The woman who came down from the sky on a kite confused the children more than anything, at least the older two. That wasn't possible, and impossible things don't happen. They had given up on magic after their mom died and replaced it with practicalities. Their father was bad at managing the house, so they did it as much as they could get away with. Their future felt uncertain so they dealt with it in a way that made it feel more secure; get good marks at school, keep their heads down, be dependable and predictable and maybe, just maybe, the world would follow suit.

Georgie was young enough to still cling to stories as a way of understanding the unimaginable, which is perhaps why it was he who had caught a nanny on his found kite, and he who heard her umbrella speak. It was he who was most excited over the developing adventure, and willingly took Jack by the hand and thanked him for saving him.

"And I'm sorry if you got hurt worse because they hurt you," he said, which came out a bit muddled but Jack smiled kindly and seemed to know exactly what he meant.

"Georgie!" Annabel scolded anyway, because it was not done to comment like that to a slave. It wasn't that it was too familiar, her aunt would never have let any of them talk down to a slave, and Ellen was as much family as the other grownups in her life, but she was old enough and part of her own world enough to know you didn't comment on a slave's pain or allude to their correction. Their Aunt Jane wouldn't because it is not nice to draw attention to a person's pain if they don't bring it up first. Most everyone else because it would be beneath them; if they mentioned it at all it would be to suggest the slave was inadequate. Certainly not as a way to show compassion.

"Oh, I'm alright," Jack insisted, firmly and in the kind of tone that made further scolding impossible. And then the person they had drawn down sized them all up, gave them all, including Jack, a slightly disappointed look that had all four of them trying to stand straighter without quite knowing they were doing it, and somehow they all five of them were heading back to 17 Cherry Tree Lane, Jack walking his bicycle along and not even wondering at the time or remembering that he really should be heading back to his assigned duties. How could he be concerned with such mundane things when Mary Poppins was back and chatting to him in the most amiable way?

"How is Bert?" she asked, which made Jack just a bit uncomfortable because it was difficult for a free Citizen to keep in contact with slaves when they travelled abroad. Jack smiled anyway because he could say as much as he knew and hope for the rest.

"Off seeing the world," he said, a world that was so far out of reach for Jack that it hadn't even occurred to him to feel jealous, only a bit sad to see someone he cared about off, and a bit happy knowing Bert's happy, wherever he was.

"And Angus?" she asked next, as if she fully intended to work her way down the list of every acquaintance that they shared between them. Or maybe just those most important to Jack.

"Why don't you stop by and see for yourself?" Jack asked, knowing how pleased his friends would be to see her. "We're in the same quarters. All doing well. Staying out of trouble."

"Not all of you," she said with a pointed glance at his collar, and Jack felt his ears go a bit red. Then, showing she had been paying attention before, "And you are acquainted with Michael Banks, then?"

"You know our dad?" Georgie intervened at this point. The children had not exactly decided to go along with their new nanny but they could hardly help that she knew the way to their house and they were curious enough to listen in. Georgie got a stern look from his new nanny for the interruption, but a grin from Jack, who answered the two of them.

"He gave me a ride this morning, then helped me out when Jones was going to cause trouble," Jack answered, unconsciously treating Mary Poppins as he would any of his slave friends, which is to say, not bothering with honorifics for Jones. Mary Poppins was not a slave. She had no collar. But…and this was important…it was hard to say that she was a free Citizen either. She was of a class of her own, Free in a way even Citizens could not be. Jack also avoided elaborating on the 'trouble', firstly because there were children present and secondly because he didn't want a fuss from Mary anymore than from his other friends. Instead, he concentrated on his new relationship with Michael.

"Funny to finally talk to the man," Jack went on, "I used to wave up to him and his sister. Didn't know their names, never met them to talk to, but they would wave back."

"You wave to us, too," Georgie pointed out. "I've seen you, on your bicycle."

Jack smiled at him. Georgie never failed to wave back, either.

Then they were at the house, and the nanny was taking charge of the children in a firm way that allowed for no disobedience. The children, to their own confusion, went along. Jack, of course, not a part of that family, turned his way at last back towards the bank.

At the bank, Michael was considering giving up and going home to look for the shares there. They didn't seem to be at the bank, at any rate, not in his own lock box nor in the box his father had left him. Both had very little in them at all, in fact. He did have one last trick to try, though he hated the thought of doing it. For his children, though, he would.

He didn't know William Weatherall Wilkins, not to talk to at least. They had both been children with parents who were shareholders in the bank and so they had seen each other from time to time. It was uncomfortable developing that acquaintance now by coming to admit he needed to locate his father's shares but seemed to have mislaid them somehow. Not least because it did not look good for an employee of the bank, a bank Mr. Wilkins presided over, to be so scatter brained as to lose such an important document. In the end, Michael went as far as to smile vaguely at the president's personal slave assistant, who smiled blankly back, before turning around and returning to his own office before she could ask if he needed anything.

This was just as well, because William Weatherall Wilkins was at that moment in a meeting and it would have done Michael little good to interrupt it. At least, it would not have helped his search any.

"Mr. Jones," said Wilkins, quietly and in a friendly tone. It was a tone he had practiced, along with his warm smile, his commiserating smile, his firm handshake, and his other tone, the one that was regretful but firm that he needed when the person he was doing business with was getting the worst of the deal. It was all very well to bluster and glare and snarl and show one's power, but the real power came in leaving one's victim feeling like they were in the hands of a friend. Keep your enemies close and your victims closer, or however that saying went. Wilkins didn't really care about adages except when they could be used to his benefit.

"Sir," said Jones, his own voice unpracticed but expressing a mixture of wary respect and indignation. "He's a crafty, slippery ape, I'll give him that. Managed to fill his collar before I could touch him."

"Mr. Jones, I don't understand why you have come to me about your own business. I have naught to do with the arrangement of the City slaves." It was his reasonable tone, with a hint of sternness and a hint of regret. Unless one looked at his eyes. Practiced or not, he couldn't always control the stronger emotions and when he was truly angry, there was a certain intensity in his eyes. He didn't do anything so uncouth as to glare, but there something stormy in they way they settled intently on the man.

If Jones noticed at all, which was doubtful, it was to subconsciously acknowledge the man's power as the apex predator in the room. Jones himself was vexed enough to answer despite Wilkin's less than encouraging response to his complaint.

"You wanted him disposed of and that suited me fine as I had my own reasons," Jones said, "I'll get it done in the end, but…"

"I said no such thing," Wilkins interrupted, tone still measured and low but hinting at the anger beneath the surface. He glanced towards the doors, which were firmly closed. There was little chance of being overheard; the bank had been created with the foreknowledge that the president may need to have discrete conversations that could not be overheard and therefore misunderstood or otherwise used against the conversers. Still, there were standards, and Wilkins would not allow his minions such indiscretions as to state out loud their less reputable business doings.

"Not as such," Jones agreed, sounding annoyed now, because as far as he was concerned there was no one to listen in and no reason to confuse things by speaking around them. If a man wanted to pay another man to get rid of a slave, fine; just say so and clearly state the reward and everyone leaves happy. Jones was risking a lot, in his opinion, on this. Never mind that he probably would have done it anyway. "You never were clear if you wanted the man dead or just…"

"Certainly not dead," Wilkins said quickly, "What sort of man do you take me fore?"

Jones did have enough sense not to say what he thought, which was something along the lines of 'a man like me'. Like recognizes like, which is somewhat how this business arrangement arose in the first place.

"But I don't think you'd shed a tear if he did die," Jones said instead. That Wilkins did not answer that was telling. "I just want to know…he got ten beads today. That looks bad on records. Are you going to get him…reassigned before I dish out what's coming to him?"

"I am not responsible for 'reassigning' slaves," Wilkins answered. "And if that is all you wanted to speak about then there was no need for you to come running to my personal office."

"Not your personal office…not yet," Jones pointed out. There was a heavy silence that followed. Jones, who had said this with a smirk, happened to look Wilkins in the eyes. Jones himself could not have said why, but something about the experience wiped the smirk off his face and he avoided doing it again. It was like catching the gaze of a cobra poised to strike.

"And anyway…" Jones said into the silence, whether through bravery or stupidity it was hard to say though Wilkins knew which he thought it was, "And anyway, you talk so in riddles its amazing I worked out which slave you wanted done away with in the first place. 'I know he's been a nuisance to you, Mr. Jones, wouldn't it be interesting if someone took care of him? I think I'd pay quite a bonus to someone who knows how to keep a slave in its place…or gets it thrown down to work the quarry or the sewer. It's a pity those slaves do not often last long, I hear they are always looking for replacements.' It's all very well to ask for a service but let's be plain about it. There's been more than one slave as has been a nuisance and if I get laid off over the entire ordeal It'd better be over the right slave and for the right compensation."

Wilkins turned away and looked out his window. It had a good view. It should, being the president's office. And whatever Jones thought about the president not being Wilkins, it might as well be him. The actual president hadn't stopped in for longer than an hour at a time in over a month. There was a reason everyone was so ready to obey Wilkins or to believe him when he suggested the current president had declining facilities. Even the slave Penny had not bothered to protest when he started giving her orders, and she technically had a right to. Well, he had rights too, even without the official title.

Jones was possibly a problem. He was too curious, for one. Next he'd be wanting to know why Wilkins cared so much that a slave so far beneath him be taken care of. But he did have a point. Subterfuge only got one so far, and it's not like he couldn't simply deny the conversation later if it came up. Still he took his time, checking the usual spots yet again for wires, and that the door was firmly closed. And then he stood by the crackling fire and spoke so low that Jones had to move in uncomfortably close to hear.

"His name is Jack, as you already guessed. And I am not asking you to kill him, though I acknowledge accidents do happen, but I would prefer you see to it that he is reassigned. The reason he is reassigned I leave to you. I will see to it that you are relocated to a better paying position or, if blame falls in a way I cannot prevent and the City feels it cannot keep you, I will hire you myself to work in a certain law firm I employ."

"Fair enough," said Jones, who did not ask for more clarity because he doubted the man he was dealing with capable of spelling it out any clearer. The simplest way to do as the man requested was to see to it that Jack's record came to the attention of the right people; getting ten beads in a single day never looked good and if it happened often enough then reassignment was sure to follow. That was not the fun way to do as asked, though. Reassignment could also happen if the slave were in no fit condition to fulfil its duties.

Jones already understood all this. The real reason he felt the need for an audience was because he wanted to be sure that Wilkins knew he had to follow through when Jones did manage what he had asked. Jones was enough like Wilkins to know that the man probably felt he held all the power in their arrangement and none of the risks. Well, Jones wanted him to know that Jones could make things uncomfortable for him if things went south. He could get an audience with the actual president, for one.

Then Wilkins continued to stand with his back to him, facing the fire, not exactly dismissing him but giving a strong impression he wanted him gone. Jones could take hints. He had gotten what he came for. He moved towards the door.

"Oh, and Jones?" Wilkins said, before he could reach it. Jones paused. "Did you catch which bank employee he antagonized into giving him ten beads?"

"Michael Banks," said Jones promptly. He'd helped the man with his paperwork himself and the name was more or less engraved in his immediate memory.

"Banks…" Wilkins said, a thoughtful tone now. "I believe I remember that name. His father…yes…well…I did not know he had it in him. His father was always so soft with the slaves."

Jones could not tell, especially with the man's back to him, whether he'd just gotten Michael Banks into trouble or just gotten him the sort of attention that led to raises or bonuses. He hoped the former. He was still very much annoyed with the man. That might have been what prompted him to comment further.

"Soft sounds about right," said Jones. "He just did the cane on the calves, one calf to a hit. Barely a correction, if you ask me."

"Which I'm sure he didn't," said Wilkins, sounding, if anything, amused now. Then, in a calm and almost pleasant tone that nonetheless had the hairs on the back of Jones's neck sticking straight out, "Jones. Do not seek out an audience with me again. I have my own ways of knowing what happens within this bank. If anyone asks you now, you came to me to ask about a loan, you being a bank employee and thinking that makes you important enough to seek an audience.

"And you, of course, turned me down," said Jones, his tone a bit sour, for he knew full well if he spread that story it would make himself sound ignorant and presumptuous.

"Oh no…I, of course, allowed it. You will receive your bonus with your next paycheck. In…anticipation of a return. On the loan. One thousand dollars with the understanding that another loan may appear once this loan has been…returned. Is that spoken clearly enough for your taste?"

"Oh…yes, sir," said Jones. Then, "But won't spreading that about mean more work for you…if all my fellow employees think they've only to approach you to get more money?"

"Loans," Wilkins corrected, "Which are to be paid back. Loans that are not paid back in full have consequences, Mr. Jones. And who is to say I won't give out more loans…to those who ask. The right sort with the right sort of collateral."

There was a veiled threat in there, somewhere. Jones could sense it, even if he couldn't quite work out what it was. There was a reason he preferred plain speech over subterfuge.

Jones left. Wilkins continued to face the fireplace.

"Michael Banks…" he whispered, softly and thoughtfully to himself. Still quiet and thoughtful, he went to a drawer that contained a number of folders. He found the one he wanted, then flipped through the collection of employment papers until he found the one he wanted. "Forgeries office…part time," he said. "Three children, wife deceased."

He wasn't sure that he would want or need that information, but in his experience, it paid to know things. The name had been brought to his attention; he would not be wrong footed by not familiarizing himself with it. There was a note.

"Son of George Banks, deceased. Shareholder."

That could be important or it could be nothing. But he was fairly certain the name Michael Banks had come up recently before, and he didn't think it had anything to do with his status as employee. Though perhaps it did. Wilkins did a lot of work at the bank and couldn't be expected to remember everything. That was what his assistant Penny and his law firm were for.

Somewhere below, Jack came back from his lunch break, late, but was not penalized because it was not Jones who clocked him in and the person was sympathetic towards the bad day the slave was clearly having; ten beads could account for slower movements and he was only late by five minutes.

Outside the bank, Michael Banks was getting into his car to head towards his home to have another look while the children were, he thought, still at school.

At a police station, Jane Banks was politely requesting the morning's records in the hope of discovering the identity of the chastised slave. There she was out of luck; the police officer in question had been slow to file so the record was not yet available. Jane was, nonetheless, having a look through public records in the hope that a correction would appear that could be useful to SPRUCE.

In a house on Cherry Tree Lane, three children, to their confusion and with the strong approval of Ellen, were being given a bath by a nanny who claimed to have been nanny to their father and aunt (again with Ellen backing her up) though she didn't look anything like old enough for that to be true. Still, the children were young enough to not really be a great judge in the age of people; grownups were grownups, whether they had dark hair or gray.

"We'll put up with her until dad gets home," Annabel decided in a hushed whisper to John. "He'll get rid of her."

"Whisper more loudly, please," said the imposter to their home, "It will still be terribly rude but then at least we can all hear what important things you have to say."

"We were saying that dad will send you packing when he gets home," John said, contrarily bold because he felt certain they were in the right of things.

"Do not say 'send you packing', John, that is a very common expression. You should instead say 'send you on your way.'" And she went to add bubbles to the bath she was drawing for them.

Ellen went to work airing out the same bedroom Mary Poppins had been assigned before, dusting as needed.

"Though I suppose you won't be needing me to bring you any furniture or the like," she said in a happily approving sort of manner, to herself of course, but she was old enough to get away with that.

"Too right," the umbrella propped in the room's corner answered.

They both smiled when they heard the first splash.