//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1: Scherzo 
// Story: Sandpiper Waltz 
// by Rocket Lawn Chair 
//------------------------------//


*****





Lilies sat in an elegant crystal vase on her table, teasing a warm ambrosia through the air. Shadows of snowflakes fell through the frosted windows beneath the glare of street lamps. Her table sat right beside the window, three tables between her and the stage at the back of the Creme De Lys. 
 
It wasn’t the highest society restaurant in Canterlot, to be sure; it barely even attracted the attention of Sourpuss Buds and his rather widespread tastes, at least as far as the food critic community was concerned. The atmosphere and food combined were enough to be a distraction from the norm of Canterlot eateries, a form of cuisine escapism in much the same way riding a bike is an escape from taking a carriage. That’s one of the reasons Rarity preferred the Lys over other restaurants. 
 
A glass of wine hung in the air beside her head—a seamstress’ familiar for desperate times. She took a silent sip and sunk her chin into her hoof, a sort of wistfulness hanging on her face. She wished her friends could be with her that night, one night before Hearth’s Warming Eve.
 
“I could sincerely use their help right now,” she thought, swirling her wine idly. She smirked, then let out a slight hiccup. “Trouble is, I know that’s exactly what they’d want to do. Still, ten unique outfit orders? All by next Wednesday night? Oh Rarity, please tell me you’ve bitten off more than this before.”
 
She reached for her pen and cast some diagrams on a piece of paper sitting on the table in front of her. There were plenty of scribbles on it at this point—how long to make the trim, should the collar be Victorian...no, avant-garde felt better, but she still couldn’t decide on the shade of chartreuse she preferred a particular gown to have (it was for a Spring wedding, but she wasn’t in a Spring-inspired mood yet. Incessant Hearth’s Warming carols may have had something to do with that). 
 
She didn’t know what possessed ponies to think that ordering new outfits one week before Hearth’s Warming Eve was okay—especially from a boutique as new as hers! Rarity’s Canterlot Carousel manager, Sassy Saddles, had been completely caught by storm, forcing Rarity to travel out and assist her. Thankfully, it meant business was good. But missing a holiday with her friends was something she hated to do. Of course she’d gotten them all gifts, but it wouldn’t be the same if she couldn’t be there with them, enjoying a warm mug of Applejack’s spiced apple cider and getting tickled pink by one of Pinkie’s outrageous Hearth’s Warming stories. 
 
“Celestia help me, this better not become a habit,” she thought, taking a quick swig from her glass. She emptied it in another gulp, then filled it up from the friendly-looking bottle beside her hoof.
 
“Enjoying the music?” 
 
There was an older mare sitting across the table whom Rarity. She whipped her head around briefly as if expecting to discover a vanishing cabinet or a puff of smoke she'd mysteriously appeared from.
 
“Oh! I… ” Rarity reached for the correct reply midst her surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there before! I must be going in over my head with business.”
 
The mare was a kindly, grandmotherly figure. She had deep grey eyes and a smile framed by a comforting set of faint wrinkles. Rarity thought it odd that she wore her chestnut muffler and steel blue woolen snow cap indoors. The colors didn’t match very well either.
 
“Sit and listen for a moment, dear. Take your mind away from life’s troubles. You don’t hear music this lovely every day!”
 
Rarity smiled back. She set her pen down and listened to the music. It was indeed, as the mare had said, lovely.
 
Another reason she preferred the Lys was for their superb musical quartet. She made it a point to reserve the table located directly in front and right off-center from the stage, which was the best seat in the house to hear Dulcet Duet and her string quartet play. Every time around the holiday season their music became extra festive, a real treat that one would be sorry to miss—like hot apple cider or silly Hearth’s Warming fables. It was only a fleeting consolation, thought Rarity glumly, but certainly not the worst consolation. She’d been too busy to make a table reservation tonight.
 
On this occasion, the quartet was not playing. A single grey mare sat behind a large oak-hearted cello onstage. Her obsidian mane caught a sheen under the stage lighting, and the pink of her bowtie matched the rosiness of her cheeks. It took Rarity a moment to realize who the pony was.
 
“I know her!” she whispered excitedly. “Octavia, a friend of mine from Ponyville! Such a gorgeous young thing, and her musicianship is absolutely divine!”
 
The old mare nodded and smiled. She seemed not to take notice of Rarity, and her nodding was more or less conducted entirely by the tempo of the music. Her eyelids drooped in half-lidded bliss.
 
The song Octavia played was not one Rarity recognized. It had a brisk one-two-three rhythm, arpeggios traipsing in and out of soulful cantabiles that washed like broad waves upon sand. The sound was—oh, how to put it?—seductive; she imagined she could very well hide an ulterior motive inside such a tune. She felt her hoof tip-tapping to the upbeats and quite unexpectedly began nodding along with the old mare. A few minutes into the tune, Rarity woke from her trance to the mare’s voice. 
 
“Ah, did you hear that?”
 
“Hmm?”
 
“She’s rushing the adagio.” She chuckled. “I never could quite get that part right, either.”
 
“Hmm,” hummed Rarity again. She was a seamstress, not a musician. “Do you play?”
 
“I did. A long time ago.”
 
For the next few minutes Rarity lost herself inside the enchanting tapestries of sound that came from Octavia’s cello. She watched, mesmerized as the musician carved her bow across the strings, weaving art out of thin air before her eyes. When the tune was finished, she had a satisfied smile on her face. She felt light-headed, like waking from a pleasant dream, though the wine was probably at least partly to blame. She was curious to know what the waltz was called. It certainly didn’t sound like a Hearth’s Warming song.
 
She turned back to the mare, and halted. The mare was gone. Left, probably, while Rarity was still in lost the music. She shrugged.
 
Octavia stepped to the front of the stage and bowed to the patrons of the Lys, leaning her cello against her outstretched hoof. Rarity stood up and applauded loudly, then looked around the Lys in shock. Where was the applause? A few other patrons clopped delicately, but not too much. Some smiled for what seemed like a carefully calculated duration before returning to their meals or discussions about Canterlot high society. The atmosphere felt uncomfortably sedated, and Octavia seemed to feel this, thus returning to her seat without a word. 
 
Rarity stared in disbelief at this crowd of ungrateful ponies. The music was fabulous! It deserved a standing ovation! As she watched the fleeting grins on the ponies’ faces, she remembered a haunting observation Pinkie Pie had once made regarding the restaurants in Canterlot: “Smiles look way too expensive in these places.” Sadly, Rarity sunk back into her chair. What a shame to reduce smiles to such a commodity, she thought.
 
Octavia stepped off to the side of the stage. She put away her cello in a large beat-up black case. It rolled along on wheels, one of which wobbled a lot. Rarity thought she deserved to get herself a new one. It made her look like a vagabond.
 
“Hi! Octavia!” She stood up and waved as Octavia came down the stage stairs. “Over here!” She kind of had to yell it to be heard above the general restaurant murmur, and several of the patrons glared at her, disgusted that somepony would raise their voice in such a civilized place. 
 
Her voice caught Octavia’s attention, which was all it needed to do. Octavia scanned the restaurant for a second. She spied Rarity waving and came to join her a moment later.
 
A short, stuff-coated waiter swooped over in Octavia’s wake.
 
“Excuse me,” he said, masking his annoyance with a steady voice. He tapped Octavia’s shoulder. “Do you know this disruptive mare, Miss Octavia?”
 
Octavia nodded, directing her own suppressed annoyance back at him. 
 
“Yes, Pierre. This is a friend from my hometown. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
 
The waiter huffed. The over-curled tips of his moustache bristled.
 
“Never seen her before in my life.”
 
“Does the name ‘Rarity’ ring any bells for you?”
 
The waiter went silent as recognition of the famous fashionista sunk in. 
 
“Sorry to disturb you, madame,” he replied a moment later. “We do have a policy and a reputation to uphold, so I humbly request that you please keep your voice down so as not to upset our other patrons.” Then he left, his napkin fluttering like a banner from his forehoof.
 
Octavia rolled her eyes. “Goodness.”
 
Rarity pushed out a chair. “Have a seat, dear!”
 
Octavia graciously accepted. She leaned her grubby case against the table, then sunk down into the chair, sighing profoundly. She made a kind of exuberant shrug which was aimed more or less at the entire restaurant, but otherwise said nothing. At this point she was more content to aim general feelings at her immediate surroundings, which is generally what happens when you’ve gone through half a bottle of Chateau D’Rose. 
 
“Polished off a bottle backstage,” she said, grinning slyly and leaning in to Rarity like she was sharing a cheeky secret. “I’m not supposed to be drinking while I’m working, but I find it puts me in the best mood to perform that song. A little ‘inspirational fluid’, if you know what I mean.”
 
“I think I do,” said Rarity, looking wistfully to her own unfinished bottle of wine, then back down to her paper, all splattered with incoherent notes. “Would you like me to top you off?” 
 
She pulled an empty glass from across the table—the spot where the old mare had been sitting, obviously not drinking.
 
Octavia nodded. Rarity topped it off—about half full. 
 
Another nod from Octavia. 
 
Rarity raised her eyebrow. She emptied the bottle. 
 
“Enough?”
 
“Yes. Perfect.”
 
She sipped from the glass. Just testing the flavor. Then, when she was sure she was ready, plunged in with a two hearty gulps. 
 
Rarity smiled in a kindly manner. She thought about telling Octavia to pace herself, but somehow didn’t think antagonizing her was going to help. “It’s so good to see you here!” she said cheerfully. “Though to be honest, I’m a little surprised. Don’t you want to spend Hearth’s Warming back home? In Ponyville?”
 
Octavia pondered in silence for a span of seconds, her eyebrows raised like she was surprised with the question.
 
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Hearth’s Warming Eve! Spend Hearth’s Warming Eve back in Ponyville? Ah, no. I’ve got no family in Ponyville.”
 
“Well then you must have family here in Canterlot,” said Rarity.
 
Octavia shook her head. “Mmm, sadly no, not anymore. True, I’ve got brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins, but they’re scattered all over Equestria, from Trottingham all the way— *hic*, excuse me—to Whinnypeg. We used to gather here in Canterlot every holiday, where my mother and father retired together.”
 
“I had no idea that your parents lived in Canterlot! Goodness, we’ve a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?”
 
Octavia glanced idly around the Lys. The blush on her cheeks blazed through her grey fur. “I suppose we do. Did we ever have a reason to catch up in the first place? I don’t recall us ever getting together for more than a little warm rosehip tea every now and again, and I’d talk about my music and you’d talk about your….your—”  She trailed off fuzzily. Rarity filled her in.
 
“Dresses?”
 
“Yes! Excuse me, yes. Word’s gotten around that you’re quite the fashion-forward mare. I heard you even set up a shop down in Manehatten, is that true?”
 
Rarity tossed her hoof casually. “Well, you know what they say: to have a name in fashion, you’ve got to have a name everywhere. Canterlot Carousel was more than the shop of my dreams; it told me my business could survive outside Ponyville.”
 
“Business going well, then?”
 
“Indeed. One might say a little too well.” She gestured to her notes on the table. “Holiday rush has got me in hot water until after next week, so I’m taking a little respite to collect my wits.”
 
Octavia appraised the notes, nodding with a smirk on her face. “Interesting notion you have of what constitutes a break.”
 
Rarity shrugged in reply. “It’s a working break.” She shoved the notes aside. “Enough about that. We haven’t spoken in ages, and I would love to hear how your music career is going! Did you make it into the Canterlot Philharmonic? I seem to recall you mentioning such an aspiration when last we spoke.”
 
Octavia leaned back in her chair, tilted the now-empty wine bottle between the table and her hoof, and sighed, saying nothing. Rarity immediately picked up on Octavia’s negative vibe.  
 
“Oh dear, it seems I've struck a nerve. What happened, darling?”
 
Octavia snorted. “Ever been around fashion designers who were insufferable prima-donnas?”
 
“Huh! Are you kidding? You might say we invented the term.”
 
“Well, imagine the most entitled, stuck-up, just plain rude fashionista you could imagine. Multiply that insufferable attitude by ten, change fashion to music, and you’ve got Fermata Grandeur: the philharmonic’s conductor. Between you and me, she flaps the baton like a feather duster when she’s conducting, and sticks it up between her tailcoats everywhere else.” 
 
Rarity chuffed through her snout, drawing several disdainful glares from surrounding tables.
 
“It sounds dreadful, but a small price to follow your passion. When Fermata heard you play, I’m sure that put her in her place.”
 
Octavia shook her head. “Wish it were so. She regards herself so highly, she hardly notices anypony she doesn’t see on her level.”
 
Rarity sighed sympathetically. She had no experience with musical prima-donnas, but if they were anything like the ones in fashion, she felt deeply for Octavia. 
 
“That doesn’t matter, dear. With your talent, you could find your way into any symphony without so much as a whinny. Don’t let one sour apple spoil the bunch. That’s what my friend, Applejack, would probably say in this situation.” She thought it adorable how Applejack could turn an apple-flavored idiom at the drop of a hat (though she’d never admitted that to her).
 
“Other symphonies haven’t fit me, either,” said Octavia, slumping her chin into her hoof. “It’s gotten incredibly tedious at this point.”
 
“So you’re jobless right now.”
 
“No!” Octavia answered quickly, then withdrew her reply, rubbing the back of her neck. “Erm, not exactly. There are some seasonal jobs. Weddings, galas, things like that. Nothing consistent. Tonight I played for…” she chewed her lip, “...more personal reasons. I’d call it a tradition.”
 
Rarity frowned. It occurred to her that Octavia was one of the few mares in Ponyville with whom she could discuss high society topics on a common level of understanding. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to guess Octavia might have been commissioned to perform at the very wedding for which Rarity was designing gowns next Spring. She regretted not taking the time to chat with Octavia more often when she was back home.
 
She suddenly remembered. “Now, I must commend you for that lovely tune you played earlier. I’d like to know what it’s called.”
 
“It’s called Sandpiper Waltz. My mother, Melody, wrote it.”
 
Rarity sat in shock for a moment. “Really? Your own mother wrote that? How have I never heard it before?”
 
“She liked to keep her music quiet,” said Octavia. “Her Sandpiper Waltz, like most of her other compositions, is shy and skittish. It’s part of why I love her music so much.”
 
Rarity nodded. “Well, the title works. From the music, I can easily picture the all the little birds skittering along the beach. She’s a truly masterful composer!”
 
Octavia coughed. “Was. She died three years ago.” She deflated into a moody silence. 
 
“Oh….I-I’m sorry to hear that, darling.”
 
Octavia shrugged.
 
“What about the rest of your family? Your father?” asked Rarity.
 
“They took it pretty hard, I guess. My father died years ago, years before my mother. They left me their old house on Stirrup Street. It’s only a few blocks away.”
 
“That’s terrible, dear. Are you doing alright?”
 
“Oh, don’t worry about me. The house isn’t too drafty.” She chuckled, helping Rarity relax a little. “Though, it was very hard losing my mother, for sure. After all, she taught me to play the cello when I was just a little filly. Her technique was magical to me. Mystical. Like, when she played, it was more than just music, know what I mean? You didn’t just hear what she played; you could see it, too.”
 
She lifted the empty wine bottle and attempted to fill her glass. “Three years ago tonight. That’s when she died. Carriage accident. They didn’t get her to the hospital in time.”
 
Confounded by the lack of wine, she slammed the bottle on the table. Rarity’s eyelash twitched.
 
“She was here tonight, though,” said Octavia. “I saw her sitting at this table.”
 
More silence. It hung in the space within Rarity’s open mouth.
 
“Is...that right? Hmm...” Rarity hummed in a luke-warmly annoyed sort of tone that buzzed around, wondering what it should be annoyed with. She propped her chin on her hoof and looked at the crystal chandelier dangling above their heads, and decided she’d be annoyed with how gaudy it was.
 
“That old mare with the clashing hat and muffler—from a distance she must look like Octavia’s mother. Poor dear. Must have been quite the potent wine she enjoyed backstage.”
 
A heavy mood had settled over their table, something silently encouraged by the overall atmosphere of the Lys and the overshadowing reality of an empty wine bottle. To break it, Rarity shifted her thoughts and spoke them aloud. 
 
“I haven’t seen much of my parents lately. Too busy. Between all my boutiques, it seems that I never have time for friends or family anymore.” She stared at the ceiling, compiling a mental list of her responsibilities. “Let’s see….fashion week in Manehatten—that’s a big one. Seasonal surges. Certainly the Gala. Costume designs for Bridleway shows. This is also the first year I’ve made costumes for the Dance of the Sugar Plum Breezies—”
 
Rarity stopped suddenly, for she remembered at that moment that, in addition to her seasonal orders to complete by the following week, she had the costume designs to finish for the ballet that very weekend. 
 
As a more clear picture of her obligations formed in her head, she watched helplessly as her few remaining holiday plans began to unravel. Glumly she spun the empty wine bottle in the center of the table, but felt the novelty of that would be exhausted within a few spins. Instead, she tried to think about all the nice things she would have liked to do with her friends for the holidays if her work had not already decided for her. 
 
She felt light-headed for a moment. The sparkling lights of the chandelier above her head blurred, and she heard Octavia’s voice—sounding much more distant than she remembered—asking why she suddenly looked like she was about to faint.
 
“Artist life eating you whole?” said Octavia. She smirked, though not maliciously.
 
“Eh?” Rarity shook herself. She mixed a nod with a shrug. “You know how it is.”
 
“Another bottle of Chateau D’Rose,” said Octavia to the passing waiter. She turned back to Rarity, a sort of drooping smile on her face. “If you want my advice, doing what you love shouldn’t separate you from whom you love. So, did you get a chance to speak with her?”
 
“With who?”
 
“My mother.”
 
Again, Rarity thought Octavia may have put something into her system besides wine. Her eyes wandered to the front stage, brow steeped in skepticism. The group of ponies at the table in front of them had stood up to leave, but were still setting down napkins and politely arguing over who was going to cover the bill, with everypony simultaneously insisting that they should be the ones to pay for everypony else. Rarity found it annoying. She didn’t know why.
 
“You don’t believe me, do you.” Octavia had leaned closer to Rarity, her tone flat, eyes sharp and dark as polished amethyst. Her smile had vanished. “You don’t believe my mother was here.”
 
She dug into her saddlebag for a moment and fished out a silver locket, so tarnished it appeared to be burnt. She set it on the table for Rarity to see. 
 
Inside was a picture that must have been several years old, edges white and chipped, the colors blurring into a uniform reddish-brown. Rarity’s blood tingled. Though the mare in the photograph looked younger, she still had a familiar grandmotherly smile framed by the barest hint of wrinkles.
 
“Is this your mother? Is this Melody?”
 
Octavia nodded. “That’s the pony you saw sitting here earlier, isn’t it.”
 
“Well, I can’t be certain, darling…” said Rarity. She lifted the locket between her hooves, squinting at the picture. “She looks awfully similar, but the picture is old, and I didn’t get the best look at her, either.” 
 
She offered the locket back to Octavia. The cellist was frowning, looking somewhere down to her side. The departing party had now finally come to a consensus on who was to cover the bill, but were now entrenched in a calm debate over who was to front the tip. Nopony stepped forward this time.
 
Octavia stepped back from the table and breathed. Rarity knew it was her imagination, but she felt like every eye in the restaurant was watching their table, eager to see what breed of oddity would manifest itself.
 
“You know what made her such a great musician? She could create life with her music, like a beam of sunlight on a flowerbud. It was her belief that musicians never died, that their souls simply passed into their music. And by playing it just right, it would be like bringing a telescope into focus. As you listen, their soul becomes clearer to see, until it’s sitting there in front of you, plain as day.”  
 
“She was an...interesting person,” remarked Rarity. Part of her mind had drifted off in the conversation, back to how she would manage her work the following day. “In a good way, I mean. Very unique ideas.”
 
Octavia chuckled, shaking her head. She took the locket and placed it back into her saddlebag. “It’s okay if you still don’t believe me. I don’t have any way to prove it, as I’ve never been able to actually speak to her while she’s here. She usually vanishes by the time I finish playing the waltz.”
 
“I spoke with her.”
 
That got Octavia’s attention. She peered at Rarity, her hoof pressed against her chin. Her expression bore a professional, scientific sort of excitement. 
 
“Tell me what she said.”
 
Rarity inhaled through her teeth, wondering how safe it was to humor Octavia’s fantasy. “We didn’t talk much. She spoke a little of how nice the music was….”
 
“And?”
 
“She mentioned how she used to play and make the same mistakes as you.”
 
Octavia nodded eagerly, waiting for Rarity to add more details about their conversation, but there simply wasn’t anything left to add. In the back of her mind, Rarity mulled over any details she had passively absorbed, any physical similarities between the mare she’d spoken with and Octavia. Had her voice possessed the same elegant accent? Did she have the same eyes?
 
“That’s all there was,” concluded Rarity with a final shrug, determining that she could just as easily have imagined an accent. “After that, I got so entranced by your lovely music, I didn’t even notice her leave. She didn’t give me her name.”
 
It was not the answer Octavia was hoping to hear. She retreated back to her seat, chewing her lip thoughtfully. 
 
Pierre appeared with a fresh bottle of Chateau D’Rose. He took the empty bottle with him when he left. Rarity wondered if an alcohol limit was imposed somewhere among the oh-so-revered policies of the Lys, or whether Octavia, being the guest musician for the evening, had some special privileges. At any rate, she’d already firmly settled in her mind that she wasn’t having any more wine tonight. 
 
She rose from her seat. Octavia’s eyes followed her, but the musician remained plaintively silent.
 
“I’m afraid I have to go,” said Rarity. Her notes were sprawled on the table, branding a searing reminder of her responsibilities into her head. She swept them into her saddlebag, disgusted to look at them.  
 
“So sorry to be leaving you like this, Octavia, but I have so much to do.” She reached into her saddlebag, dug out a few bits, and placed them on the table. “Here,” she said, “for the wine. A Happy Hearth’s Warming to you and yours.” 
 
Octavia held up her hoof. “Wait…”
 
She looked around, blinking as though she suddenly realized where she was. Then a troubled crease settled on her brow. “I think I’m ready to leave, too,” she said after a brief pause. “Mind if I join you?”
 
Rarity smiled. “Not at all.” She recovered her bits.
 
They abandoned the unopened bottle on the table.