First thing's first: RIP to Angela Lansbury. If she hadn't died, I wouldn't have watched the movie and been inspired to write fanfic for it.

Next: This should have been a quick write, and I even intended it to be just a quick story to get me back into the writing mojo, but as I am in my "Just sit and stare at this blank document for hours before closing my computer" flop era, it took me almost a week just to write the ending of this.

Finally: Am I the only one who thought it was weird Mr. Browne joined the army at the end of the movie? I did the math and David Tomlinson, the actor who played him, probably wouldn't have been accepted into the army at that age. I just thought it was weird. But, also, what else would they have his character do at the end? He was basically still a conman bum, just with a newfound love for a witch and some orphans.

That said, enjoy!

A Simple Life for Her

This simple life suits her fine. Awake at dawn. Ready the children for school, feed them, tend to their needs, all whilst listening to Charles' dismays and Carrie's impatience for Charles' sharp tongue, and Paul's… well, Paul's early morning routine of yawning and groaning about being up at such an early hour. Then, after waving them off to school, she begins the washing, the scrubbing, all the chores needing to be done around the house, looking out at her neglected front garden between tasks and thinking today–each day–will be the day she actually goes out there and tends to it. Yes, this simple life, this new life with the children, suits her fine. Just fine, indeed. Much more than she originally thought it would.

Each time she sweeps, the thought of taking flight never leaves her mind, and the children all beg to go on another little adventure with the bedknob. Paul still insists they visit the jungle. Her mother instincts must be kicking in, finally, for she fears such a journey would be impractical. Or rather, unsafe. At least for right now. Their encounter with the Nazis still has her a bit shaken.

But,

Eglantine, Eglantine!

his voice still echoes in her soul.

She shakes the thought, the voice, out of her mind and continues on. The past is in the past, and the garden… Yes, the garden is looking terribly dull and very unkempt. She decides to go out after she's finished mending Paul's jumper.

She dozes while reading Dickens beside the fireplace and wakes an hour or two later, just in time for afternoon tea and biscuits. The upstairs still needs a good cleaning, she thinks when the quietness of the kitchen becomes too much and his voice,

Eglantine, Eglantine!

becomes unbearable.

Charles and Carrie seem to understand. The news of Mr. Browne and his false enlistment brought them out of the clouds, much like it did with her. Paul still believes he will return. She does not dismiss it, not entirely. Perhaps there is still some part of her that hopes–

No. The garden. Yes, the garden! She makes a mental note to tend to that blasted unkempt garden as she puts the freshly folded sheets in the upstairs hall closet.

Treguna, Mekoides, Trecorum Satis Dee…

Sometimes Eglantine hears herself humming the spell. The children do too. And, occasionally, she'll find a knickknack or two floating around the house. She isn't quite sure who of the four of them casted the spell, so no one gets in trouble, but she makes a reminder to be more cautious with their words because, after all, they are quite powerful. They comply for about a day or two before items begin floating by again. And she is certain they would be dancing with nightgowns and trousers every night if Mr. Browne were–

The garden. Yes, the garden.

It greatly needs her attention. No putting it off any longer. She changes into much more suitable attire for the outdoors: a jumper, a pair of her father's old trousers, and her wellies. She needs the distraction. But, suddenly:

Eglantine, Eglantine…

Him.

She halts, her hand frozen on the doorknob. No, it can't be. He couldn't be. Her soul is playing tricks again. But the voice continues, sounding… real, and a bit more gloomy than she remembers, however.

Letting out a deep breath, she opens the door, revealing Emelius Browne, not dressed as a soldier but as a man. She watches him carefully as he paces nervously in her front garden, too busy, too distracted, with his half mumbling, half singing to notice her presence.

Eglantine, Eglantine…

Oh, how we'll shine.

Your lot and my lot have got to combine.

Eglantine, Eglantine…

Hark to the stars.

Destiny calls us, the future is ours.

He looks up at her, finally. And, after a moment of hesitation, he opens his mouth to speak. And, in an abrupt panic, she slams the door shut and guards it with her body, her soul. She quickly opens the door again only to see him now standing meekly before her.

"Mr. Browne, how lovely it is to see you again," she says, attempting to sound as formal as her aching heart can muster. She refuses to let him speak. Instead, she gestures inside and continues, "Won't you come in?"

He enters. They both stand awkwardly for a moment–until: "Eglantine, I…"

"I've got tea." She hurries towards her kitchen. She refuses to allow him a voice, to charm his way out of his troubles. Not this time. But she still wants him close, still refuses to let him go. "And biscuits." She pauses, looking back at him. "If you'd like."

He takes his time answering, but when he does, he is gentle with his words. "Yes. That sounds… lovely."

They enter the kitchen and she begins prepping his tea, not daring to look up at him. He could con her into another one of his schemes, if she isn't careful. That is who he is, after all, a conman. Nothing more, nothing less. She accepted that when his letters stopped arriving. Though she told the children otherwise, her newfound mother-ness perhaps wanting to protect them from who he really is.

"Where are the children?" he asks, no doubt noticing the aching silence between them without their beaming innocence to lighten such a tone.

"School, I should think."

"Oh, right. Yes, of course."

"Two sugars, was it?"

"Hm?" he says. "Oh, yes. Thank you."

Eglantine, Eglantine…

His words are her heartbeat; her heart is his song.

"The children will be thrilled to see you–"

Eglantine, Eglantine…

"–especially since your last letter to them was five months ago."

"Yes, well, I was, er, unobtainable for a few of those months." Perhaps spending most of his time with the working girls of Portobello Road. She huffs at the very thought. "Traveling," he tells her.

"Oh?"

She feels his hesitation. "Naboombu, to be exact."

Her head shoots up; she is unable to mask her surprise. "Naboombu?"

"Yes," he says, pulling out a small battered journal from inside his coat pocket. "I figured… after what happened, I couldn't return here empty handed."

There is something boiling inside her. Eglantine steps forward, assertively. He takes a few steps back. How could he bring it up so easily, so casually? "You mean after you abandoned King and country?"

"I abandoned them…? No, my dear, it is they who abandoned me."

"What?"

"Per usual, I wasn't quite good enough."

She stands there stunned, only for a moment, then hurries out into the drawing room when the look on his face begins to give her pity. He follows her, abandoning his tea in the kitchen. "You lied, then."

"No, not lied," he insists. "I merely… stretched the truth is all. I did enlist, you see, but…"

"But, what?"

"Like I told you, I wasn't good enough," says Emelius. "They said it was my age. I told them if I could overcome my cowardice, surely they could overlook a wrinkle or two. Alas, not."

And so, despite her efforts, the pity came full throttle, the betrayal she felt all these months simply washing away from her. She sits in her chair. "You should have told me."

"I made such a show about enlisting, I felt I couldn't. And the children look up to me. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint them. No, I felt the only way to redeem myself was with this." He hands her the battered journal.

She finds her spectacles on the nearby table and begins examining it carefully. At first glance, it looks like nothing more than a diary, documentation about his days after his departure from them: his arrival in London, his remorse for not being needed, and so on and so forth. "Well, what is it?" She flips through the pages, finds a page in the middle, then stops when a few familiar words catch her eye:

Hellbore, Henbane,

Aconite, Glow worm fire,

Firefly light.

The traveling spell. She thought the spells were all lost, destroyed in the explosion, but Mr. Browne seems to have found and preserved them in this journal. She continues flipping through the pages, glimpsing at familiar spell after familiar spell, and a few she did not recognize.

"How can this be?" she asks.

"I returned to London for one purpose and one purpose only, my dear: to find the Bookman. I figure if anyone knew how to go about finding the Spells of Astoroth , it would be that lunatic of a man. As luck–or misfortune, depending on perspective–might have it, he too was searching for me. After a bit of a scuffle, I was once again thrusted into the land of Naboombu–where I spent a good amount of my time in the King's dungeon." He pauses, a look of something in his eye. What torture he must have gone through. The King of that land, last she saw, was hopping in retreat, but that spell never lasts long, not that she's tried it in a while. He must have been quite angry once he changed back. "A kindly starling assisted in my escape. Together we found a second copy of Astoroth's book. I wrote each of the spells down in my journal, knowing I could not take the book home with me."

"Oh?" She thought little of that child-like land, though Paul reminisces over it every so often, whenever he seems to locate that picture book of his in the messes he makes around the house. "Well, the children will certainly be glad to hear your lack of correspondence was not by choice."

"Know that it wasn't, my dear." He kneels before her and takes her hand. She feels giddy–a word she thought she'd never use on herself–at his touch. He brings something out of her no man has ever. Still, she needn't be living in a cloud. The real world needs her about as much as she needs it. "I thought of only you and the children whilst I was away."

Eglantine, Eglantine…

She shifts when he kisses her hands. "Mr. Browne–"

"Emelius, please, my darling," he insists.

"Very well, Emelius–"

Eglantine, oh, Eglantine…

Your lot and my lot,

Have got to combine.

"–if this is what I think it is–"

My suggestion may sound rash,

And my manner hopefully isn't too brash.

I know, I know,

You've no time to waste.

"–and something about your tone tells me that it is indeed that–"

Eglantine, oh, Eglantine!

My darling, Eglantine,

I'm your–

"–then I fear my answer is no."

He stops, his hands pull away. "No?"

"No," she confirms, feeling a pang in her heart at her own words, but not quite regretting it. Not yet.

The quietness between them now is just as unbearable as it was when he was away. He stands and his attention turns to the window, looking out into the front garden. Heavens, it still needs tending.

"Mr. Brow–Emelius," she says gently, standing. He does not respond, so she steps forward closer to him.

It's you I miss when you're gone too long.

It's you I'll comfort, if things are wrong.

That's how I want it to be.

Your problems, your strife,

Your tempers, your hungers,

I guess now,

Belong to me.

He turns back to her, and she is happy to see a smile instead of a grimace on his face. He's at her side in an instant, then hesitates before leaning in for a kiss. She deepens it, to show him her love for him.

"It isn't that I wouldn't like to, Emelius," she says when they part. "I should be very proud to one day be known as Mrs. Emelius Browne."

"But…"

"But not today. Not with everything going on, that is," she tells him. "The children are still getting settled. And you've only just returned." Right after she accepted he would be gone forever. It seems silly to cry about it in front of him, to have him fuss over her own afflictions, knowing now what he must have endured these last few months. She pauses to collect herself, and he kisses her gently. "All I ask is that you give me some time."

He leans in for another kiss.

"Oi! Uvver blokes live 'ere too yer know," says a familiar voice, interrupting their quiet moment. They turn to see Charles at the doorway. His arms are crossed and his tone is crook, but the expression on his face is somewhere between relief and dubiety at the sight of the man he swore he did not miss.

Paul follows suit and, after a shocked pause:

"It's Mr. Browne. 'e's come back! 'e's come back!" He runs to him, discarding his rucksack onto the floor beneath him to jump into Emelius's open arms. Emelius catches him, a slight groan escaping him as he lifts the boy up. "I knew yer 'adn't forgotten us. I knew it! Charlie said yor'd gone, but I knew yer 'adn't! I never gave up 'ope, not never."

"No, my dear boy," says Emelius. "I could never forget you lot." And then Carrie appears at the threshold. Like Charles, she seems unsure. Emelius lifts a welcoming arm to invite her into their embrace. "Hello, Carrie." His eyes go to Charles. "Charlie." They remain silent, unmoving. "I suppose explanations are in order for my long absence. I went back to London, you see. To, er, to locate the… well, the–"

He turns to Eglantine as his voice falters. The silence once again is unbearable for her, so she steps forward to help treat the wound. "Yes, yes, I'm sure the children will be very glad to hear about your time in Naboomboo"–the children's faces all lighten and Paul even echoes the word in a questioning tone–"but only after their school work is completed."

She gathers Paul's rucksack from the floor as he slides down off Emelius. "Yer really went back ter Naboomboo?" Paul asks.

Emelius hesitates; he glances at Eglantine, who, despite her words prior, encourages him to answer. "Not by choice, but the Bookman was rather persistent I go."

"It weren't too bright o' yer ter go back ter London, Mr. Browne," says Paul. "Not wiv the Bookman after yer."

"No, Paul, I fear it wasn't."

Silence consumes them once again, as Charles and Carrie remain unsure. Emelius clears his throat to allow some noise in the room.

"Charles? Carrie?" It's Eglantine who speaks, giving Emelius and the children just a little push in the right direction. "Don't you have something to say to Mr. Browne?"

"They ain't got mail in Naboombu, isit?" Charles says finally.

Emelius laughs. "No, Charlie, I don't believe so. At least not to here," he answers. "I would have written everyday, if I could. But the King's dungeon did not allow such privileges."

"Oh, how terribly dreadful that must have been," Carrie says, coming closer to him. Her eyes sparkle empathy now at the poor man's tale. And both she and Charles seem comfortable near him again, but not quite ready for any sort of warm embrace like Paul.

"We would 'ave rescued yer from the bleedin' King," says Charles confidently. "Ain't that right, Miss Price?"

"Yes, of course–but mind your language, Charles."

"Did yer bring anyfink back for us, Mr. Browne?" asks Paul, tugging at Emelius' cuffs to bring the attention back onto himself.

"Right, did yer?" says both Charles and Carrie, their intrigue getting the better of them.

Eglantine remembers, suddenly, his journal. Perhaps the only thing he could keep with him, as its first home was in their world. But there will be time for questions and stories at supper, she thinks. After all, the children have work to complete and Emelius, she is sure, will want to have a lie down and–heavens! The garden, the garden keeps escaping her memory. She quiets them down before Emelius begins his dramatic and no doubt embellished tale. Of course they all groan. Charles especially shares some harsh words as she ushers them off. She takes a moment to watch them ascend the steps toward their rooms,

I'll warm you in the winter's chill.

I'll pamper you; I'll hold your hand.

And that's how I choose it to be.

Your problems, I guess now,

Belong to me.

before turning back to Emelius. He is at her side, his arm around her. "I suppose it's for the best that we wait to marry," he tells her when they hear footsteps fade and doors close. "I've got nothing to offer you or the children, except spells for you to cast."

"We shouldn't need any offerings, Emelius," Eglantine assures–distracted, for she realizes Paul's rucksack is still in her hand. She begins up the stairs. "Your being here is quite enough. At least for right now."

"You and the children deserve the very best from me," he says, matching her hurried steps.

I'll see you through.

I'll meet with success.

I won't let you down.

Eglantine, oh, Eglantine,

I'm your man.

She stops at Paul's door, then turns to him and smiles. "And I intend to give it to you, my dear," Emelius continues.

He kisses her again and all she can think about is the children walking in again. She hears Paul behind the door, the excitement of Mr. Browne's return has given him an extra boost of his pandemonium she is only just beginning to understand. They hear a slight tumble and a hard, "Oof!" Emelius hurries inside to investigate with Eglantine following closely behind. And so life, it seems, continues on.