Flaire almost didn’t hear the pounding at her door.
Tucked into sheets misted with lavender, ears hugged by snug silk earmuffs to deafen the festivities outside, she had curled into a restless slumber. The sharp banging could have been anything. More thunder, the stomping of the crowd — the repeated blasts of the Wonderbolts’ climatic lightning.
But the noise was too close, too modulated. It slithered past the muffs, into her brain, and alerted some intrinsic sense of familiarity. She woke with a start, heard the knocking proper, and hurried to canter down the stairs. Her mane was twisted up in curlers and she tossed on a floaty faux fur-trimmed robe, knotting the waistband with her magic as she went.
A pony’s shape was visible behind the glass of her boutique door, a shadow of twitching ears and bobbing mane. Hauling it open brought in a gust of the night air, the smell of ozone and burnt hair.
Flaire met the wild amber eyes of Fairy Flight.
“You knew something bad was going to happen,” she said.
A mirthful firework exploded above. “Ohhh,” the distant crowd exclaimed in unison. Fairy Flight’s silhouette was illuminated in blue and gold by the crackling sparks, her barrel rising and falling with rapid pants. She was naked.
Flaire stumbled forward, buckled by relief to see this mare alert and breathing. She reached out to touch her chest with a quivery hoof, catching a whisper of her heartbeat. “Are you all right?”
A shocked smile jerked Fairy’s lips upward. “Me? I’m fine.” She gulped, stepping backward. “It’s Swift Kick. There was an accident. But, Flash caught him.”
Another firework whistled skyward; the crowd let out a collective exhale. The bright snap of it against the dark sky made Flaire start counting. One… Two… Three—
She blinked, licking her lips. “Why is the show still going?”
Fairy’s teeth were bared, gray in the low light. “We finished the performance. Didn’t want to cause alarm, you know? We hold formation no matter… Look, it happened fast. I don’t think anypony saw.”
A rolling of the snare drums started up. The trumpets followed, their lovely brass voices pouring out the national anthem of Equestria. And as the last firework fell, the distant shape of Princess Celestia ascended the stage.
Flaire squinted into the rising sun, moisture catching on her lashes. Fairy Flight’s face was darkened by the searing rush of morning that lit her from behind and bathed Equus in its five-hundred-and-thirtieth year of Celestial Peace.
Once more, Fairy said, “You knew something bad was going to happen.”
—
General Flash was in her living room. And Flaire was down to her last cigarette.
“It happened the moment the show started, while we cleared the storm clouds.” Flash was holding his cap to his chest beneath the somber lowering of his chin. He had the awareness to remove his awful bell bottom trousers before arriving and sitting on her couch. Its green velvet upholstery was a shade too close to his half-bare coat.
Fairy Flight was beside him, sipping tea Flaire offered, a tassel-edged throw blanket around her shoulders. Her face jerked with discreet little frowns behind the rim of her cup, eyes darting side to side, an ill-placed interloper in this gilded room.
“Swift’s position was at the farthest end of our formation,” Flash continued. He was staring at the low coffee table, stacked with fashion magazines and a bowl of cinnamon and orange rind potpourri. “I never saw the lightning strike that got him, but I heard him scream. My instincts kicked in – thank Celestia I always think on the tips of my feathers – and I swooped to catch him. He was unconscious and the hems of his trousers were singed. He’s at a private Canterlot hospital now, where the press can't get to him.”
Flaire was still in her chiffon robe, her posture stilted and unrelaxed on her chaise. She had tugged the curlers from her mane, her loose tresses falling about her throat as a meager bulwark against her incoming guests. Taking a long drag from her cigarette, she released the smoke from her lungs before speaking. “Why are you telling me all this?”
For the first time since he arrived, General Flash met her eyes. He chuckled from deep in his chest, a single embittered huff. “Because you were right.”
Something twisted in her, hearing those words from his lips. Like the shifting of an old broken bone that healed wrong. Flaire ran her tongue over her teeth, and said, “I know. I just wish I hadn’t been.”
Flash’s eyes fell. He set his cap upon his bent haunches and folded his forehooves. “The manufacturer will want your statement for the incident report. You tried to warn us, and we — I was callous to that.”
Flaire’s ears were low, pressed tight to her temples. Incident report was a platitudinous title. It paled to the reality of the young stallion now laying in a hospital bed, ointment smeared on his burns and light shined in his held-open eyes to assess whether his pupils still contracted.
Flaire asked, “Has something like this happened before?”
“Not this way, no,” Flash replied. “But, accidents come with the territory of our work, Miss d’Mare. We all accept that reality. We all have contingencies in place to respond to them when they occur.”
Fairy Flight gave a frank nod, then sipped her tea.
“Contingencies,” Flaire breathed. “Yet, not preventative measures?”
“In this case, that was meant to be the responsibility of the manufacturer. Who will also be giving a statement.” Flash set his jaw. “Tested for flammability and performance in the air, we were promised. None of that mattered.”
“And not conductivity?” Smoke rose from Flaire’s nostrils. “They knew who these uniforms were for, yes?”
The tenth leader of the Wonderbolts nodded. If his pallor wasn’t already green he would have been virescent. “We’ve worn them for a full year without issue. But before now, we hadn’t performed during an active storm.”
Flaire swallowed hard. “Well, as you observed last night, polyester has since been exclusive to earth pony track runner attire. Ponies who would never come in direct contact with lightning.” She turned her cigarette, its burning trails mingling with the pink field of her magic. Her speech became pressured. “Though from the manufacturer’s perspective, I can see why it was appealing for pegasi. It offers superb durability while being lightweight enough to prevent wind resistance. The non-restriction accommodates your lung and air sac capacity. It’s also remarkably smooth and wouldn’t irritate the barbs of your primaries when your wings are at rest.”
Fairy Flight piped up, “You sure seem to know a lot about pegasus anatomy, lady.” From the lift of her eyes, Flaire knew she was glancing at her horn.
Flaire’s gaze softened on her. “I’ve fitted more pegasi than I can count,” she said. “And, my mother was a pegasus. As was my sister.”
“What I believe Fairy Flight intended to say,” General Flash glanced at his aviator sidelong, “for a pony whose career is based in aesthetic design, you seem to be very knowledgeable about matters of science and anatomy.”
“That’s because aesthetics are anatomy.” The cigarette bent in her magic grip. Flaire’s eyes jerked to him. “We see something as beautiful because of how it evokes and compliments the equine forms we’re familiar with. But aesthetics aren’t merely pleasing to look at. They can have a profound effect on us, mind and body alike.”
She ashed her battered cigarette. The flakes glittered under the light of her Tiffaneigh lamp, stars unto dust. “We’re wise to respect their power over us.”
That was all she could express in words. Flaire could never hope to weave seams of description around knowledge so innate it may as well have been the pattern of her own breaths.
For Flaire d’Mare knew the rib cage. Flaire d’Mare knew the withers, the scapulae beneath, the pockets under limbs where fabric bunched and creased. She knew the sternomandibular muscle and the height of a collar complementary to its elegant protrusion when a pony turned their neck, the looseness of a cravat that would prevent constriction of the windpipe. She dressed nobles and fitted courtiers across the three tribes, her hoof and fabric tape measure understanding the contours of their bodies with the precision of a dissector. She knew the croup, the dock, the haunches. There were bodily secrets she couldn’t afford not to know.
The Wonderbolts in Flaire’s sitting room were exchanging knowing glances. A susurration rose from under Fairy Flight’s borrowed blanket, the twitching of her feathers. “You’ve got a real clever brain when it comes to this fabric stuff,” she said. “And, you cared. You were worried about us. That meant a lot.”
Fairy set down her teacup on the coffee table, her hoof jerking above it when it wobbled. “Gah — I’m still out of sorts.” Hooves free, she gesticulated broadly. “What I’m trying to say here is: we need new uniforms. None of us are gonna feel safe in the ones we have and General Flash doesn’t exactly trust our old manufacturer to give it another go. I was talking with him before we came here, and I guess what we’re wondering is…”
Flaire anticipated the concluding question before it rolled into the room, heavy and churning.
“Would you be willing to design some new uniforms for us?” Fairy Flight asked.
A phantom breeze kissed at Flaire’s exposed throat like the rush of a cold front. Ideas charged through her mind. She pictured, superimposed over Fairy’s rangy figure, visions of attire that might wrap and conceal her from any danger, holding her like the blanket drooping down her shoulders.
All that Flaire could change with this one, impossible chance.
“We request it humbly, Miss d’Mare.” General Flash was speaking into her abrupt silence. “If, that is, you’re willing to take on a project as large as this—”
“Are you asking me or commissioning me?” Flaire crossed her hind fetlocks, leaning into the arm of her chaise. “I design by commission, not by request.”
“Of course. You’ll be compensated handsomely by the Wonderbolts’ own fund.” Flash sat upright, embodying his role as General in every extent of his posture and tone. “We’ll have the regulations sent by our previous manufacturer, the crash test requirements — conductivity included. Following last night’s annual Summer Sun Celebration performance, we have another show in two months, in Whinnyapolis. It’s a tight deadline, I know, but—”
“It’s nothing I can’t manage.” Flaire sucked on the end of her cigarette, drawing back the smoldering cherry. “Whether my deadline is in two months or two years, I can't abide you continuing to wear uniforms that put your safety at risk. I won’t.”
Flash gave a curt nod. “Just as I suspected, you are a good mare.”
He returned his cap to its place atop his slicked mane. “We accept standard sizing for our aviators and will need a range from small to large. However, Fairy here will have to stop by for custom measurements when you’re available. She’s long-boned.”
“Not to mention, I’ve got some pretty stellar design ideas you’ll want to hear.” She dismounted the couch and pressed a wink in Flaire’s direction. But her knees were knocking as she trotted toward the staircase.
Flash followed behind her, then paused mid-stride in the doorframe. “Oh, and one last thing, Miss d’Mare.” He turned, wearing a deferential smile. “I dared not ask it earlier, entering your home as a guest. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in the presence of my aviators and I. We have more reason than most to take good care of our lungs.”
“Oh,” Flaire breathed. She lifted a forehoof to conceal her mouth. “Yes. Of course.” She pressed the end of her cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing it with a hiss.
General Flash bid her goodnight. The shop bell jingled. And once more, she was alone.
The shadows thrown by her glittering lamps cut hard lines across the floor. Flaire exited the living room, dragging the effete weight of her robe. She passed into her bedroom, drawn to her closet as though by the tug of a fine filament directing her path.
Above her immaculate wardrobe of silks and cashmere, a humble wooden chest sat atop a high wall-mounted shelf. Flaire brought it down with a tender grasp of her magic. Opening it brought the sweet, musky scent of mahogany, wax and paper, and old pigment oils.
Time slid by as she looked at each of the drawings inside. Azure colored pencil that didn’t fill the gaps of the textured linen paper. Golden jags scribbled back and forth with abrupt hoofstrokes. Stars and sparks and honest, imaginative shapes. The sky. Blue and open and free. A place that should never be able to hurt you.
A sob punched Flaire in the gut. She closed the lid and clutched the box to her chest. She bowed her head and wept.