"If nature abhors a vacuum, history abhors an idyll even more. Nursery magic gives way to strafing runs and scrambling for the gas mask. What could even the most magical nanny in the world have to say about any of that?"

ELLEN, THE OLD HOUSEMAID, had left the tray as quickly as she could and retreated. It was Jane and Barbara's evening with their do-gooders; Michael had not bothered to find out what or with whom his sisters were doing good, exactly. It didn't seem to matter any more. His tea cooled while he stared into the fire.

"What's the medicine going to taste like tonight, Michael?" asked a soft voice behind him.

Michael started. "Couldn't be. Absolutely bloody couldn't be."

"But it is." Mary Poppins stepped into the circle lit by the fire. "And you, young man, may kindly watch your language."

"Mary Poppins. Jesus Christ, Mary Poppins, after all these years of--"

"Language, Michael!" snapped Mary Poppins. "You have not the excuse of some young men, who were not brought up by someone practically perfect in every way."

"Practically perfect in--" Michael began to laugh. It was not a very pleasant laugh. "Wish we'd had your practical perfection in the trenches."

"I was attending to all sorts of pressing matters."

Michael's unpleasant laugh sounded again. "None of which involved being mustard gassed, eh, Poppins?"

She gave him a haughty stare and pretended as if he hadn't spoken. "I asked you a question, to start out with. Last I heard, you were brought up to give a civil answer to a civil question."

"What did you--oh. The medicine."

Mary Poppins produced a familiar large bottle, filled the spoon with an amber liquid and passed it to Michael, who drank it with a sigh. She raised an eyebrow.

"Scotch. Neat. And yours is rum punch, as always."

She filled the teaspoon for herself and drank it, not deigning to notice him.

"Can't stand rum any more," said Michael, shaking his head. "We had a ration of it with our tea in the morning, and I never turned it down then, but the smell of it makes me think--" He shook all over, like a dog.

"Feeling better?" asked Mary Poppins.

"Not particularly. No."

Mary Poppins's expression betrayed uncertainty for the first time Michael could remember. "It used to work that way," she said, almost to herself.

"I'm going to need a bit more than a teaspoon of Scotch to feel better, Poppins. I've been louse-bitten and gas-masked; I've been cold and wet and shot in the ass, and I'll never walk the same way again and I'm not yet twenty-five--"