Everypony knows Octavia Melody, which is rather the problem. Symphony's been playing for longer: could you blame her for being just a little bit jealous?
Octavia Melody is the most difficult part of Symphony's day. Everypony hangs on her every word, worships the ground she walks on, and generally makes a big fuss over little things even when, in Symphony's expert opinion, she got that 3rd G flat wrong in the second movement.
Thankfully, Symphony has a sister; a very observant sister who's intent on coaxing Symphony's woes from her in the least embarrassing way possible.
No matter how embarrassing the least embarrassing way is.
A story designed, or at least intended, to cause warm feelings without the requirement to set fire to your house. You're welcome. Many thanks to CyanAeolin for the cover art for the piece, have a gander at his deviantart page for both similar, and different, images.
The concert had been good, very good; the group of four musicians were an oddity among the upper echelons of Canterlot society: not big enough for a band, too many sousaphones for a string quartet (in other words, one sousaphone). Non-traditional composition aside the quartet, such as they were, never wanted for bookings and, by extension, reception dinners. The four ponies entered the reception room to an enthusiastic stomping of hooves. They waved amicably as they entered and, once inside, split from one another and diffused into the solution of the room: bright, rich, and saturated with class.
Symphony, violin case over one shoulder, was sure that nopony else saw what happened next; what always happened next. She sipped a glass of champagne and cast her gaze across the crowd with narrowed eyes.
"It's happening again." She remarked to Beauty Brass, nodding her head at the Brownian motion of the crowd.
The sousaphonist rolled her eyes. "You're imagining it you know, it's not real." Beauty Brass watched Symphony as the violinist made her way over to a group of ponies that had gathered at one side of the room. Squeezing through gaps in the knot of benefactors, she looked in on the centre of their attention.
Octavia.
Symphony sighed.
It wasn't that Octavia was mean to her; Octavia wasn't mean to anypony. But Symphony felt that she could be forgiven for feeling jealous, just a little, of the cellist's crowds of admirers.
She's too bucking perfect isn't she? She pondered, spitefully. Never mind the beauty or the talent. It's the damn charm, that's what it is.
Symphony wasn't wrong. Whatever the other players may tell themselves, the crowd in the reception room was clustered around Octavia: she chatted and laughed under their admiring stares, living off their admiration as a plant lives off the light of the sun.
It's so damn unfair, and I'm almost certain that I'm being petty and foalish. The lemon-yellow mare trudged frustratedly off to the other side of the chamber, trying not to attract attention to herself as she did so. Modest groups of admirers had gathered around the other musicians too, but she'd lost her own following with her foray into Octavia's private army of listeners. Bereft of hangers-on, Symphony made her way towards the exit. She could think of no real reason to hang around; after all, nopony was likely to notice that she'd left.
The night was drizzling gently. A security pony outside the music hall tipped his cap to Symphony as she left; she nodded to him in response. The lamplights in the street sizzled gently as droplets of water struck them and evaporated. Ignoring them, Symphony walked depressedly out onto the path and shrugged to stop her violin case from falling from her back.
"Oh come on, Symphony. How'm ah supposed ta make a dramatic entrance if y'all don't notice me?"
Jumping, the violinist looked about. After a moment, she noticed a familiar silhouette leaning against one of the lampposts. It tipped its Stetson to her. "Not like you ta be leavin' this early."
"Fiddly Faddle?"
"Fiddlesticks, sis, please." The shape detached itself from the lamppost and dropped back down to all fours. "Y'all know ah never liked that name."
Symphony trotted excitedly over to her sister and grabbed her in a hug. "Where've you been, Fiddly? I haven't seen y'all- er, you in ages."
Startled by the affection, the b'Stetsoned mare returned the hug. "All over the place, sis. You wouldn't believe it." She gave a gasp as the squeeze was tightened. "Eh, y'all wanna maybe let go've me? It's gettin' a mite hard ta breath in here."
"Oh, sorry, sorry." The hug was dropped.
Fiddlesticks readjusted her Stetson with a hoof and grinned. "It's mighty nice ta see you too, sis. Heck, ah didn't even know where you were 'till y'all sent me a letter sayin' that ah should come an' see ya."
Symphony frowned. "What letter?"
"You know, the letter. You said y'all were plum sad an' needed cheerin' up." She raised an eyebrow. "Y'all mean you didn't write it?"
"No!"
"But y'all are upset?"
Symphony opened her mouth to deny it, but her brain caught her halfway. "N-, well... Look, just because my life isn't perfect doesn't mean I need cheering up."
Fiddlesticks grinned. "It wouldn't do any harm though would it?"
"What?"
"Come on, sis. I've missed you. Walk with me, tell me all about it." Fiddlesticks threw a hoof around Symphony's shoulders and began to walk her along the path. She hadn't been in Canterlot in years, but she'd spied about on her way here. Some of the bars had looked rather good. "You do drink right?" She asked.
"Look, I really think th-"
"No?"
Symphony stammered. "Well I do on occasion, but I-"
"Great!"
The bar itself was rather airy; large, scenic windows looked out over the roofs of Canterlot and took in the lights of the never-sleeping city. Symphony sat serenely in a corner of the room, glass of wine in hoof, while Fiddlesticks lounged beside her with an air of effortless comfort and an appletini. Symphony had made her contempt for the drink clear.
"I'm telling you!" Fiddly replied; "These things are great!"
The violinist eyed the drink suspiciously. "It's green."
"So?"
"It's bright green. Nothing's bright green."
"These're always bright green."
Symphony recoiled slightly at the idea. "What on Equestria's in them?"
"No idea, sis, but ah aten't dead yet." Fiddly pushed a lock of mane back from her eyes and grinned. "Go on, try one."
A second conical glass of emerald liquid was pushed across the table. Nervously, Symphony sniffed it and cringed. "Ugh. This smells like it could strip paint."
Fiddlesticks seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Nope." She concluded, finally. "I'm almost certain that it wouldn't."
Symphony raised one perfect eyebrow. "Almost?"
"Yep."
The violinist rubbed her eyes with a hoof and pushed the offending drink away half-heartedly. "I should go home. Thanks for the wine, Fiddly, it was nice seeing you." Symphony stood morosely and made her way towards the door without haste. Behind her, her sister frowned.
"Aww, come on, sis. It's not that bad." Symphony did not turn; Fiddlesticks sighed: she didn't expect her sister to take the next part of the conversation well, but the violinist hadn't admitted anything yet and she knew that she couldn't let Symphony just up and leave; sure enough, the next sentence caught her sister square in the brain. "I don't mean the drink, sis. Ah'm sure she don't mean to hog all the attention."
Symphony visibly jumped. She spun to face her sister. "Did Beauty Brass tell you? It's none of your business."
"Is she the one with that horn thingy? Nope, she didn't tell me anything."
Symphony was obviously uncomfortable with her sister's new found omniscience. "Who told you then?"
Fiddlesticks patted the booth's cushion and, reluctantly, Symphony sat back down. "Ah came to the concert."
"Ah hadn't seen y'all in years, sis. Ah wanted to surprise ya when y'all came out ah t'hall but ah made up that letter thing at the last minute 'cause ah could tell that y'all needed cheerin' up." A lack of response from Symphony prompted Fiddlesticks to continue. "Ah could tell that y'all were jealous, an' after the stompin' that cellist got ah figured it'd be her y'all were jealous of-"
"You were watching?"
"Well... Yea."
Symphony looked worried. "Was- was I ok?"
"Does it matter?"
The violinist looked shocked. "Of course it matters! It's my life! It's what I do! What'm I sup-"
Fiddlesticks shushed her with a smile, "Calm down sis," she chuckled. "Yes sis, you were good. Ah reckon you've been in Canterlot too long."
"Whatever do you mean?"
Grinning, Fiddlesticks spun her Stetson on her head. It messed up her mane. "Y'all know that you're good, sis."
Symphony looked embarrassed. "Well..."
"Ah mean it! Ah-, Ah mean-" Fiddlesticks waved her hooves in an attempt to convey her message. "Well look, ah play in Ponyville every now an' again for the Apple family ok?" Symphony nodded. "Well, you think that they stomp for the music? They stomp 'cause ah'm playin', they'd do it for anypony."
"You're saying that it doesn't matter if we try?"
"Shucks! A'course it matters! What doesn't matter is if we're perfect! Ah miss notes, sis. Ah bet you do too, not that ah can ever tell with this frilly stuff ah yours." Fiddlesticks smiled. "Anypony that's there to hear perfect stuff's not worth impressin' at any rate."
Symphony looked puzzled, she remembered Ponyville but it'd been years since she'd been back there. She chuckled lightly at Fiddlestick's condemnation of the majority of Canterlot society.
Encouraged by the smile, Fiddlesticks put a hoof on her sister's shoulder. "There'll always be somepony there ta shout for ya, sis, even if it's me."
Symphony blushed, a snapshot of the end of the concert coming back to her with a wave of embarrassment. She whispered frantically.
"You're not meant to shout at that kind of concert!"
Symphony's violin rested on her shoulder nicely. It was just as well that they always took several days between concerts; the hangover from her night with Fiddly had been hard to shake off. Silence had fallen over the expectant crowd as the musicians had taken up their positions on stage and Symphony could tell already that most of the eyes in the stands were fixed on the cellist to her right. With all prepared, three pairs of eyes were drawn to the violinist as they awaited her opening notes. With one last deep breath, it began. She could feel dozens of gazes on her as the first notes of the melody clambered delicately up the octaves. After four bars the harp joined her; sequences of rolling notes cascading through the tune like ripples in a river and before long all four musicians had struck their first notes. Once again, Octavia and her cello were the centre of attention, but Symphony smiled, nevertheless. Such a difference it made, she mused, support.
Confidently, she played on; she'd seen a white Stetson in the crowd.
Fiddlesticks shouted again, at the end. But the odd looks were worth it.
Symphony's usual appletini was as untouched now as it had been every week for the past month, despite her sister's coaxing. Tonight the drink had been waiting on their regular table when they'd entered the bar, and Fiddlesticks' well-trained eye had spotted the glint of bits being passed grudgingly between barcolts when Symphony had rolled her eyes at the drink once again. Fiddlesticks waved a hoof at the impoverished barkeep and two cups of cider were produced with a side of frustrated muttering.
She shrugged off her instrument case and sipped at the sweet, golden liquid. "So whad'ya think?" Her lips cracked a small smile and she stared at her sister across the top of the mug.
"It's certainly tempting... Daunting though." The rapping of Symphony's hoof on the tabletop delayed any response; lips pursed and eyes skyward: she was obviously deep in thought.
Not wanting to rush her, Fiddlesticks contented herself with silence and cider. The other mare hadn't touched her drink yet; the tapping continued.
"I mean," Symphony continued at length, "it's not as if I haven't considered it. Getting out, anyway. Constantly standing in Octavia's shadow isn't as annoying as it used to be but it's still frustrating to know that most ponies think of me as, "Octavia's Violinist" or similar." She stopped tapping and focussed on Fiddlesticks. "But- Well, this is Canterlot, Fiddly. Ponies here might not appreciate your-" The violinist stuttered her way into silence awkwardly, but Fiddlesticks just grinned.
"My apple-fed country ways?" She cut Symphony off as she started to protest. "Ah know your fancy shmancy high class folk won't like me, but what about everypony else?" She raised an eyebrow. "There's a whole lot more simple folks here than lords and ladies and suchlike."
Symphony looked surprised at the revelation. "When did you get so sharp?"
"It's just sense. Besides, there's no room for stupid when you're bartering for bed an' board."
This elicited a nod. Symphony knew, at least superficially, that her sister had been more or less broke when she was on her travels, but nowadays it was easy to forget Fiddly Faddle's adventurous years; her accent was regressing rapidly and most of the mare's country drawl had already been replaced by something that, while far from local in Canterlot, would've been just as far from local in Appleloosa and was rapidly travelling the remaining distance towards the capital.
Thoughts began to form, plans began to grow, and Symphony nodded, ever so slightly.
She left the quartet the very next day. Beauty Brass seemed surprised by the news, and Hugo was as impassive as ever, but Octavia smiled, and offered a hoofbump, and told her to enjoy herself. It made Symphony feel slightly guilty.
Not too guilty, mind.
She was too busy to feel truly guilty; Fiddlesticks' fliers went up the very next week.
----<<<<>>>>----
Worn red letters above the ageing oak of the building's door proclaimed it to be, "The Canter Club", and as Symphony stepped inside she did her limited best not to touch the woodwork. The air was thick with smoke, laughter and the faintly sweet smell of sweat; Fiddlesticks wove her way through the crowd with eerie efficiency and her sister followed in her wake, slightly concerned by the atmosphere. She hadn't set a professional hoof outside a concert hall since she'd been a filly.
The sound of poorly played guitar music permeated the atmosphere and Symphony gradually began to chalk her growing headache up to its grating, off-key notes rather than, as she had first suspected, the smoke. She inhaled a lungful of the blue-grey haze and coughed; it was still unpleasant, nevertheless. Most of the ponies in the club were stallions, and most of them wore nothing more than a shirt, if that; they clustered around rough wooden tables, mugs of cider in hoof, while the scrawny colt on stage wheezed his way torturously towards the end of his, for want of a better word, song. He slunk off the stage, such as it was, but was largely ignored. A much patched and faded curtain provided some semblance of privacy for the sisters as they unshouldered their instruments and began to unpack. Their past few weeks had been spent trying to find common musical ground; it'd been sparse. In the end, it'd seemed easier for Symphony just to write something for the occasion.
After one look, and several questions, she'd written a second copy with the Fillitalian translated into Eqquish; granted, "gradually slowing down" didn't look nearly as good as "poco a poco rit", but at least Fiddly understood it that way.
A few heads turned as they stepped onto the stage, but for the most part nopony cared; they were engrossed in their drinks, their cigarettes, and their chatter. But as the first few perfect notes wove their way through the stale air of the club drinks were forgotten, conversations hushed, and eyes focussed on the lemon-yellow duo on the stage at the far end of the room. A wave of silence flowed through the crowd, and the music followed in its wake; rising, falling, echoing and drawing the attention of the patrons. Even the smell of the smoke seemed dulled; replaced by the scent of the sea, and the dawn, and sadness. Symphony looked out across the field of gazes, mugs held half-way to lips, and smiled a half smile of satisfaction; the light of the stage's lanterns gleamed in the glistening eyes of the nearest drinkers and the violinist closed her own eyes, swaying in the music. She had done it, she knew. The last silver notes faded into the air and were gone, and Symphony fancied that she could hear the pattering of rain of the cobblestones outside before the first watcher blinked, closed his mouth, and began to knock a forehoof on his table with a grin. The storm of banging rose, and Fiddlesticks led her sister off stage amidst the cheers saying that, yes, she knew that Symphony was used to thrown roses, but here she may want to avoid thrown cider mugs, no, it wasn't an insult, just tradition, yes, it is a stupid idea.
The two mares vanished through the back door with their cases to the sound of a series of thumps from inside; they could've been the sound of several cider mugs striking the back wall of the hall, or then again, maybe not. Fiddlesticks had seen the crowd; she knew all about getting out before she was mobbed by drunk, angry or... pushy fans, but escaping before she could be surrounded by adoration? That was a new one; it felt good.
Symphony's mind sparkled; she could feel the crowd's amazement, their awe. Sweet Celestia, She thought, with difficulty. Is this how Octavia feels all the time? The very idea was ecstatic. No wonder she never notices how much more attention she gets; she's too distracted by the fireworks in her head to notice us. The violinist's goofy grin shone under the light of a street lamp, and the sisters staggered back joyously towards their regular bar. One of the few things that Symphony remembered in the morning was that the appletini didn't taste too bad, all things considered.
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-"
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.
The ink didn't smudge; it wouldn't dare, not today. Symphony's quill pen flew across paper; a dot, a stave, an incidental sharp, all perfect and measured and precise. The glitter and shine of diamonds, written in ink and genius.
Three sheaves of paper lay side by side on Symphony's desk and dozens of screwed up attempts littered the floor around her. Not that she noticed of course; it was Fiddly's flat. The sound of chuckling drifted through from the other room; it was friendly, but nervous. They hadn't practised the piece at all and they'd be standing in the Canter Club tomorrow; Symphony's pen brought the final lines to a close and the melody played in her head as she wrote in the last notes with a flourish.
A sprinkling of fine sand sealed the music into place. It was complete. Paper held delicately in her mouth, Symphony pushed open the study door and squeezed into the living room.
The weather had cleared; bright sunlight streamed through the window and two pairs of eyes looked up at her from the coffee table. Expectant. Eager.
Symphony tossed each mare a sheaf of music with a grin. "Finally done."
"Really?" Fiddlesticks smirked. cynically. "You said that last time. And the time before that. An-"
"Yes, ok, I get it. No changes this time, I promise."
Fiddlesticks' blue mane brushed down over her music as she inspected it and her hooves began to move as she silently picked out the notes on an invisible violin. The other mare was just reading; she was engrossed in the music, or seemed to be, and Symphony was content to wait for a response. It came in a hum; faint, and pitch perfect, and beautiful. It ran over the notes and faded away and, smiling, the mare looked up.
Two Days Ago
A crumpling of paper and a frustrated groan accompanied Symphony's abandonment of her latest composition; it'd been the third such attempt of the day. The scattered paper around the desk in Fiddly's spare room had been building up to knee height and now every few hours Fiddlesticks would wander in, grab a hoof-full of the paper, leave a cup of scalding black caffeinated tar-like ooze on the desk, and tip-hoof out so as not to wake the exhausted composer from her involuntary, but necessary, sleep.
Symphony swallowed a mouthful of the so-called coffee and shook her head, vigorously. She was writing on borrowed time now; she'd borrowed it from her future self and, sooner rather than later, that vengeful and sleep deprived mare was going to want some repayment.
It wasn't working. She didn't know why, but it just couldn't be done; every twinkle, every sparkle, every diamond on the velvet sheet in her mind was missing something infinitely necessary. Symphony slid down from her desk chair with a groan and stretched out her limbs to the click of loosening joints. Beams of light from the room's one dusty window had faded to almost nothing; Symphony knew that her compositional block wouldn't matter if she couldn't see well enough to write in any case. Temporarily defeated, she nudged open the study's door and sagged into the living room.
At the creak of the door, Fiddly looked up from her book. "It's about time you took a break, you've been in there all day."
Symphony just grunted.
"No progress?" She sounded sympathetic. Symphony dragged her body over to where her sister sat on the couch and collapsed on top of her with a sigh. Fiddlesticks jumped, surprised, then relaxed and rubbed at her sister's shoulders; it hadn't been an easy day for her either, but at least she'd had the chance to rest. Symphony melted, exhaustedly, and Fiddlestick lay her paperwork down on the scratched and dirty coffee table. Yes: it'd been a long day.
She rested her forehooves on her recumbent sister, her head on the couch, and closed her eyes.
---<<<>>>---
This morning was many things; anypony in the street, especially one without an umbrella, would've been able to tell you that it was cold and wet, and the smell of true rain falling on dusty tiles did indeed fill her nose when Fiddlesticks stepped out into the open air. As well as being wet, this morning was also sore, and unusually so; Fiddlesticks put it down to a night spent sleeping in an entangled heap on her couch.
The mare brightened up as the rain began to soak her hair; it'd been weeks since the last proper downpour and the apartment was always stuffy: she'd missed the freshness. Other ponies huddled themselves away under hoods or in cloaks or jackets, and as she trotted towards the city centre passers-by glanced in confusion at the yellow mare's bare fur, soaked mane, oblivious gaze and dopey grin. Their judgements ran off her as easily as the rain.
It was a good day.
---<<<>>>---
There was a second apartment, and it was entirely different from Fiddlesticks'; even after a brutal sorting, tidying, cleaning and possible exorcism Fiddlesticks' flat wouldn't reach the heights of cleanliness and perfection on display, or, more accurately, hidden behind locked doors, here. Deep red couches and curtains, the colour of old wine, were a sign of the coordinated mind of the tenant, and the warm cream carpet, thick and luxurious, was a sign of the depth of her purse. As was the location; a single spotless glass window replaced one wall, and from the crown of the highest hill in Canterlot it looked out over the city below with a view that would've satisfied even the most megalomaniacal of cat-wielding villains.
And the tenant was a "her"; there was no doubt. Whispers of perfume drifted throughout the apartment, alone they weren't unpleseant, but they collided in the bedroom and filled it like a pig in a milk bottle - which would've had about the same effect on the sinuses.
Perhaps she was used to the perfumes, or perhaps her nose had shut down, but Octavia couldn't care less. The ruffled mare lay on her ruffled bed; the only two untidy things in the flat. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off, and in the darkness Octavia sighed.
It'd been her fault.
She hadn't seen the newspapers; she'd barely left the apartment. The shock had hit her a few hours after the groups final practise.
Symphony was gone, and it was her fault. Why else would she have left?
Octavia remembered bitterly every suitor's rose, every patron's cheque, every audience's applause: she had taken everything, and they had lived off the dregs. She felt like a parasite. No, worse, she felt like an aristocrat. Cringing, she rolled over in an effort to block out the memories: the shrill voice, icy as winter and stern as steel; the poisonous gaze, pricking and stinging; the hours, alone and cold and frightened, reading, absorbing, hiding in the books.
Her eyes snapped open. No. Never again. She'd left to get away; she wouldn't bring her past with her.
She wouldn't be her mother.
She would make things right.
Rolling determinedly off the bed, Octavia shook out her hair and inspected herself in the mirror. Hair: tangled, bow-tie: missing, coat: frizzy, problems: none. Grinning, the cellist scooped up her keys, stored them in her mane, and trotted briskly from the apartment. Ten seconds later, she trotted back to grab a cloak; making a point was one thing, torrential rain was quite another.
---<<<>>>---
Symphony awoke to the distant sound of carriages and the rather more local scent of unwashed couch. It wasn't an unpleasant smell as smells go, but it was sticky and hard to ignore, like a foal with a toffee apple. She sat up, laboriously, and rubbed at her eyes. Her neck hurt - she must've slept on it, insofar as that was possible - and the grey sky beyond the shabby curtains did nothing to improve her mood.
"Fiddly?" Nopony replied.
Shrugging, then wincing, Symphony slid herself to standing and stretched her legs. Fiddlesticks was right; she needed a break. Buck the music; it could write itself today. Of course it wouldn't, but that was a problem for Future Symphony and after all the hangovers, caffeine crashes and exhausted faintings Future Symphony had inflicted on her over the years, she felt that she was owed some payback.
Sleep deprivation and tar-thick coffee do not a logical mind make.
Trotting cheerfully, if shakily, into the kitchenette, Symphony began to cook breakfast.
Something proper today, she thought. It's not like I'm in a rush.
---<<<>>>---
Octavia was in a rush. The wind and the rain were soaking through her clothes because no matter how waterproof a cloak is it can't protect you from rain that seems, against all reason, to be falling so sharply sideways that it was moving upwards. The torrent hadn't eased since she'd left the apartment and she'd quickly realised that in her haste she'd left behind any money for a cab and indeed anything but the vaguest idea about where Symphony actually lived.
She'd found the house after twenty minutes. It'd been empty.
Cold, miserable, and mad at herself and at her mother and increasingly at the weather (and with her present pennilessness temporarily forgotten), Octavia ducked into a coffee shop for some shelter.
The sign above the door had said, "The Bean Counter", when Octavia had read it outside, and presumably it still did so once she stepped into the warmth of the entranceway and took off her cloak. The calm and welcoming aroma of coffee was obvious in the air and, having missed her morning dose, Octavia inhaled deeply.
And beside the window, warm coffee in hoof, Fiddlesticks smirked to herself; Octavia worked fast, she mused: she hadn't expected her for another ten minutes. In Fiddly's game of social Tetris, she'd finally found that long thin bit that she'd been waiting for all week. Standing, she approached the bedraggled cellist.
Two minutes later, they were gone.
---<<<>>>---
Symphony knew that she didn't like bananas. It didn't matter that there wasn't any other fruit and it didn't matter than she hadn't eaten one in years; she knew, in her heart of hearts, and no contrary evidence would change that.
Or at least she'd never admit it.
She wolfed down her second in as many minutes and gazed at the cheap, fuzzy TV set. The grainy images were getting on her nerves and before too long she had gestured the box off with the remote.
There must be something in this apartment worth doing.
The violin was out of the question: she had nothing in particular to play and, besides, she was meant to be relaxing.
Fiddlesticks' radio was, apparently, broken, but the thought triggered memories of some otherwise forgotten conversation.
"Yea, just careful ah the record player." Fiddlesticks had said, accent and all. New last week.
Intrigued, Symphony rolled off the couch and peered about the apartment. She couldn't recall seeing a record player lying about, but it sounded like her sister wouldn't just leave it in the detritus. She began pulling open cupboards; it didn't take long to find.
It was sleek, it was polished, it was expensive and whatever Fiddly said it was most definitely not new. Oh it might've been newly bought, but this thing was ancient, antique even. Using it might even have been some sort of artistic vandalism, but there were the disks, stacked beside it, neat and tidy and dusted.
Symphony wondered where she kept the duster.
Slowly, and with extreme care, Symphony lifted the gilt and mahogany box from the cupboard and took the top record from the pile. Neighthoven. Her eyes widened.
Surprised, but pleased, she put the disk on the player and dropped the needle. The music began to wash over her. It'd been too long.
Five minutes later, she moved the player and it's record to the cramped and stuffy study room. By ten minutes, she'd found a quill, and ink, and paper. Ideas sleeted through her head like the rain; all she needed was a cello, and a cellist.
Day off be damned.
---<<<>>>---
The ink didn't smudge; it wouldn't dare, not today. Symphony's quill pen flew across paper; a dot, a stave, an incidental sharp, all perfect and measured and precise. The glitter and shine of diamonds, written in ink and genius.
Three sheaves of paper lay side by side on Symphony's desk and dozens of screwed up attempts littered the floor around her. Not that she noticed of course; it was Fiddly's flat. The sound of chuckling drifted through from the other room; it was friendly, but nervous. They hadn't practised the piece at all and they'd be standing in the Canter Club tomorrow; Symphony's pen brought the final lines to a close and the melody played in her head as she wrote in the last notes with a flourish.
A sprinkling of fine sand sealed the music into place. It was complete. Paper held delicately in her mouth, Symphony pushed open the study door and squeezed into the living room.
The weather had cleared; bright sunlight streamed through the window and two pairs of eyes looked up at her from the coffee table. Expectant. Eager.
Symphony tossed each mare a sheaf of music with a grin. "Finally done."
"Really?" Fiddlesticks smirked. cynically. "You said that last time. And the time before that. An-"
"Yes, ok, I get it. No changes this time, I promise."
Fiddlesticks' blue mane brushed down over her music as she inspected it and her hooves began to move as she silently picked out the notes on an invisible violin. Octavia was just reading; she was engrossed in the music, or seemed to be, and Symphony was content to wait for a response. It came in a hum; faint, and pitch perfect, and beautiful. It ran over the notes and faded away and, smiling, she looked up.
"Any good then?" Symphony asked.
Fiddlesticks had raised her eyes, expectantly. The room seemed to hold its breath.
"Yes." Octavia nodded, slowly. "I rather think it is."
---<<<>>>---
And the strings sang, as if it mattered.
Not one of the trio's ears heard the music, or the silence, or the cheers. They might have noticed their absence, of course, but they were busy watching instead. Watching the roses fall.
They fell on the stage, brushed away by three pairs of hooves.
All three. All brushing.
Symphony remembered the music hall; the first night of this madness. Everypony there had known her name. Everypony here knew her music.
Locking forehooves, they bowed.
Music written with love, and heard with love. What could be purer than that?
