I applauded with sincere enthusiasm from the resin outdoor chair on which I sat. Glittering figures floated back to the concrete floor as a last few notes rang and faded; pricked equine ears, oddly tail-like hair extensions, and in a few cases tiny angelic wings winked out of existence in fountains of sparkles. It was a testament to the group’s musical ability that the transformation, bizarre as it was, still failed to outshine their performance—though, admittedly, the reverse was true as well.
The seven teens immediately sagged, exhausted and universally glowing with a distinct sheen of sweat instead of magic. One fact I’d learned already about the magic in, and from, Sunset’s world was that it consumed the body’s energy just like any other form of exercise; wielding enough of it tired one out. That they had spent the day helping out on the farm surrounding us contributed too, no doubt.
I pulled out and pocketed the foam earplugs I’d worn thanks to a warning this would be an all-up rehearsal—partly because the band really was due for such a practice session and partly to demonstrate exactly what I just witnessed. Without that protection, being only a few yards away from a rock-pop band at full volume would have been deafening. When I started to rise in concern, Rainbow Dash waved me back. “We’ll be okay. It’s been a long day, that’s all.”
Unwillingly I settled back on the chair and let them be, instead watching and waiting. After a minute of resting or stretching, they fell to again, casing their equipment and moving it to a corner of the large work shed, almost a small barn. Even before they finished, a lively discussion erupted over the next agenda item. I didn’t even try to follow the thread as almost all of them spoke more or less at once, but they seemed to have no trouble understanding each other. Eventually Rarity’s emphatic insistence on showers before anything else won out, and they trooped off to monopolize every bathroom in the farmhouse for the next half-hour or so.
“So what’ll y’all have?” Applejack asked after we all reconvened on the farmhouse’s front porch. The girls wore fresh clothing brought along in anticipation, and most sat on mates to the patio chair I’d occupied earlier, though Pinkie Pie and Sunset perched on the railing. I leaned a shoulder against a support pillar.
Late-afternoon shadows stretched across the fields and homestead as well as the nearby hills and woods. Dinner wasn’t far off, to judge from the delectable aromas wafting from the house, along with cooking-related clatters and the voices of the household’s eldest and youngest members. Even I had been invited to share the meal; to be polite I’d accepted, though not without mixed feelings.
Sunset heaved a nostalgic sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a cold bottle of Kölsch, but cider’ll be fine.”
“Beer?” Sheer surprise, instantly regretted, wrested the question from me.
A disgusted expression greeted my reaction. “Where am I from, Cook?”
It took only a moment for the penny to drop. “Oh. Right. Someplace where the idea of a legal drinking age doesn’t exist yet,” I answered in a chagrined, and apologetic, tone.
Mollified, Sunset waggled a hand palm-down. “It isn’t quite that cut and dried, but close enough. And it’s not like I ever drank, or still drink, very often, but I do appreciate a good beer—or cider or whatever—once in a while.”
“Hard cider it is,” Applejack cut in with a teasing tone. “After all, fizzy apple drinks are for yokels, right?”
Sunset rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a small smile. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you?”
Amidst the snickers and good-natured ribbing of the reformed ex-bully, Applejack buttonholed each of her friends in turn, collecting preferences for drinks. My attention followed; even seemingly trivial interactions like these could reveal useful insights into the personalities around me. I bit my lip on an amused smile when the crowd broke down roughly half and half, the bolder ones following Sunset’s lead in choosing the hard cider pressed on the premises, the others opting for soft cider or cold well water. Finally Applejack got around to me. “Cook, what about you?”
“I’ll take the hard cider too. Haven’t had a chance to try it yet since I relocated.” I was genuinely curious and had high expectations. In an age of industrial farming, surviving family establishments like Sweet Apple Acres competed by offering local products, artisanal processes, and heirloom cultivars. This branch of the far-flung Apple clan didn’t go in for the full historical-farm treatment, though some did, depending as much on the tourist trade as on their produce. Still others had ridden the wave, rising to prominence in modern agribusiness.
Applejack, gracious hostess that she was, headed inside to fetch the requested refreshments. Everyone else chattered happily about the day’s doings, even Fluttershy venturing an occasional comment. I held my peace, as much to avoid intruding on their cheerful socializing as to eavesdrop, but before long Twilight Sparkle gave me a challenging look. “So how ’bout you, Cook? You haven’t said much.”
I shrugged and in a self-deprecating tone replied, “There really isn’t anything very interesting to say.”
The entirely-too-bright young woman gave me the hairy eyeball, not buying my casual deflection. “Aren’t you the one who claimed to be a debonair and sophisticated man of the world last time?”
I puffed out a small sigh. “Look, this isn’t supposed to be about me. Besides, right now I’m a boring old worker bee settling into a new post in a new location. No super-spy swashbuckling, or cloak-and-dagger hijinks, or thrilling adventures to tell.”
That was a mistake. At once I had their full attention. Sunset broke the sudden silence with a quiet question. “Not what you expected to be doing, is it?”
I hesitated. My intent had been to fob them off with the impression of being a forgettably stodgy older adult, at least from their youthful perspective—but there was enough truth in my words to sting a bit, and I’d forgotten for a moment just how sharp the whole group was. At this point the only way out was through. Besides, if I wasn’t honest with them, they might well decide they didn’t need to be honest with me. “. . . No, not really. I expected to serve in an embassy or consulate overseas.” I held up a finger. “But. This is a unique situation and a unique opportunity. It isn’t thrilling, but it is necessary, and it certainly is not boring. Strange, but not boring.”
They didn’t seem convinced. I shook my head. “I accepted the assignment, okay? I volunteered to do this.”
My gamble paid off. They still looked dubious, but not even Twilight challenged my half-truth—none of them could know the assignment offer hadn’t provided enough details to make my decision an informed one, or that I had to jump at the only chance I was likely to get. Just then, fortunately, Applejack returned with a bang of the screen door, arms laden with frosty bottles. “Here ya go!” She paused and looked around. “So what gives?”
I pushed myself upright and leaned forward to pluck a bottle from among the assortment. “Ah, there we are! Just what I needed,” I observed in a hearty tone.
Sunset, bless her little unicorn heart, followed up by hopping to her feet and, a bit more loudly than necessary, volunteering to help hand out the bottles, even producing an opener from a pocket. It took a moment longer for the rest to catch on; Twilight eyed me and opened her mouth, but Sunset hurriedly shoved a bottle of soft cider in front of her face. “Here, Twi!”
The resulting indignant but cross-eyed expression was priceless, and only my training kept my face straight. Reluctantly Twilight held off and accepted the bottle, though she shot me a fulminating sidelong glower that all but shouted, “Later.” I produced an artfully innocent look that made her snort.
The cool, tart, full-bodied cider was every bit as delicious as I anticipated, but hardly was the bottle empty before an actual honest-to-goodness dinner bell rang. I hung back while the girls bounded through the door one by one, thereby bringing up the rear of the cavalcade as it wended through the house. Seating eleven people strained even the Apples’ commodious dining room, but with some creative arranging they were able to shoehorn in enough place settings around the refectory-style table.
The sole male resident, McIntosh, returned from tending to a last few chores out among the orchards, just in time to help. As a guest, I was allowed only to stand by and watch while the Apples and their friends—family by informal extension—bustled with final preparations. After nearly being run over twice, I tucked myself in a corner and just tried to stay out of the way until at last everything was on the table and everyone was seated according to Granny Smith’s iron whim.
Even then the affair remained lively. Voices filled the room. Serving dishes all but flew from hand to hand. Plates were piled high and tumblers filled to the brim. Those who’d had the hard cider were smart enough to switch back to juice or water with the meal, and plenty of it—rehydration had to be a pretty urgent necessity, especially with a little alcohol to dry one out even more. Appetites were similarly ample, regardless of age; the Rainbooms in particular ate like horses, to use an obnoxiously appropriate simile. I didn’t doubt they’d poured who knew how many thousands of calories into the day’s physical and magical labors, yet I also couldn’t shake the conviction they vacuumed up every meal the same way.
Conversation and laughter flowed unabated, as vital and sustaining for the spirit as the food was for the body. In-jokes and shared experiences made for stories half-told, the gaps filled in by the listeners’ memories, and mutual affection was palpable among the disparate personalities around the table. More than ever I felt the outsider, which inspired both a mild personal melancholy and a strong professional satisfaction. My job wasn’t to make friends; it was to watch, learn, and report. And, I reminded myself, once I’d spent some time in the city, I’d make enough connections to feel more at home.
As the meal progressed I caught Sunset and Twilight shooting me a few looks, the former thoughtful and the latter skeptical. That was understandable enough. Ms. Runaway certainly had her own bumps and bruises associated with thwarted ambitions, and Ms. Bookworm was congenitally inquisitive to a fault. I returned them what I hoped appeared to be bland, incurious glances in the course of attending to the discussions and requests for passing of food or condiments.
By the time dessert—apple pie à la mode, naturally—capped off the meal, even the voracious teens seemed replete, wilting slightly and blinking sleepily. This time I was permitted to help cart stacks of dishes to the kitchen sink and surrounding counter, thanks to the “food coma” afflicting one and all. Talk was more subdued and sporadic, consisting mostly of directions from the matriarch, now that topics, and constitutions, had been spent. I was able to avoid further interrogation from anyone with adroit physical and verbal maneuvers; alas, for the same reasons I was equally unable to further my own investigations.
Well, this wouldn’t be the last opportunity, and at least I had enough new material to fill out a report of adequate length and substance. Not everyone understood some jobs require lots of time and patience—even in the rarefied heights of government, where answering the question “what have you done for me lately?” could be life or death for one’s career. I hoped I could rely on Pin Stripes to keep my neck from the chopping block long enough.
Once the whole younger crowd melted away into the private spaces of the house, after-dinner chores complete, I was able to plot my escape. Only Granny Smith was left to see me to the door. As I reached for the knob, she touched my arm. “Mister Cook.”
I turned back to her courteously, and she continued, “Them girls mean th’ world ta me. Even that Sunset Shimmer’s doin’ a fine job o’ turnin’ herself around. Ah don’t want ta hear nothin’ ’bout you givin’ ’em trouble. Ah’ll write all th’ letters, an’ make all th’ phone calls, Ah gotta if’n ya give me reason to. Ah pay m’taxes, so folks like you work fer folks like me, ya hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I acknowledged respectfully—and ambiguously. I couldn’t fault her sentiments, and in her position I’d feel the same way, but when push came to shove, I’d sworn an oath, and I was duty-bound to honor it. Short of plainly illegal orders, what I was required to do, I would. “Good night to you, and thank you for a lovely meal. Please convey my thanks to the girls for accommodating my request to see them today.”
She gave me a searching gaze, then nodded and stepped back. “I’ll tell ’em whatcha said. Good night, lad, and yer welcome.”