Greetings, readers. I had a list of potential fics to post—mostly darker, T-rated things that would show off my writing skills—but what do you know? The kids' fic won out in the end. But, I was bound to do this at some point anyway. I love both Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee, and I also have had the theory about Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee being cousins ever since the first Nanny McPhee film came out when I was little. (My mother laughed, but I wouldn't be swayed, and I've stubbornly held to the idea ever since.)

A note: The Nanny McPhee movies are based on the Nurse Matilda book series. Therefore, Nanny McPhee's name will be Matilda.

Prologue

In Which Hearts are Broken, and a Business is Founded

They're born at the same moment.

For Matilda, it is the proper time. For Mary, it's a month early. But, it would seem, she couldn't stand to have her cousin win the race into the world.

"It's very peculiar," Mary's mother tells Matilda's when the cousins are a month old. "Born at the same moment." She shakes her head a little. It may have been a month since it happened, but she and her twin are still in awe over it.

"At least she's strong, despite being early," Matilda's mother replies, nodding to Mary's cradle.

Mary reaches toward the window with a tiny hand, feeling the sunlight. A bird lands on the sill, chirping, and Mary giggles as though it has said something very funny.

"Her first laugh," says her mother.

Matilda, resting in her own mother's arms, wakens. She watches the bird with wide eyes. It ceases chirping and turns toward her. They watch each other for a minute. No movement or sound, just watching. And just as suddenly as it arrived, the bird looks down at Mary, gives a last chirp, and flies off.

"Very peculiar," says Matilda's mother.

Her sister nods in agreement.

The peculiarity continues as the cousins grow.

The twins and their husbands know there's something odd in Matilda and Mary. The girls themselves know it as well. When they're young, everyone thinks it amusing when they speak to animals. When they reach a certain age, however, it earns them odd looks and headshakes from those around them, and both have to be taken aside by their parents, and told, "At home, you may talk to animals all day. But amongst other people, you must refrain."

When Mary is fourteen, she realizes she can do much more than merely talk with animals.

Mary walks in the garden with her younger sister, little three-year-old Eliza, one autumn afternoon. The wind is blowing, strong but not overly so, and she can't help but wish she were able to spread a pair of wings and fly.

Then, suddenly, she's off the ground, clinging to the handle of her parasol for dear life.

"Mawy!" her sister shrieks.

Mary's frightened at first, but soon laughs. It's easy after a few moments. She's telling the wind where to carry her; the parasol doesn't matter. But she catches a glimpse of her shadow on the ground, and realizes that it certainly looks quite nice. She grins at her little sister. "It's perfectly fine, Eliza!"

She floats gently to the ground. Eliza stares with wide eyes and then rushes toward the house, shouting, "Mum! Da! Mawy flew!"

It takes Matilda another year to discover that she can do more than talk with the animals.

It's a hot August day. She sits with her sister Abigail, a year younger than her, and together they watch the little twins James and Kathlyn chase each other about the garden.

"I don't know how they can possibly run in this heat," says Abigail, fanning her face with her bonnet.

Matilda nods, playing with a twig she picked up off the ground. "Dreadful."

"I shall never complain about winter again," Abigail says, laughing a little.

Matilda nods again, thinking about the lovely snow they had last winter. They'd built a family of snowpeople here in the garden...

She taps the stick against the ground absentmindedly.

Is it her imagination, or is the air suddenly cold?

"Matilda," says Abigail, pointing up to the sky, "look."

Matilda does so.

Clouds have gathered above them, and a moment later, little white flakes begin to float to the ground.

The little ones stop playing. "Look!"

Matilda gasps and drops the stick as if it's something venomous. She looks about the garden. How far-spread is the snow?

Only over their garden, it would seem. Beyond the gate, the sun is shining brightly as ever. She relaxes and gives a sigh of relief.

Kathlyn toddles over to Matilda. "Did you do that?" She's always been aware that her eldest sister is magical, but has never known precisely how magical.

Matilda swallows. "I think so."

"Oh!" Kathlyn exclaims.

While James runs about the garden with his arms spread and his face to the sky, Kathlyn rushes toward the house, shouting, "Mum! Come and see what Matilda did!"

Abigail grins and looks at Matilda. "Well!" she exclaims. "Snow in August. Who would have thought?"

The cousins visit often from that time on, practicing their magic (they've decided it can't be anything else) together. They can each do many things, though Matilda can't bring herself to be quite so fond of flying as Mary.

"It's too unpredictable," she says.

Mary only laughs. "No, it really is not. You are in control. You are not going to fall unless you want to."

"Be that as it may, I would much rather walk."

And she does. She walks up the air as if it's a staircase. Mary always laughs at this. "Oh, Matilda, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Most definitely not in flight," is always Matilda's even answer.

These years where they practice are the happiest. As they continue to grow older, however, the sadness sets in.

While the younger siblings of both of them begin to acquire bits of grey in their hair, Mary and Matilda both remain beautiful with clear skin, and not the slightest hint of grey hair.

"We're not aging," Matilda says when she's visiting Mary one day. "We're going to outlive them all. Every last one of our family members. And there's nothing we can do."

It's a horrible realization for both of them.

Mary cries. For hours on end, she lets the tears fall. Matilda sits across the room, staring out the window and feeling numb.

A month later, Mary's parents are both gone. Her father was in his ninety-first year, and her mother in her ninetieth. Mary had thought she was prepared for this, but now that it has happened, all of that "preparedness" has melted away.

They went very peacefully, in their sleep, Eliza writes in her letter to Mary. Together, just like always. Uncle and Aunt McPhee are both heartbroken; quite particularly Auntie—losing a twin is not at all easy, I would imagine. The funeral is in one week.

Mary hugs the letter to her chest, a sob catching in her throat, but she doesn't let any tears fall right now. Instead she grips her parasol and leaves through the window, flying to Matilda's house and pounding on the door, which opens a few moments later.

"What's amiss, Mary?" Matilda asks in her even voice.

Mary tells her the news, letting the tears fall freely now. Matilda only stands there, wanting to console her cousin, but is not sure how.

"I ... I'm so sorry," she ends up saying. She swallows the lump in her own throat. Her uncle and aunt were dear to her, of course, but they were Mary's parents, and she feels she doesn't have a right to cry about it in front of Mary.

"Eliza says they both went ... very peacefully, in their sleep." She blows her nose into her handkerchief and then manages to smile a little. "They went everywhere together. Even ... even into death."

"This way, one of them doesn't have to deal with the pain of separation," says Matilda, and Mary nods.

"Yes."

Matilda's father dies six months later. She remains strong; purely for her mother's sake. But when her mother dies two years later, she finally allows herself to shed tears. Mary hugs her tightly.

"Oh, Mattie," she says. "You've always been so good about keeping strong for everyone else. But it's finally your turn. Just cry."

And Matilda does. She cries all the rest of that day. She cries on the day of the funeral. She weeps as she pushes aside family and friends, stepping up to help lower her mother's casket into the ground.

This act earns her whispers and odd looks from all of the family and friends. But Matilda refuses to let her beloved mother be laid to rest by a group of complete strangers. She regrets not stepping up at her father's burial, and will not feel the same regret now.

"Goodbye, Mum," she whispers.

She wears black for months on end, only leaving her house once every month or so. She speaks to no one, not even Mary, whom she had been so close to.

And then she gets to know him.

She doesn't mean to fall in love. She desperately tries not to. But he makes her laugh so easily, and his eyes are so warm and kind. He's a widower of forty-one; exactly two years older than she was when she stopped aging. His two daughters are spirited and bright, and she grows to love them as well.

But then one day he proposes, and she remembers just how mortal he is, and how if she says yes, she will be happy for a while, but eventually he will die, and she will just continue, on and on and on ...

So, with a heavy heart, she turns away and tells him, "No."

The heartbreak in his eyes hurts her so badly, but she forces herself to bear the pain. She leaves immediately, weeping as soon as she is out of sight of his home.

She weeps all the way to her own home, where she shuts herself up once more. She puts on black clothing once again, and visits the market only when she knows he will not be there. She visits no one, not even Mary. She doesn't even answer letters.

The animals provide her with enough conversation. Most of it is idle, but it keeps her from going mad.

Years pass. She doesn't leave when a letter from Mary appears in the fireplace, telling of Abigail's death. Several years later, when she receives another telling of James's, she remains in her home.

She almost leaves when she receives a tear-stained letter telling of Eliza's death. Mary's baby sister, she thinks sadly. She does want to be there for her cousin, but she still can't bring herself to go.

When she receives a final letter from Mary, she doesn't know how many years it's been since she last left her property. I do not expect you to show up, Mary writes. But your youngest sister is on her deathbed. I have come to say my goodbyes, and I am merely her cousin.

She remembers who I am, and recognizes her children and grandchildren and the two great-grandchildren, and she quite frequently asks to see you. Do grant your youngest sister her dying wish.

She has a few days left, at most. I hope you will find your heart, although I expect you will not.

—M.P.

Matilda drops the letter and rushes out of the house as though the devil himself is after her. She takes a step up into the air, running higher up until she's running across the clouds.

At last she spots Kathlyn's house down below, and descends without caring if she's seen.

She bursts through the front door of the house, pushing past Kathlyn's children and grandchildren, until at last she's at her baby sister's bedside, holding her hand and stroking her hair, and ignoring a shocked Mary Poppins who stands by the window.

"I'm here," Matilda whispers, tears filling her eyes. "I've come. I'm so sorry it wasn't sooner."

"Mattie," says Kathlyn with the smallest of smiles. "I've missed you so. But I knew you would come. Are you going to stay?"

Matilda nods. "I am going to stay. I promise. I shall stay until the very end."

And she does. She stays for the next three days, talking to Kathlyn, trying her hardest to make up for the time they lost.

She's there at the very end. There to hold Kathlyn's hand and whisper her final goodbyes.

Mary Poppins, even though it's been years since the two of them have spoken, embraces her cousin and lets her cry.

"I'm proud of you," she says, "for coming."

They each decide to stay while funeral arrangements are made. They talk as they did when they were young girls. They watch all the children while the adults are busy.

And find that they both love it.

Mary sings songs with them while they do chores. Every so often she'll use her magic to do something surprising for them. Matilda reads them stories and works on patching their clothes. When the youngest ones misbehave, she's fond of using her magic to put on the Hag disguise—frizzy grey hair, overlarge nose, several warts. The older children laugh because they know the secret, and have to leave the room to keep from spoiling it, but the youngest are genuinely frightened by the Hag, and are guaranteed to do what she says.

Matilda finds she can be happy again, surrounded by all of these children with their laughter and life.

She could start something. A nannying ... business, she supposes it could be called, although she wouldn't demand any payment for her work. Mary could do it as well, perhaps. And if there are young women like them, they can do it as well. Find broken families and intervene with their magic; staying as long as they are needed and then slipping off when the job is done.

Eventually she approaches Mary with the idea. It turns out, funnily enough, that Mary has had a similar one in mind. Their planned methods are different, however.

Matilda's is inspired by the Hag. "We'll use our magic to 'ugly' ourselves so that the children we help will not want us, and then slowly remove the bits of magic as the children learn their lessons, until they do want us very much, but by then our work is done and we must go."

Mary's involves "Practical Perfection," and is worlds different.

"Your Method will not work for me," says Matilda.

"And yours will not work for me," Mary replies promptly.

Eventually it is decided—they will start the business together, Mary with her Method and Matilda with hers. Any young women who come will choose between the two.

It's a good plan, they know.

The next few months are spent looking for a place to build their headquarters. Mary does not want it to be on the ground. "It runs the risk of people discovering our magic. And what, I ask, would happen then? Surely nothing good."

They take to the skies. Mary shows Matilda different clouds. Eight times, Matilda shakes her head in disagreement. But there's something different about the ninth cloud. She can see herself building a home on it.

So they start work. Building the mansion on Cloud Nine, as they have very simply named it. Talking to various animals and hiring them as "scouts" to look for families in need of help, and also for other young women possessing magic.

"Tell the lasses that our doors are always open to them."

The animals get to work straight away, and several women come right away to begin training.

The day Matilda and Mary hang the sign over the front door is the proudest day in both of their lives.

OVERHEAD NANNIES, it says in bright red.

The women they've managed to recruit already are standing there, grinning and applauding for the place where they finally fit; where they can be themselves without worrying about anyone seeing their magic and assuming the worst.

Overhead Nannies.

A wonderful place, indeed.

A bit long for a prologue, I know. xP I swear I have actual plot ahead for this, with a nice villain and all sorts of lovely things.

Anyway, if you've waded through this mess of a prologue and would for some reason like me to continue, please let me know by leaving a review!