Title Page flicked listlessly through the endless stacks of paperwork on his desk; reports, reviews, recommendations: he had no shortage of reading to do. He grabbed a sheet at random and forced his eyes along the columns of dull and arduous text. Sub-editor; it was not a job that encouraged... well... anything. Other than work of course.
After twenty minutes, Page let his head sag against the wall of his office and he tossed aside yet another infuriating, "letter to the editor", that had suggested, in a stuffy and stubborn way, that the colts of today weren't half the stallions that their fathers had been, that newspapers never seemed to print the public opinion, and that caning, belting, beating, and similar punishments should be reinstated immediately for the sake of public decency, morality and good hygiene.
Title Page rubbed his temples with a hoof; if he had one bit for every time-
Symphony.
The blurred photograph on his desk grabbed at his eyelids just as they began to drift closed; he knew all about her story, everypony did: the group, her quitting, and the silence: she hadn't been seen in Canterlot high society for weeks. Socially speaking that was suicide, obviously, but even the most refined of nobles had entertained some curiosity about where she had gone, even if they wouldn't admit it. Every paper in Canterlot had a reporter or two out looking for her; her house was empty and not even her former co-workers had any idea where she had gone.
But now here she was, sitting on Page's desk.
The stallion grabbed hungrily at the photograph and a thin sheaf of notes came up clipped to it. Ridiculous letters forgotten, he began to read.
----<<<<>>>>----
Symphony awoke to the familiar sight of Fiddlesticks' apartment's ceiling, and to the less familiar, though nevertheless recognisable, ache of a mild hangover. Sheets of light lanced through the living room's curtains and Symphony rolled off the sofa bed with a pained moan.
"You're a real lightweight ya know."
Symphony's head twisted towards the voice; her sister was standing cheerfully on the other side of the room, one hoof holding a pan over the cooker, and the invigorating scents of a gently frying breakfast wafted from the open plan kitchen. Symphony smacked her lips thoughtfully.
"Apples?" she looked puzzled, then recollection dawned like a lead steam train. "Oh Celestia, I didn't-"
"Yep." Fiddlesticks looked cheerful. "Three glasses."
Symphony groaned but pulled herself to her hooves nevertheless; she glanced about the apartment, but it didn't seem to have been affected by the night's revelry. As far as Symphony could understand it, Fiddlesticks held the view that if the apartment's messiness was maintained at its natural maximum then it couldn't increase further and as such the apartment would never get any less tidy; either way it seemed like a good excuse for the scattered clothes, books and music that covered every inch of her sister's floor. Symphony had taken to keeping her own chest of belongings obsessively neat as a psychological defence against the chaos in the apartment; she'd much rather have gone home to sleep, but every day seemed to slip away in a haze of music and laughter, and somehow she always woke up the same way: messy, bleary-eyed and exhausted on a bed of scattered paper and cloth.
She plodded over to the kitchen and Fiddlesticks gave her a quick nuzzle as she slid something deliciously brown and unhealthy-looking out of her frying pan.
"Fried slice, fresh orange juice, and tar-thick black coffee." Fiddlesticks nodded to a table by the window. "Sound good, sleepyhead?"
Symphony groaned approvingly and fell into a chair. Fiddlesticks had rented a flat in the middle of town, which made it convenient for the couple's practises. The flat had been described in the lease as "compact, cultured, and embodying all of the time-honoured traditions of high demand housing", which seemed fairly accurate; it was certainly small, old, and frustratingly expensive, but Fiddlesticks liked it, for some reason, and the sheer convenience of the location was growing on Symphony too.
Besides, she mused, the views are stunning. Canterlot life was playing out normally on the streets far below; cleaners cleaned, vendors vended, and buisnessponies of every class and profession went about their day. Symphony wondered vaguely what the innumerable ponies, in their grey suits and straight ties, were thinking as they walked, but she jumped as a series of plates and cups were placed on the table in front of her; Fiddlesticks dropping them from balancing as only an Earth pony could. The smell of the coffee mugged her sinuses with a blunt instrument and she took a deep draught of the viscous liquid, wincing at the heat. With a cough, a shudder and a gulp Symphony sat up straight, smoothed down her previously wild mane, and smiled cheerfully across the table at her sister.
"That's really awful coffee, Fiddly."
Fiddlesticks grinned. "I'd left it sitting overnight."
"I can't thank you enough."
With that, breakfast became a touch more social; Symphony probed her sister for details of the previous night and Fiddlesticks filled in the relevant gaps. It wasn't until Symphony set down her empty glass of orange juice that a thump from the doorway prompted Fiddlesticks to get up. Symphony didn't pay any attention; it was mail, it was normal.
Fiddlesticks' squeal of delight was less normal, and upon hearing it Symphony jumped in her chair and trotted into the hallway, intrigued.
Sitting by the door, atop a layer of old music and dust, was the morning's newspaper. The image on display was rather blurred, and rather amateur, but nevertheless unmistakeable. Mind exploding in the back of her skull, Symphony simply stared.
Front page? she mused, numbly. That's a new one.
----<<<<>>>>----
The next few hours passed in a strange blur for both sisters; the owner of the Canter Club called, imploring them to perform again, and he may have mistaken Fiddlesticks' disoriented state for reluctance because she walked away from the phone with a promise of twice the previous booking fee, cash in hoof. They spent a few hours entranced in their music, and then another few hours asleep.
When Symphony awoke once again it was dark outside and the crisp night air drifting in through the ajar window sharpened her mind swiftly, returning her to reality with a blink. There was so much to organise; tunes to write, to learn, to polish, flyers to make: when were they even playing? Fiddlesticks, in her daze, hadn't mentioned a time, or a date. Now firing on all cylinders, Symphony began to think, really think. She flicked at a lamp switch with a hoof (if she was going to be awake then she might as well make notes) but no light appeared; she glanced at the wall, correctly plugged, correctly wired, no problems there. Symphony frowned.
Fiddlesticks' chest was rising and falling slowly on the other side of the room and Symphony took care not to disturb her as she rose to her hooves and walked to the window. Where the lights of the city would normally have glowed their prismatic greeting there was only a silent darkness. A power-cut then.
Symphony blinked at the scene: she'd spent her whole life in the city, lights and all, and as she walked onto the apartment's meagre balcony she craned her neck in awe. The sky was velvet; black, but a subtle, varied black with hints of purple washing their way across the astral canvas, and the moon was new: only just visible in the darkness.
But tiny points of light peppered the heavens, infinitesimal glimmers of white and twinkling brightness that flickered and shone out all across the night. The violinist stared transfixed at the scene.
To every corner of the velvet sheet they ran; diamonds. A sky of glittering diamonds.