//------------------------------// // The Dark Magician and the Song of Light // Story: Dame Trixie and the Countess of Wyrd // by Impossible Numbers //------------------------------// As usual, Trixie put her all into her entrance. Fall Bridge was a huddle of tiny wattle-and-daub cottages, shying away from the river on one side, and shying away from the endless dark forest on the other. It had a village green that could barely hold two carriages, and in the middle was a fountain with vines but no water. Only one bridge led in and out of the town: a simple stone affair that had been not so much built as piled up. Water passed under it simply because the stones had stuck into place, leaving a gap; there was no sign anyone had so much as planned for the jagged tunnel at all. Under her makeup, Trixie grinned. This town wouldn’t know what hit it. First came the storm clouds – specially arranged by the unseen team of pegasi flapping behind the bow of the dark shroud – and they rumbled loud enough to make ponies glance up and foals shiver and cower. Next, the specially trained flock of crows and ravens, all heralding her approach, all flying in a pentagram. A pentagram with six points, true, but the unicorn handlers could only do so much with a species naturally bad with numbers. She could imagine it already; the top of the whitewashed caravan would be catching the light of the street lamps that haunted the bridge. She strode across the stonework, trying not to wince at the way the stones seemed to buckle under her. Behind her, the sigils on her caravan shone with a special luminescent paint: crescent moons, pointed hats, twinkling stars, ringed planets, bats and cats and rats and, for the sake of variety, a couple of three-headed dogs sitting and roaring. Sickly green goo lit up the edges of the caravan, helped no doubt by the cheap Hearth’s Warming lights tucked under them. And then she rose over the hump of the bridge, and the flares fired upwards from the front of the caravan. Gasps and awed murmurs greeted her entry. Under the light of the flares, the long arms of her scarf flapped from her neck like tentacles, aided by the hidden fans on either one of her yokes. She adjusted the dark lily in her mouth from one side of her black lips to the other. A sapphire pendant shone on her neck and a silver femur dangled from the earring clipped onto each equine ear, each pinna. Her crimson-dyed forelock cut across the pale moon of her powdered face. She stared out at the world through sunglasses as warm and inviting as the half-closed eye sockets of a skull. Her tunic, midnight blue as the body of the famous Princess Luna, swayed and rippled as cleanly as waves across a lake. On the caravan, the flares died away. The speakers played a tinny recording of howling wolves. All around her, the ponies of Fall Bridge fell silent and stared. All one hundred of them. She strode carelessly along the gravel road winding away from the bridge, and forced herself not to smirk at the sights. That would just ruin the dark image. She had to be poised, cold, intimidating. Here, a couple of foals gawped and leaned towards their mother. There, a quartet of elderly ponies narrowed their eyes. Envy, she guessed. Arcing around the fountain, and holding her breath against the sudden stench of rotten eggs pouring from it, she waited for the crows and ravens to swoop down and fly past. That would be the signal. Three… two… one… When the rush of feathers vanished, she stopped at once and the hidden unicorns inside the caravan activated their magic. Both yokes lowered themselves from her. She kicked backwards. The caravan rattled on its hinges – specially shaken by the unicorn team inside – and the side began to creak open as patiently as the shell of some gigantic hatching egg. Timber crashed onto soil hardened by long years. The stage spewed mist across the green, snaking at the hooves of the foals and the ponies and the elderly. Trixie slipped hurriedly through the mist and only then gave herself a small chuckle. Look at their wide eyes! Look at how they gawp and stare in sheer awe and amazement! She gave a curt nod to the unicorns hidden in the wings, who nodded and scrunched up their faces to focus. The banner – a gauzy stretch of paper with a grey spider’s web painted on – rose up and hooked its edges on the rails. On either side, the confetti cannons reared up and waited. “Break a leg,” she whispered. “And knock them dead.” The cannons fired. Under the explosion of black and white shreds, Trixie’s magic horn shimmered. The unicorns on either side nodded. Daggers with carved blades and encrusted hilts spun and circled her head in midair. “Do re mi,” she muttered, and paused to clear her throat. “So far la ti. Mar mar mar, may may may, mee mee mee, mie mie mie, mo mo mo, more more more, mow mow mow, muu muu muu…” One unicorn levitated the microphone before her. A brief smack of the lips, and she caught it in a telekinetic spell and brought it close. “FILLIES AND GENTLECOLTS!” her voice boomed over the speakers. “STALLIONS AND MARES OF ALL AGES! THIS IS NOW OFFICIALLY THE FIRST DAY OF THE WWWWWWEEK OF THE WWWWWWWYRD! YOU THINK YOU’VE SEEN IT ALL!? YOU HAVE SEEN NOTHING YET!” She quickly glanced up, and the pegasus hovering overhead saluted and waved a hoof up at the clouds. The crash of thunder and the cries of shock ran through her like a hot drink on a chilly winter’s evening. She licked her lips, smudging the lipstick slightly. “RRRRRRRRRUB YOUR HOOVES TOGETHER FOR THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE IRRRRRRRREPLACEABLY INCRRRRRRRREDIBLE, THE STRRRRRRRIKINGLY STRRRRRRANGE, THE MAGICALLY MAGNIFICENT… TRRRRRRRRRRRRIXIIIIIIIIIIIE!” Orbited by the knives, she beamed, threw herself forwards, and was immediately hit by a thrown tomato. “OW!” She yelped at the juice that stung her eye. The confetti settled around her. Some unicorn behind her shut down the speakers, and a burst of static made her yelp again. All the knives clattered on the boards; one or two stuck blade-down in the wood. “Who threw that!?” she shouted. Around the front of the stage, the crowd that had gathered was glaring at her. Many were moving their lips, but in the general hubbub, she couldn’t make out a single word from any of them. “Come, come!” She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “There’s no need for this kind of treatment. I – that is, the Grrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie of the East – wish only to grrrrrant you all the grrrrreat honour… rrrrrrrrrrrrrr… of her prrrrrrresence.” The trills, she thought soon afterwards, should really have done the trick. There was nothing like rolling a few “r’s” to remind them of who had taken some education, and thus who could school who. Judging from their scowls, however, it didn’t seem to be sticking. An elderly mare near the front waved her zimmer frame. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Strutting around like a witch, scaring the life out of passing ponies!” “Yeah!” shouted a stallion from the back. “Who in Equestria do you think you are? Princess Luna?” “Well no, of course not,” Trixie said, and quickly shook her head and added, “Fillies and Gentlecolts, please! The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie seeks only to be herself, in all her wondrous and spellbindingly spectacular glory! And as befits the occasion of this, the one hundredth and twelfth anniversary of the Week of the Wyrd!” Another tomato leaped out of the crowd, though she ducked it just in time. Depressingly, she’d had some practice several times before now. “If you had any sense, Miss, you’d turn right around and leave now,” said a unicorn mare, who was standing amid a crowd of foals that represented seemingly every age group. “This is not how you’re supposed to celebrate!” “That’s right!” yelled an old stallion next to her. “It’s disgraceful, outsiders comin’ in here like a herd of bulls in a china shop, doing whatever they please. No sensitivity these days!” This speech was followed up with many mutterings along the lines of “hear, hear” and “disgraceful, yeah” from all over. Trixie watched grimly as the crowd dispersed. There were only so many times she could watch this sort of thing happen. “Citizens of Fall Bridge, please!” she yelled, and there was a bite in her voice. “This is all a simple misunderstanding! Look, I can take this makeup off!” Hastily, she wiped the pale powder off her face and tried scraping the lipstick off with her teeth. Not that she expected it to work – the ponies were already scattering along the dirt roads leading into the green – but she’d never liked having muck anywhere near her face anyway. Up until now, she’d relied on her horn and her dress sense to make an impression. She paused to try her old “bouquet flashes into existence” trick, just in case the flash of magic impressed anyone. Not a soul watched her or even turned around, and she dropped the flowers after about a minute’s worth of non-applause. By the time she’d yanked the earrings off and unwound the scarf, the green was empty of ponies. Around her, the mist had thinned to nothing. She remembered she’d have to buy some more dry ice on her way out. Speaking of buying, she thought gloomily. A pegasus landed beside her and was joined by one of the unicorns. Both of them held out a hoof each. “I expect you want paying now?” she grumbled. Neither of them moved. Irritably, she headed to the wings where her trunk was waiting, and enchanted the lid to open before her. “Let’s just hope I have enough,” she muttered, and she levitated the sack. “I’m saving up for a drink later.” The Mermaid Tavern of Fall Bridge was a cottage with a sign creaking over its door. Were it not for that, Trixie would have walked right past it, and even with it, she had to stop, retrace her steps, and check that the clanking plank had “Mermaid Tavern” painted on it and not, as she’d first distractedly thought, “Apothecary” or “Home Sweet Home”. Unhappily, she noticed it was quiet inside. No bar worth going into was that quiet. “Invest in a big entrance, I said,” Trixie muttered as she marched up the dirt track to the front door. “It’ll pay off later, I said. I’d fire myself if I wasn’t so darn persuasive.” Although there was a pegasus pony keeping up with her, she had no interest in talking to him. As soon as she levitated the last few bits out of the floppy sack beside her and guided them up to him, he tucked them under the flap of his saddlebag and took off. She watched him vanish over the thatched rooftops. She jingled the sack hopefully, and then peered inside. “Twelve bits,” she muttered. “I wonder how many glasses that’ll get me.” Not enough, she thought, and she pushed the door open. The hallway was white, and the only decoration was a bracket on the wall with four grey roses falling apart in it. Had it not been for the rumble in her stomach, she would have walked out there and then. She passed a few happy minutes waiting for someone to come in and say “Good evening, I’ll be your waiter, please follow me to your table”. Then, she went through the nearest door with a huff. Once, the Great and Powerful Trixie of the School for Gifted Unicorns would have dined in plush restaurants along the high avenues of Canterlot. She would have supped rare delicacies as she travelled from town to town, and regaled an ever-present crowd of hopefuls and admirers with tales of strange deeds and brave efforts. Yeah well; once, she could have looked at herself in the mirror. And winked. This bar was a mirror, in a way. The room was dull timber and square tables and three-legged stools a carpenter would laugh at. About a dozen ponies hunched over drinks. None of them were talking. Their faces had the grim looks of ponies who went through life determined not to say a word to anyone, in case it showed weakness of character. Even the stallion behind the bar merely grunted when she came down heavily on one of the stools. “Cranberry juice, if you please,” she intoned. “The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrrrrixie needs refreshment and relaxation.” “Mmm,” said the stallion. “And wh’t you havin’?” That old one. If I had a bit for every jab at the third-person thing, I wouldn’t be stuck here listening to yet another one. “Never mind,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Just get me some juice.” He grunted and ducked below the counter. It wasn’t even as though she liked cranberry juice, but over the years and the hundreds of miles, she could still hear her dietician’s nagging voice. Cranberry juice was good for the horn, the mare had said. It was anyone’s guess why it was good for the horn, but Trixie had been young, and at that age would’ve swallowed rusty horseshoes if it meant she could keep being great and powerful. Stupid little Trixie, she thought, and she downed the juice in one go. Barely a shudder passed through her. “Yeuch,” said Trixie. “‘nother?” mumbled the stallion. Trixie raised the glass. “Take your best shot. Everyone else has.” “Bad day, huh? ‘eard abou’ it all.” “Bad day? Bad month.” Trixie downed the second half-pint and tried not to think of the complete set swirling around her stomach lining. “What happened to the good old days, Joe?” “‘m Clem,” mumbled the stallion. “Once, I was the unstoppable, the untouchable, the unsurpassable queen of magic and mystery!” As she spoke, the glass swiped through the air, trying to catch the thoughts raining down from above. “Ponies watched my miracles, admired my sleight-of-hoof, and queued up to follow my travelling caravan of secrets!” “‘nother?” mumbled Clem. “Best of all, I had the spark.” Trixie pointed at her own chest, pressing her hoof hard into her sternum. “A great burning flame of life, right here! Every time I heard a foal squeal ‘It’s Trixie, it’s Trixie’, it flared up and burned bright against the twilit sky. Now? I might as well be no one at all.” “‘nother?” mumbled Clem. He was not one to listen to customers in this mood, obviously. It would be like listening to moonlight every evening. Trixie sighed. “How much?” “Three bits. Plus tip.” She threw four bits across and tipped her glass back, patting the bottom for the last drop. At times like this, she was glad she never looked in a mirror anymore. The worst part was that she knew, deep down, that she wasn’t the pony she used to be. Any time she tried to make a catty remark, or tried to rub it in some truculent unicorn’s face that she was lightyears ahead of them in the craft, she remembered Ponyville, and winced, and turned the other cheek so that they, in turn, could give her some more cheek. Ponyville… she should really go back there one of these days. Oh, she’d done her best to tidy up the houses she’d damaged, and to bow and simper to the ponies who’d been glaring down at her for her crimes. Thanks to that, they’d welcome her with forelimbs wide for the hugs, or at least they’d welcome her with a gentle pat on the back. Failing that, they’d probably just give her respectful nods and leave her alone. At least it was something. If only she could say the same thing for everywhere else. But she’d told one fib too many, and made too big a claim, and suddenly tomatoes were eager to get acquainted with her face. That was if she was lucky. Most of her fortune up until this point had been spent removing graffiti from her caravan, or in extreme cases buying new ones. Only then did she notice the lights had dimmed. Every head in the place turned to the far wall, and she noticed that there was a raised section of the floor which one might charitably call a stage. Someone stepped out onto the creaking floorboards. The spotlight overhead flickered into life. For a moment, Trixie’s brow furrowed. She had a vague feeling she’d seen this pony before, but her mind was coming up blank. “Who’s the mare?” she whispered to Clem, and got shushed for her trouble. Trixie went back to patting the last drops out of her glass. Not as if it mattered, she thought. Look at her. Plain as a piece of rice paper on white bread. She’s got lovely, dark, flowing locks, and they’re just hanging off her head. Beside the spotlight, a stallion dragged a piano over the planks and let the back door slam behind it. Two forelimbs cracked in readiness. The mare nodded to him, and he sat down with a thump and began tapping the keys. The piano’s probably hers, Trixie thought. I can’t imagine a dump like this affording one. She tried to stretch her tongue up the glass. On the edge of hearing, the mare’s lips parted with a wet pop. “To fly above the windy mountain snow, “To rise and taste the sunlit firmament, “To soar once more; to see the shine below, “To make my life – my pleasure – permanent.” Trixie hummed with disbelief, and half a dozen heads rounded on her with a chorus of “shh!” She’d travelled through mountain passes before, and there wasn’t a lot to see beyond rock and snow. Maybe they looked picturesque from up high, but she wasn’t going to find out. There were too many stories about ponies getting buried under avalanches. She put her glass down and cocked an ear to listen. Why not? It’d pass a few minutes, and the singer was pretty OK. None of the notes were off, at least. “I used to serenade for royalty, “I used to celebrate with great cantatas, “I used to startle with a rhapsody, “I even used to cope with sweet sonatas.” Around her, the patrons were turning away one by one, and a flash of outrage ran through Trixie. The singer was clearly putting her all into the song now, and what an all it was! Lacking though Trixie was when it came to a musical education, she could tell the singer had done a few dozen gigs before. Better still, she’d done a few gigs and clearly learned from them. “But now the slopes are cold, and dull, and wrong, “The climb too hard, the steps too treacherous. “And now the thermals only catch the ‘strong’; “The weak ones fall; thus fall the best of us.” Only Trixie was staring at the stage now. Come to think of it, she was sure the singer was familiar, and joys once trapped in hibernation were awakening somewhere deep inside her chest. That was a voice that believed what it said. A voice like that could carry a mare through a blizzard with a caravan almost pulling her shoulders out of place, and still leave her laughing at the world. If her own rising smile was any sign, it must have done just that, a long time ago. The singer stared at the ceiling, and a tear dribbled down her cheek. “Why did I dream I’d be a butterfly? “A moth am I: my dreams will flutter by. “Why did I throw aside the glittered veil? “Why did I think my heart would long prevail? “A blank am I: a room without a view. “A slowing beat, my cord will break in two. “To know my time is past, my death is due. “To hear admirers name me thus; ‘She’s who?’ “To hear admirers name me thus; ‘She’s who?’” The piano guided itself gently to a final haunting note, and then fell silent. Not so much as a cough ensued. Trixie mouthed the last two words. Beside her, the stallion was lifting her glass off the counter, and she was vaguely aware of the other ponies that had long since vanished into their own worlds, sipping their drinks and waiting for the mare to get off the stage and go away. Trixie watched the singer’s hopeful ears droop. Part of her resented the idea of anyone being better than her at anything. It was still kicking at her even now, trying to get her to stand up. A few years ago, it would have stepped forwards and started saying things like “Such a quaint little ditty, sweetie pie,” or “A lovely way to wake up the cats and dogs at night, Little Miss Screechy, but…” The rest of her seized it and threw the energy, surprised, into her legs, and then rode it off the stool, across the room, and towards the figure, who was coming down the edge of the stage wiping her face with the back of a hoof. She was confident of what she wanted to say, and certain of what she wanted. One way or another, she wanted the company of this mare. The Great and Powerful Trixie got what she wanted. The spotlight went off at once. A wall stepped out in front of her. After she’d adjusted her eyes to the dark, the wall resolved itself into a stallion with a suit attached. He had to be a bodyguard, if only because this place didn’t look like it could afford a bouncer. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said in perfectly clipped tones. And not just clipped tones, but polished, varnished, and manicured ones as well. Trixie pegged him as a Canterlot-type guard at least. Short of actually rearing up, sheer habit drew her up to her full height. That meant being eye-level with his unsmiling mouth, but frankly his pink polka dot tie wasn’t much better to look at. “The Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie demands an audience with that singer,” she said, in the tones of one disgusted at the mere thought of being denied in any way. “And what manner of ignoramus are you to prevent Trrrrrrixie from going wherever she pleases?” “I don’t care what your Trixie friend wants,” snapped the guard. “You aren’t going anywhere. Miss Rara wishes to retire to her quarters for rest. She must not be disturbed.” “I’m not trying to disturb her, you fool! I heard her singing. I want to talk to her for a moment.” “Then you can give me a message to pass on. No one will disturb Miss Rara’s peace on my watch.” A hoof landed gently on his shoulder. “It’s OK, Mister Heads. Let her talk if she wants to.” When the hoof was lowered, the bodyguard stepped aside. He was still staring at Trixie with the cool, unthinking patience of a crocodile eyeing up a stray salmon. The mare stepped forward. Miss Rara was worse up close. By pony standards, she was plain. The black curtain of hair had a few subtle shades flowing through it, and a few locks had faint traces where the curls hadn’t fully straightened out. Yet, this all simply emphasized the knots and dull sheen of the whole. Her dress had a few scuff marks, and was fraying under the right pit. Even her eyes were a bit too red and puffy for Trixie’s liking. That voice, Trixie reminded herself. Forget the packaging. That voice came out of that mouth. “That mouth” was smiling, and it wasn’t the fake smile of someone trying to please a fan. It stretched up to the eyes and filled the cheeks and carried with it the instant belief that Trixie was her best friend in the whole world, and she couldn’t have picked a better pony. Cynical cogs creaked into action deep inside Trixie’s head, but she focused instead on saying, “May the Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie just say… May the Great and Powerful Trixie… The Great and Powerful – oh, forget it. That was the most amazing singing I’ve ever heard, bar none.” The mare couldn’t smile any further. Pressure built up in her face until it flared red with the friction. “Thank you so much,” she said breathlessly. “What a lovely compliment! You’re very kind, Trixie.” “Ha! Trixie merely has a good ear for singing, and your song touched me deeply,” Trixie said. Silently, she thanked the mare for getting the third-person thing without issue. “You, my mellifluous friend, have a gift. You cannot waste it in a dump like this.” “OK,” said the bodyguard, and Trixie rounded on him. “You’ve had your talk. Now leave Miss Rara alone.” “Mister Heads, please!” Miss Rara placed her hoof on his withers, and his shoulders sank an inch. “I know you’re doing your job, but she means well.” She turned back to Trixie. “Don’t mind him, Trixie. He’s just a bit twitchy. He’s a sweetheart really, once you get to know him.” Mister Heads glared at Trixie, but it was too late. She’d seen him wince at the word “sweetheart”, and with a smirk she filed it away for later use. “Trixie,” continued Miss Rara, “would you like to join me for a cup of tea and a chat? I have a caravan outside. You could join me there for a while.” Free tea! This was turning out better than she’d hoped. Good grief, said the cynical thoughts at last, she’s so trusting. I could be a nutcase, for all she knew. No wonder Mister Heads is twitchy. And how does a run-down mare like this get a Canterlot-type bodyguard and a pianist, anyway? Miss Rara beckoned Mister Heads to lead on, and as they passed the pianist, who was shuffling his musical scores in the dark, Trixie levitated her own forelock closer to her eyes. Red dye streaked through the silver. Darn. I knew I hadn’t washed it off properly. “Do you have a wash basin by any chance, Miss… Rara?” she said. After Mister Heads opened the back door, Miss Rara squeezed past the piano. “Of course! Help yourself, Trixie.” Something nagged at Trixie’s instincts. Not that she trusted her instincts much – last time she did that, she’d ended up with a corrupting amulet clamped to her neck – but the rest of her was interested in hearing them out. “Miss Rara?” she said, squeezing between the wall and the piano. “Is that a stage name? You’ll have to do a bit better than that, if that’s the case.” With shocking speed, Miss Rara rounded on her. “What did you say?” “Well, something like The Romantic Lady Rara, or the Magnificent Rara, She of the Rare and Exceptional Talent would be much more fitting for a life of showmareship. RRRRRRRRRRRRReputation prrrrrrrrecedes performance.” The mare’s eyes were spotlights. After a while, Trixie squirmed a bit under the glare. Attention was all very well, but it was twenty mares’ worth of attention focused through two eyes, and “quality over quantity” counted for something too. Thankfully, Miss Rara blinked and the smile dawned again. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I just have… bad memories about that.” “Aha. So you have had some experience.” “Huh? I’m sorry?” Trixie nodded in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner. “No offence intended, Miss Rara! Many a diamond in the rough has been overlooked by duller eyes than mine. It’s lucky for you that the Great and Powerful Trixie can see further than most.” Mister Heads opened the back door wider. He was holding it for them, but neither of the two were moving. Trixie was waiting, but she had the sense she was leading a conversation of one; Miss Rara’s facial muscles were struggling, and the way she finally scrunched her face up made Trixie wince. “S-Sorry,” said Miss Rara, turning away. “I’m such a filly at times. Please excuse me.” “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it,” Trixie said at once, though she was wondering what she was apologizing for. “It’s not you. It’s just…” Finally, the smile came back. “I’ve had it a bit rough recently. ‘Rara’ isn’t a stage name, though it’s sweet of you to think that. It was a nickname a friend gave to me a long time ago. My real name is Coloratura.” And the tumblers inside Trixie’s head clicked into place. Now she sensed it; the ruined curls in the mane, the emerald in the eyes, the way her voice skipped and danced even while speaking. The memory fit together with the flow of music and song and a backlit stage. She’d seen it once during a visit to Manehattan, passing through on her way to the mountain road. There’d been posters everywhere. Ponies in the street talked about what a radical change of style she’d adopted. They’d called her the “Sweetheart Siren”. Her voice followed you out of the theatre and down the street. For a moment, Trixie was there: the plush seating, or at least plusher than she was used to; the way the lights dimmed until only the mare at the piano could be seen; the flex of the dull hooves; the slight pop of the mouth before the first note hit… “No…” She forced her jaw not to drop, but the shockwaves were still rushing through her. “Coloratura? The Coloratura?” Miss Rara’s smile dimmed. Her eyelids came down slightly, half-prepared to slam at a moment’s notice. “You,” said Trixie, “are Countess Coloratura?” “I’m afraid I was, yes.” Miss Rara shrugged. By now, the shock was thinning out. Her cynical mind tried to cut her question off pre-emptively, but the rest of her pointed out that there was still the implicit question of how it happened. “What happened?” she said. “Something good and awful and wonderful and sad.” Miss Rara gestured to the bulk of Mister Heads, who was tapping his hoof meaningfully. “You’re the first pony in weeks who’s said anything nice to me. Maybe it’s destiny but… shall we talk about it over tea?” Despite herself, Trixie was feeling smug. The inside of her own caravan was nothing she’d actually brag about; just a mass of chests and barrels and any props she couldn’t fit inside the two. She used the chests for chairs, and had a chest each to act as larder, cleaning kit, toolbox, bedding storage, and, on some of the worst journeys of her life, “waste disposal”. Again, it wasn’t much, but at least she had a lot of furniture, even if it was only in the technical sense. Whereas Rara… As soon as they’d stepped inside, she’d had to settle for rugs and pillows because there were no chairs whatsoever. Mister Heads had to go outside to heat the water in a pan; at least Trixie had a kettle in hers. Clothes had been dumped in the corner, not even sorted into used and clean piles. “I was always awful at housekeeping,” said Rara cheerfully. “I wasn’t looking,” said Trixie, who in fact had only just looked away. “My mother and father used to tell me I sang like an angel and lived like a devil.” She picked up the tray, groaned when she almost dropped it, and stretched it so far towards Trixie that the unicorn levitated it out of alarm. “Cookie?” “Thanks. I’ll wait until I finish the first two.” The tray rattled on the floor. “Oh…” “Nothing a quick-fix spell can’t handle.” While Trixie’s horn glowed, she ignored the posters on the walls, which in practice meant ignoring the walls. The posters were plastered on everything but the ceiling, in some cases so thickly that only an eye or a face peeped out from behind the newer ones. Every single one of them showed either Rara or Countess Coloratura. It wasn’t hard to tell which: Countess Coloratura was a fashion explosion, here boasting a ponytail that doubled as a whip, there wearing enough makeup for a troupe of clowns, and often dressed in clothes that hadn’t been sewn so much as riveted together. Together, the posters boasted more steel and bolts than a tanker designed by heavy metal punks. Most of them, Trixie noticed, were Countess Coloratura. The few Rara’s present became background to her dressed-up alter ego in any case, but she doubted there were more than a dozen visible, including the half-smothered ones. “At least you won’t have to bother about mirrors,” said Trixie, eyeing up a Rara playing the piano. Rara blushed and sipped her cup. “I’m not vain, or anything. I collect them as a reminder to myself.” Trixie blew on her own tea. It’s best not to say anything, she thought. There were three chests full of paper Trixie faces in her own caravan, and she always struggled to close the lids. “I had an epiphany,” said Rara suddenly, “a few weeks ago.” Despite her cynical side rolling its eyes and smirking, Trixie pretended to be fixed on her tea. Only the cocking of her left ear betrayed her. “I was the Countess at the time. I’d been the Countess ever since I first moved to Manehattan.” “What an inspired name!” Trixie nodded. “Countess Coloratura. High, noble, classy, exotic, and with definite overtones of ‘do not mess with the likes of me, because you can’t afford it and I can and I will never let you forget it’. You should use that name again.” Rara clenched her jaw, and at once Trixie glanced up. She could hear the tendons cracking. “Or…” Trixie busied herself with dunking a cookie. “I suppose you could settle for Baroness?” “It was my manager’s idea,” said Rara, and she tried to catch Trixie’s eye. “It was a big city, my manager told me, cutthroat and selfish and merciless. Only the strong survived, even if they were just singers. I was scared. It wasn’t like that back at home. I thought how lucky I was that I met him. He was going to help me stay alive.” Trixie shrugged. She didn’t care much for cities. They were too big and too impersonal, and the streets thronged with wannabe conjurors. Even when she’d been less shy about throwing her weight around, she’d never found it fun to slam into a target that big. It was harder to see her own shockwaves in a city. There was usually another pony doing the same thing a block away. Her cookie melted and fell with a plop into her tea. Figures, she thought. “I got rid of him in the end,” Rara continued. “Why?” said Trixie, trying to levitate the sodden mass out of her cup. “He sounds like a pony with vision.” “He used me! He was a bully and a scrounger and a lying snake! He hurt my friends!” Trixie almost dropped the cup and rolled hooves-over-head into the wall behind. The words punched her ears and pummelled her brain. She had to shake her head to focus again. Aha, thought her cynical side. Not for the first time in her life, she suddenly wanted to kick it in the mouth. Rara blinked and noticed she was standing up. Hastily, she swallowed and settled back down as though afraid of getting shot at. “I’m so sorry! You couldn’t have known. That was wrong of me to take it out on you.” “Oh hardly,” said Trixie, pouncing on the lifebelt in the words. “You don’t want a manager like that sucking your blood. If any pony tried that on me,” she added with a rush of certitude, “they’d be begging me to get rid of them, because that would be the kindest thing I’d do to them. Eventually, and once they’d stopped screaming.” “Erm… that’s sweet of you… I think…” “So who is your manager now? Mister Heads?” “Oh no. Mister Heads is the last of my bodyguards. I ran out of money to pay the others, but Mister Heads… well, he said he believed in me. We agreed to a reduced rate. Just don’t talk to him about it, or he’ll get upset. He’s a Canterlot pony, through-and-through, and I know they set a lot of store on standards and expenses. I don’t like what he’s doing to himself, but he won’t listen to me. He even chipped in to hire that pianist tonight, but only if I agreed not to spread it around.” “How gallant of him,” said Trixie, while inside she was gasping with utter shock. You’re blabbing about some Canterlot-type’s insecurities, and you still only know me as Miss Nice Mare I Met In A Tavern. Thank goodness I’m not like that manager, or I’d be walking all over you and using you as a doormat for good measure. How could you possibly have lasted this long? “After my manager left, I had to improvise on my own. It started wonderfully. Everypony was really excited about the change. They said it was an experiment for the ages. I thought I had found my calling.” Trixie’s nostrils flared. Oh, the mare gushed enough and smiled and looked fondly at the ceiling while she went back to that happy time, but she spoke as though she’d learned this speech by rote. Either this is but a drop in the ocean of her blissfulness, or there’s a minefield of misery here. Either way, she’s not letting anyone see a thing. Not on this round of the tour, anyway. “Did your new manager botch it up?” she said, shaking her head sympathetically. “Trixie has never trusted anyone to handle her affairs, except her own good self. A lot of ponies are self-supporting these days. It happens a lot way down south. You should consider it.” Part of her sensed the tension that shot into Rara’s muscles… “Well,” said Rara, “I didn’t get a new manager. Not exactly. In fact, I thought it best if I became my own manager.” …and that part of her smacked itself in the face. “Ah,” she said. “But with a voice like yours, you must have had some success.” “Oh yes. I was soaring over the highest peaks.” Rara tittered into her own hoof. “There you go. It couldn’t have been that bad –” “And then the winds changed.” Rara slumped where she sat. Idly, she stirred her tea with a cookie. “It wasn’t the same after that,” she whispered. “I thought I could be who I really was, after so many years of pretending. It’s hard when it turns out you can’t. Singing wasn’t enough anymore. They said I was coasting. I didn’t understand it. I mean, I was doing what I liked, what I believed in, and suddenly it wasn’t good enough. Have you ever had that too?” Gently, Trixie put her cup down and sat as smartly as she could. Perhaps the fumes were making her light-headed. Perhaps she was just tactlessly stupid. Either way, she was wishing, hard enough to crack her skull, that she had just kept her trap shut. “Uh…” she said. The Great and Powerful Trixie did not say “uh”, but sometimes it helped plain Trixie to think of the magician as a coat she could take off at will. “Trix – I’m not good at this sort of thing, but I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to… you know?” The caravan door shot back so hard that the whole vehicle rocked back and forth. Most of Trixie’s tea ended up on the carpet. Mister Heads stepped inside, jaw clamped around a set of sky blue mouth-gloves, which in turn were clamped around a metal tray. On the tray, the vat of recently boiled water wafted strands of steam. Briefly, he put the lot on the floor. “Refill, Miss Rara?” he rumbled. “Yes please, Mister Heads. Thank you!” “And you?” he added to Trixie. She glanced at the sad stains around her cup. “Apparently, the answer is ‘yes, please’.” Even while he poured out Rara’s tea – with a lot of unnecessary inching and checking and double-checking before, during, and after – his pupil remained locked onto Trixie’s face. Roughly, he sloshed a chunk of water into her cup, adding to the ring of stains around it, and then dumped the lot against a wall and stood to attention at the entrance. “It’s sweet of you, Trixie,” said Rara with a weak smile, “but please don’t worry about me. Mister Heads is all the help I need. And I’ve got my singing. I’ll never forget that, whatever happens.” You’re lying, Trixie thought. Somewhere in there, you’ve buried a lie. You’re not looking at me, and your face is twitching, and your voice is flatter than it was a moment ago, and it’s a bad idea to lie to someone who knows the art of cold reading. I’m a magician. I’ve had practice. I know the tricks. She didn’t say anything. Talking wasn’t a winning tactic at the moment. Moreover, the machinery inside her head was coming to life. She could sense it clanking and banging and screaming against axles that needed oiling. This pony was a goldmine. She had a track record, she had talent, and with a spit and a polish, she’d have class. The only reason Rara was in this pit was because she couldn’t sing her way out of every problem, but if she could, then the world wouldn’t stand a chance. Trixie’s gaze shifted over to the implacable Mister Heads, who didn’t bother removing the glare from his face. She wondered if they’d ever met before too, but her mind dismissed it. Once she’d passed through the school, Canterlot had offered her nothing worth staying for. Every pony she’d met there had been either a tutor or a distraction. Hardly grudge-holding material. Throwing the last of the tea down her throat, and trying not to gasp at the scolds she’d just inflicted, Trixie jumped to her hooves and took a bow. “It has been a pleasure,” she said, “but Trixie must have her beauty sleep. Rest is good for magic.” “Aw.” Rara pouted and slumped. “You’re not leaving already?” “We can meet up tomorrow,” said Trixie quickly. “Trixie has come for the Week of the Wyrd. Assuming these hicks don’t chase her out of what she laughingly calls ‘town’, Trixie will be performing miracles beyond mortal comprehension for the amusement of fillies and colts.” “How sweet!” Rara’s voice shot up to the ceiling, and in her enthusiasm to get up, it was only gravity that prevented her body from following suit. “I love working with foals. They always believe.” Trixie blinked. “Believe what?” “Nothing specific,” said Mister Heads. “It’s just a belief in things generally. Now, you were leaving?” “Until next time, then. The Grrrrrrrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie bids you all adieu and good night.” Trixie pushed the door open, but then stopped at the frame. She had a feeling something more was expected of her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was. Hardly any ponies had ever treated her to tea at home, at least excluding those who ran tea shops in their own living rooms. And she had a growing wish to make Rara smile, or at least to smile more warmly still. By the time she’d turned around to speak, Mister Heads was bulldozing his way towards her, and she snorted and leaped out into the night. She let off a smoke bomb out of force of habit, and was just grateful she didn’t trip over anything this time.