlife, both good and bad, Mary started to panic. She couldn't very well sleep in the streets, but she was bound and determined not to go back to London. She feared she would lose the courage to come back and finish this mission. So, in a last, desperate attempt to find refuge, Mary aimed toward the great palace in the center of the city.

She finally stumbled up to the gates long after the sun had set and given the city over to starlight. She was tired, dirty, and emotionally spent. Faced with the palace guards who, she noticed, were outfitted differently than when they'd led their mutiny, Mary requested to see Lady Glinda. She'd considered simply leaping herself inside, but she didn't want to cause any trouble for Galinda. So she stood there, clutching her belongings and hoping that Galinda would see her.

After some time, one of the guards returned. Wordlessly, she followed him through the gardens and into the great expanse of the palace. They wove through corridors to an inner sitting room, which was surprisingly cozy. On her last visit, the palace was so hollow and imposing. As she sat on a soft settee, Mary decided she approved of the changes.

A few minutes later, Galinda swept into the room. She was dressed in a nightdress with a delicate robe and shiny slippers. It was not immodest, but it was entirely Galinda. The fabric was delicate and frilly, with so many unnecessary embellishments. Her hair was newly brushed so that the curls were softened as they fell around her face and tumbled down her back. Her hair was longer, Mary noticed, and her face had a healthier glow than when they'd last seen one another.

Galinda's face was worried however, as she asked, "Mary, are you all right? I wasn't expecting you."

"I know," Mary answered softly.

Sitting in a chair across from Mary, Galinda added, "I thought you would be in Kansas, with Elphie. I thought you might still be…recovering."

Galinda looked away, as though she didn't want to acknowledge what Mary had done to herself. She looked uncomfortable at having brought it up.

Mary sniffed and straightened her skirt, stating, "I'm just fine, thank you."

Galinda finally met Mary's eyes. Her face softened into compassion again and she smiled slightly, saying, "I'm glad to hear that."

There was a quiet moment, and Mary struggled with what she wanted to say.

"Are you going back to London, then?" Galinda asked softly.

Mary daintily cleared her throat and said, "Yes. But, I had some things I had to take care of first," she sat up straighter, trying not to give away the chaotic state of her thoughts, and added, "I was simply hoping you might have a room for the night?"

"Of course," Galinda offered, "We're friends, Mary, especially considering all we went through together."

Mary looked away, remembering.

There was a long silence before Galinda finally said, "Are you all right? I mean, are you sure you're completely well?"

Mary turned back to see Galinda looking at her with soft, concerned blue eyes. She squirmed, hating that Galinda had seen her behave to recklessly, so emotionally.

"As I said, I'm just fine," Mary snipped.

"You do look well," Galinda responded, "But there's more to being well than the physical. What we went through was just awful. I know it's been hard on me. All of it. So it's okay if you want to…talk."

Mary was stoic, silent.

Galinda finally went on, "Or not. You know, you don't have to have a reason to visit me, Mary. I do mean it, that we're friends. And I've missed you, and Elphie."

Mary swallowed and studied her hands. She wasn't used to being called a friend. And she didn't want to expound on how she really felt. Her emotions had been so exposed and muddled over the past two months that she simply couldn't open up again. Yet, Mary was grateful for Galinda. She was glad to be sitting here with the doe-eyed blonde. Galinda was strong and faithful, and those were things Mary could appreciate.

After some time, Mary finally said, "I really am all right."

"And how are Elphie and the others?" Galinda asked.

Mary told her a little about things in Kansas, including how Liir and Elphaba were getting along, and about Tessy and the baby.

Galinda listened with a smile, and then asked, "And Bert? Is he all right?"

Mary sat up straighter and looked away, finding that even his name struck a chord within her. And it hurt. Composing herself, she snapped, "He's fine. Back to what he loves, I'm sure."

Galinda, who was emotionally intuitive, often to a fault, just looked at Mary. She appeared to sense something was off, but she said nothing. Instead, she stood up and crossed to where Mary sat. Sitting next to her, Galinda wrapped Mary in a fierce embrace. Mary bristled and wasn't sure how to respond.

When Galinda finally pulled back, she said, "We've been through a lot. And I haven't had a chance to tell you how glad I am that you're alive. How grateful I am for what you and Elphie did."

Mary gave a slight nod and whispered, "I always do what I can, when I'm needed."

There was a pause. Galinda cocked her head and asked, "And now, you're finally doing something for yourself?"

Mary met her eyes and said, "I suppose."

Galinda smiled and stated, "Well, you're more than welcome to stay. Maybe, in the morning, I can help you with whatever business it is you have in Oz?"

"Maybe," Mary said noncommittally, and then quickly added, "Also, I don't want anyone else to know that I'm here. Not anyone. Not even Elphie. Do you understand?"

Galinda stared at Mary, her concern obvious. She finally asked rhetorically, "You would tell me, wouldn't you? If something was wrong?"

Mary looked away.

Galinda didn't press the issue. She considered Mary her friend, but she didn't know her well enough to push for more answers. So she led Mary down the winding halls and up the stairs to the part of palace she'd redone as her living quarters. It was airy and bright and had been wiped clean of any vestiges of Shell's rule over Oz. She took Mary to one of the guest rooms, choosing the one closest to her own bedroom. Mary simply nodded a quick thank you and whisked through the door with her bag and ever-present umbrella.

The next morning, Galinda had the palace chef bring breakfast up to her quarters in the open solarium off of her sitting room. It faced east, so that the sun spilled through the large windows and bathed everything in a lemony glow that warmed her spirits on the coldest of days. Today, though, the weather promised to be as hot and stifling as the past week had been. Galinda was watching the sun grow brighter in the sky, considering the meeting she had for the day, when Mary entered the room.

"Good morning!" Galinda offered with a smile.

Mary nodded, "You asked me to come?" she held up the note Galinda had left her.

"I thought we could have breakfast," Galinda offered the chair across from her at the table.

Mary hesitated, but then nodded curtly. Galinda noticed that Mary was already dressed to perfection, while she was lounging in another bathrobe. Mary sat down and, for a few minutes, the two of them sipped coffee.

Galinda worked her way through some toast before she spoke again, "Can you tell me what brings you to Oz? Anything I can help with?"

Mary set her cup down, staring at her slender fingers for some time. When she looked up, she seemed to struggle with what to say. After a minute, she softly explained, "I…I'm hoping to find some answers."

"What kind of answers?" Galinda pressed softly.

Mary chewed her lip pensively for a moment, and then carefully stated, "Answers about me. About, how I'm connected to Oz."

"I see," Galinda said softly, gaining a measure of understanding.

Mary nibbled on toast for a moment, her eyes staring off into things Galinda couldn't see. Finally, after a few minutes, Mary stood and went back into her room. She emerged a moment later carrying what looked like cloth. She came and sat in front of Galinda once more. Unfolding the fabric, she revealed the hand woven design and asked, "Do you know where this might've come from?"

Galinda reached out and touched the fabric, realizing it was a small blanket. She studied it, trying to decipher the design. Suddenly, her face lit up and she said, "It's the mountains to the north, in the Glikkus!"

"In Oz?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Galinda nodded.

Mary took the blanket back and carefully refolded it, asking, "Is it safe there?"

Galinda nodded again, more slowly, "It should be. The people there are very steeped in their culture. They've been living in and around those mountains for as long as anyone knows. They might be the most peaceful of all the cultures in Oz. They're strong people, all dark-haired and fair-skinned. And they're strong. They make their living from logging and replanting the Glikkun forests."

Mary quickly finished her toast and then stood, stating, "Thank you every so much for letting me stay, but I must be going."

Galinda stood too, wanting to ask more questions but afraid to do so. Instead, she said, "It was really good to see you, Mary."

Mary nodded and then retrieved her bag from her room. Pulling on her gloves and her hat, she started for the door.

Before she could get out of the room, however, Galinda stopped her. Touching Mary's arm, she said, "Take care of yourself, please?"

Mary nodded again.

Impulsively, Galinda wrapped her in another hug. Mary gave a little wince as the short, blonde woman squeezed her. Stepping back, Galinda caught a flicker of pain in Mary's eyes.

"I do mean it, Mary," Galinda added, "Please be careful."

"I will," Mary said quietly, then added, "And please say nothing of this visit. Do you understand?"

Galinda nodded, but her heart was conflicted.

Mary disappeared through the door without another glance. Galinda thought she caught a hint of a limp halting her friend's usually perfect stride. Second guessing her decision not to ask more questions, Galinda went after Mary. But when she got into the hall, it was obvious she was gone. Mary had vanished, and Galinda did not have the ability to follow her.

As soon as Mary leapt herself into Kansas, intending to continue on to the place Galinda had told her about, she felt the sudden rushing of the wind. It wasn't something physical. If anyone else had been around, they would have felt, at most, a stirring of the air. But to Mary, the roar in her ears was deafening. It was the strongest she'd felt it in some time, and she couldn't refuse it. Even though her intentions had been to continue on her quest, the pull was too strong. As much as she wanted answers, she could not deny the strength of what called her. So Mary closed her eyes and followed, wherever it might lead.