Lyra raised a hoof over her eyes and squinted into the harsh sunlight. To a pony who'd spent most of her life in cities, Appleloosa's heat was almost unbearable. How had generations of ponies and buffalo alike fallen in love with this place?
“I'll be here long enough to find out,” Lyra muttered.
She wiped her brow. Lyra thought she was probably imagining it, but she could have sworn it wasn't this hot at the train station. It was only when she took up her position in front of the general store that the heat really seemed to get to her.
Ponies were going about their business seemingly unaffected by the heat. Some ponies had even attired themselves in thick dresses and hats despite the smoldering weather. Lyra felt hotter just looking at them.
“Need some help, ma'am?”
Lyra turned to face a stallion who'd appeared beside her. He had a wide grin on his face that suggested an ingrained eagerness to help strangers.
“A cold drink would be nice,” Lyra said with a sigh. “Do you know where I can find an ATM?”
The stallion—she would later find out his name was “Braeburn”--gave her a sympathetic look. She must be a city pony. They got a lot of those this time of year—mostly journalists—and they were remarkably similar to one another.
“No ATMs around here,” said Braeburn.
Lyra uttered some colorful profanity.
“Does any place around here accept credit cards?” she demanded.
Braeburn hesitated. He studied Lyra for a moment. She appeared to have just stepped off a boring train ride and was now losing her battle with the aggressive heat. She was dressed in the type of short-ish skirt that had become popular with mares in the big city. Braeburn also recognized her extremely short mane as another city trend.
“Well, there's a place of sorts a little ways away,” Braeburn said slowly. “I'm sure they'd let you stay as long as you want. Free of charge of course, seeing as you're not from around here.”
Lyra gave Braeburn a grateful—although tired—smile.
“Guess I have no choice,” she said.
The Apple Family lived a little ways outside of Appleloosa. Their vast land—bordered by a small field of apple trees—contained a silo, a barn, a shed, and a two-story cottage. It wasn't especially interesting to look at it, but it perfectly captured the heart of Appleloosa.
Applejack greeted them at the door. Upon hearing of Lyra's plight, she instantly became sympathetic and welcomed her like a long-lost sister. She insisted Big Macintosh and Apple Bloom help Lyra bring her bags into the house.
“The least we can do,” she kept saying.
Lyra was too overwhelmed by the Apples' hospitality to respond with anything other than a few polite nods.
“Have you eaten yet?” asked Applejack. “I know you busy city ponies are always forgetting your dinner.”
She pulled Lyra into the kitchen before she could respond. Applejack immediately set about preparing an enormous meal Lyra could not hope to finish in one sitting.
“I don't want to be a burden,” Lyra objected.
Applejack chuckled.
“A burden?” she said. “Why, you're a guest. Consider yourself an honorary member of the Apple family while you're here.”
Lyra was genuinely taken aback. For one brief moment the mask slipped. Lyra stared into Applejack's eyes and was nearly moved to tears by the sincerity in them. When was the last time she'd felt as if she had a family? When was the last time Lyra had felt as if she had a home?
“You're too kind,” Lyra said.
The mask slid back into place. Her facade resumed.
“I for one just love the rustic lifestyle,” she said. “It's so charming in its simplicity.”
What poured forth was a series of somewhat vague compliments and observations. Lyra's words seemed to be the spoils of yet another pretentious thought piece in the making for some cheap newspaper, but Applejack listened attentively.
A quarter of an hour later, Applejack called the Apple family in for dinner.
Lyra didn't say much during the meal, although nopony seemed to notice. Conversation at the table was kept at a lively pace throughout. Apple Bloom recounted her entire day to Big Macintosh and was given enthusiastic nods in response, whilst Applejack and Braeburn spoke of farming and various tidbits from the local news.
Lyra smiled faintly and stared at her food. So this was what a real family dinner was like. She had to admit it was a lot cozier than she'd been led to believe. Lyra let the conversations fade into a gentle background noise. She felt strangely at peace.
Granny Smith was eyeing Lyra across the table. She had a vague smile on her face.
Lyra stared at the food piled high on her plate. A strange feeling had come over her.
Soon after dinner, the Apples went up to bed one by one. It was decided that Lyra would sleep on the couch, although Big Macintosh and Apple Bloom both offered their beds. There was a brief debate on the matter, but Lyra silenced the opposition by claiming she was used to crashing on the couch whenever she stayed with a friend.
Lyra waited an hour. She lay on the couch, eyes half-closed and brain working itself into a frenzy. She tried to focus on the gradually fading sounds—shuffling, hoofsteps on the creaky floorboards, whispered goodnights—drifting from upstairs. But Lyra found her mind divided between the matter at hand and some far more personal wonderings.
Why had the Apple family been so accepting of her? They had no reason to treat Lyra as anything other than an unexpected house guest. But they had treated her as if she was a cousin or a beloved lost relative. They had marched directly into Lyra's heart and made her feel, well, loved.
Lyra clutched the blanket to her chest. Had it really been so long since she'd felt loved? It felt like it had been years. Years since anypony had looked at her with complete, unconditional love. Sweet Celestia, Lyra had missed it.
When the hour had come to a close, Lyra left the couch in a somewhat mechanical fashion. Her mind was still occupied with thoughts of the Apple family, but her body was seemingly moving of its own accord. Lyra ignored the floorboards protesting under her hooves—she had a novel's worth of excuses if she was caught—and made her way out the back door and to the shed.
If the Apples were trying to conceal anything of importance, they seemed inclined towards passive security measures. The flimsy lock fell away within seconds, conquered by a basic lockpicking spell Lyra had learned in high school.
Lyra began digging through the boxes. If it was anywhere, it had to be here. The book—A Complete and Objective History of Equestria—had promised its existence.
The first few boxes yielded nothing. Lyra moved aside countless old toys and photo albums. As Lyra moved on to some of the boxes in the back, she felt a pang of regret. She knew it was necessary, but Lyra felt as if she was violating a history. A history she had no part of.
What's my history? Lyra wondered.
Her history seemed to involve an unhealthy amount of shouting. Shouting from her parents as she pursued a career they thought highly unsuitable, shouting from strangers as she threw herself at the mercy of an unacceptable truth. Occasionally there would be a lull, then Lyra's life would once again devolve into shouting. Lyra wondered how long this particular lull would last.
It took Lyra a minute to realize her tears were falling into the box. She swallowed the lump in her throat. For the love of Celestia, why couldn't she just do this and be done with it? Why couldn't Lyra live in this moment as it was, divorced from her own memories and emotions?
“You're a long way from home.”
Lyra’s hoof went to where her saddlebag should have been. Unfortunately, her saddlebag was back in the house and contained only a notebook and a few useless pieces of technology. She had also chosen to leave her precious satchel in the house, not that it contained any weapons. Lyra whirled around with a look of mingled guilt and fear. She half-expected to discover the disapproving eyes of Fleur De Lis boring into her own.
Granny Smith offered Lyra a gentle smile.
“You're mighty jumpy, aren't ya?” she said.
Lyra blushed.
“I was curious,” she said. “We, um, aren't really big on this stuff in Manehatten.”
She hoped the words “this stuff” were vague enough to keep the lie together.
Granny Smith gave Lyra a toothy grin. It was easy to miss the fierce intelligence in Granny Smith's eyes, but it was also impossible to ignore once spotted. Her eyes were windows to the mind of a keen observer.
“No offense, but I do believe that's a load of manure,” she said.
Lyra's eyes went to the door behind Granny Smith. She desperately wanted to bolt, but she found herself rooted in place.
“You're looking for the letter, aren't you?” said Granny Smith.
She gestured towards the boxes.
“It's not in any of those,” she said. “You'll find it in the house.”
She turned and trotted out of the shed before Lyra could say anything. Granny Smith hummed a bouncy tune to herself as she headed back to the house.
Lyra stared at the open doorway. A part of her wanted to flee. What was she even doing there? It was just a stupid letter. It was just a stupid quest. At moments like these, Lyra wondered why she even cared.
Because I have to know, she thought.
With that thought slowly filling up her brain, Lyra finally left the shed and headed back to the house.
Granny Smith was standing in front of the kitchen table. She hummed an old lullaby to herself as she poured boiling water into a teacup. The scene was so innocent, so normal, that it almost felt like a cruel joke. However, the nurturing smile on Granny Smith's face was genuine.
“I thought you could use a warm drink,” she said.
Lyra sat down at the kitchen table. Her gaze swept from her teacup to the arrangement before her. Her saddlebag lay neatly to one side along with her satchel. Across from these was a plate hosting a single piece of toast. In the center of the arrangement there lay a piece of old parchment. Lyra's heart rate quickened at the sight of it. The letter.
Granny Smith sat down and started spreading butter on the toast.
“Something on your mind?” she said.
Lyra tore her gaze away from the letter. She eyed Granny Smith with sudden wariness. She felt as if she was being tricked, but the intention presented to her was absurd.
“Yeah,” Lyra said.
She stared into her teacup. It could have been a trick of the reflection, but she could have sworn signs of premature aging had appeared on her face.
“You ever remember a place that couldn't exist, a pony who couldn't exist?” Lyra said. “You ever spend every waking moment thinking about that place, thinking about that pony, thinking about things that couldn't be true?”
She smiled bitterly.
“The memories get stronger the more you think about them,” she said. “You try to let them go, but you end up holding on tighter than ever. Then a bunch of ponies start saying you've lost your mind. Soon enough you're bitter and alone. All you have are your memories of that place and that pony. Memories that might not even be real."
Granny Smith nodded.
“I know,” she said.
The simple reply surprised Lyra. She stared at Granny Smith, trying to read something within those wise old eyes.
Granny Smith gestured to the teacup. She had finished buttering her toast, but hadn't taken a bite.
“Your tea's getting cold,” she said.
Lyra's eyes went from her teacup to her saddlebag. The realization hit her directly in the heart. She stared at her teacup in mingled disbelief and misery. Lyra was being given a choice. She could either drink her tea or take the letter. She couldn't do both. She couldn't have both.
Granny Smith spoke in a carefree tone.
“Life's kinda funny, isn't it?” she said. “You'll learn to expect all sorts of oddities by the time you're my age.”
She chuckled.
“I envy you young things,” she said. “I used to be quite the looker when I was your age. But just the other day I saw a pony who would have given me a run for my bits back in the day. Tall, slender, most beautiful eyes you've ever seen...”
Lyra closed her eyes. What was the use of chasing memories? What was the use of chasing a past that seemed too dreamlike to be real? Perhaps in some strange way, this truly was the unraveling of Lyra's fragile mind.
An image appeared in Lyra's brain: a mare offering a toothy grin to an unseen camerapony. The mare's eyes shown brightly with prospects of the future, a future wrapped in the loving embrace of another.
Lyra's eyes snapped open. She wasn't just searching for Ponyville. Lyra was searching for her.
“......a great mystery....,” Granny Smith droned on.
Lyra pushed the teacup away. She leaned her head forward and seized the letter with her magic.
Granny Smith stopped talking immediately, but she didn't look surprised.
Lyra stuffed the letter into her satchel and grabbed her saddlebag, then turned to look at Granny Smith. She felt that all too familiar pang of regret as she looked into Granny Smith's kind old face. Lyra had the curious feeling of having made a mistake, yet at the same time being completely assured in her course of action.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
Lyra had been in this situation before, but this time it felt different. She wasn't an ashamed young mare reluctantly defying her parents and choosing her own path. She was a pony on a quest for closure.
Granny Smith just smiled. She watched Lyra leave without any hint of concern.
Once a few moments had passed, Granny Smith stood up. She picked up the teacup and trotted to the sink. She began humming to herself as she poured the tea down the drain.
Some ponies might have called that a waste. But Granny Smith had a hard time believing anything was a waste.
Lyra wondered where in Tartarus she was going. Back to the train station was the obvious answer, but for what? She'd have to wait until morning to catch a train back to Manehatten. Lyra didn't love the idea of sleeping at the station, but she couldn't bring herself to go back to the Apples. She had the feeling that she might never leave if she went back.
“Great plan,” Lyra muttered to herself.
She slowed from a gallop to a trot. Well, her bed was made. The bench outside the station couldn't be that uncomfortable.
Lyra paused for a minute and looked around. A shiver skittered across her back. She suddenly felt as if a hoof was about to reach out from the darkness and touch her. She whirled around, but the town seemed to have gone to bed for the night.
Granny Smith's words came back to her. They were crisp and clear, almost as if Granny Smith was whispering them in her ear.
“Tall, slender, most beautiful eyes you've ever seen.”
Lyra gasped aloud. No. No. There was no way in Equestria it could be her. But that description—although vague—seemed so precise, so indicative of one particular pony Lyra had come to know.
“No, no, no,” Lyra whispered. “How did she find me?”
Fleur De Lis was here. She was in Appleloosa. It had to be her. But seeing as she hadn't pounced yet, it was unlikely Fleur knew her prey was nearby. That should have provided some comfort, but it instead left Lyra with a cold feeling. How did Fleur know? How could anypony know?
Lyra feared the worst, but she couldn't give herself to such pointless worries. She had to keep steady. She had to adjust herself as if this could somehow coexist with her plans.
Steadily, Lyra's brain began working again. Manehatten was obviously a firm “no”. Where did that leave her? It left her in Appleloosa with her satchel, her saddlebag, and nowhere to stay for the foreseeable future. But there had to be somewhere. Lyra could not accept that she'd left herself completely at sea.
Lyra opened her satchel and pulled out the photograph she'd taken from the history and science society. There was one place she could go. One place she had to go, but Lyra had been putting it off. However, it appeared she'd have to rearrange her plans and move a few things up in the queue.
Lyra tucked the photograph back into her satchel. She decided to worry about everything else at a later date. Lyra needed a good night's sleep before she was thrown back into the manticore's lair.
“Sweet Celestia,” Lyra said with a sigh.
She reached into her saddlebag, searching for her watch. Lyra frowned. Had her saddlebag always been so crowded? Confused, Lyra pulled out a little wrapped package. That certainly hadn't been in there before.
“What in Celestia's name?” Lyra wondered aloud.
She cautiously peeled back a corner of the package. The moment she realized what the package contained, her eyes filled with tears. The unfairness and the perfection of it all came back to her like some kind of wonderful curse. This was Lyra's life. This was a fitting culmination of everything she had been chasing.
Sobbing quietly, Lyra clutched the warm package to her face and inhaled. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and fresh apples.