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// A Most Prestigious Client 
// Story: Raven Hollow 2: The Riddles of Blackmoor 
// by Magic Step 
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   	 You’ve been sliding pieces back and forth for hours, but the giant plus-shaped piece and the large square piece just cannot change places. You’ll never be able to slide the key from the top to the bottom; you’ll never be able to escape. You’ll die in this room and no one will ever find you…

    “Hey, Rookie, wake up.”

    You start, lifting your head off the desktop. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you look around and remember where you are; back in your office. Raindrops slid down the window behind you, through which you could see the concrete and glass towers of Chicoltgo. A half empty, now cold cup of coffee sits on your table, next to the reports that up until that moment, you’d been using as a pillow; now every one of them is covered in drool, which means you’ll have to start all over.

    “You feeling okay?” Open Case asks, concern written across the office secretary’s face. His busy blue mustache twitches as he studies the half dozen puzzle cubes that are scattered over the floor, all of them in various stages of completion. “You’ve been stressed out ever since that missing pony case in Raven Hollow.”

    No, you are not okay. You’ve been having more and more nightmares, and all about fiendishly difficult puzzles.

    Out loud, though, you say, “Just tired. Tracker asked me to keep an eye on his client’s daughter for a night and that party-happy girl apparently doesn’t sleep…”

    “Well, this promises to be more interesting.” Open Case gestures for you to step out of your office.

    Wiping the reports off with your foreleg, you follow the pale yellow stallion into the lobby of Pinkeye and Sons, Private Investigators. Sitting stiffly on the couch is a faded red earth pony wearing a black suit, red bow tie, and white gloves. He turns and looks you over critically, his resigned expression indicating something about your appearance is not satisfactory to him. “The young miss is going to be disappointed,” he states in an upper-class accent.

    “Excuse me?” you say, having woken up just enough to feel insulted.

    The stallion sighs and stands up, holding out his gloved hoof. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Faithful Aide, family servant to the Studies.”

    You introduce yourself and take his hoof, wondering how he manages to keep his gloves spotlessly white. You also search through your mental library for the Studies. You’ve heard the family name before, but can’t quite remember the significance attached to them.

Faithful Aide releases your hoof and continues. “Fabric Study, the youngest member, seems to think that you and you alone can solve a… delicate family matter. I’ve been sent to acquire your services and provide transportation to the Study manor in Blackmoor.”

Open Case whistles. “You’ve got high class clients, Rookie. The Studies are respected members in whatever field they enter. And they’ve got wealth to match.”

“Adequate monetary compensation will be provided, naturally,” Faithful Aide says. “The carriage awaits you.”

“Might as well check it out,” Open Case says. “Blackmoor is only an hour away from Chicoltgo by carriage.”

You nod. “Okay. Okay. Sounds good.” You throw on your trench coat. “Something to break the monotony.”

“Please take this seriously,” Faithful Aide says.

You follow the older earth pony down all twelve stories of the office complex, your trepidation growing. When you see the small, two-seater white carriage parked outside, you can feel yourself start to sweat.

“Um… to be honest, I’d rather take my motorcycle,” you say. The thought of getting in a small, sealable box that another pony can pull wherever he pleases makes you feel tense.

Faithful Aide gives you a disapproving look. “Blackmoor is not a massive metropolis like Chicoltgo; travelling from one end to the other by hoof hardly takes an hour.”

“Yes, but I like to keep my baby with me,” you say, which is true enough. “I’m obliged to you for bringing me a carriage, but I’d rather do it this way.”

With a heavy sigh, he begins hitching himself up. “As you wish.”

Gratefully, you trot over to your chrome companion. “Like I was going to leave you behind,” you tell her as you swing onto her back. She roars happily as you turn the key into the ignition.


***


Rolling green hills and unpaved roads lead to a pleasant valley filled with flowers. Blackmoor was filled with historic buildings that looked like they dated from something like three hundred years ago: wrought iron fences with flower designs, whitewashed walls with brightly painted trim, and windows of every conceivable shape. Ponies of all ages roam the streets, most in no hurry. They smile and wave as Faithful Aide passes, with you following along behind him on your bike. It looks like such a nice town.

If only you could still believe in such things.

Faithful Aide stops outside a quaint restaurant, all natural wood texture with flowerboxes under every window. You pull up your motorcycle next to him and he says, “I must ask you to leave the motorcycle here; Fabric Study requested complete discretion, and that roaring monster is anything but.”

Fair enough; you park your motorcycle some yards away from the small building. “I needed to stretch my legs anyway,” you say, heading off his invitation to ride.

You follow the empty white carriage up a hill in the center of town to a four-story mansion with balconies on every floor and a large cage behind the mansion two stories tall. What the heck was that for?

Faithful Aide leads you around the back, and as you pass closer to the large cage, you can hear singing and a bird flies past your eye level, a whirl of iridescent pink feathers. Oh, it’s an aviary. You study the inside of the giant cage, full of natural trees and birdfeeders, with a pond in it where ducks and swans splash. Red and green parrots chat on a birdfeeder, and several tiny jeweled hummingbirds dart around a giant red compound flower.

Then a raven’s throaty cry echoes through the aviary, and you start. The sound brings back memories about that horrid case in Raven Hollow. What started as a missing pony case had led you to a town run by a secret cadre of riddle-obsessed ponies, the Court of Ravens. It was members of this group who locked you in that dark mine filled with sirenium, the strange mineral that radiated energy that drove ponies insane, the cause of all your nightmares for the past few months.

Somehow, you’d escaped and discovered the secret of the Court, that it all was founded for the purpose of keeping one madpony alive forever. He was finally dead, but the Court lived on. His granddaughter Turtledove had escaped, and you lived in dread of seeing her again.

“What is it?” Faithful Aide asks impatiently, pausing to face you. 

You shake your head and fight down the unwanted flashbacks. “Nothing,” you say, turning up the collar on your coat. “The bird just startled me.” 

Aide sighed and walked on. You fall into step behind him. 

Sprawling behind the mansion is a beautiful garden, built of flowering hedges arranged in a gentle curvy pattern, swirling around a central fountain made of four dancing dolphins. A young mare lies on her side on a bench by the fountain, idly flipping through a book of fabric samples like it’s a novel. She’s lavender with a shoulder-length, curly blond mane with a single bright red streak that compliments the darker red, flouncy dress she wears.

“Fabric Study,” Faithful Aide says. 

The young mare looks up and smiles. “That was fast.” Her horn lights up as she packs the fabric book back in her stylish saddlebag. “I’m sorry for all the secrecy, but this is such a touchy matter. I’m not even sure hiring you is a good idea…”

    “Can you tell me what you actually need from me?” you say.

    “I’m sorry; of course. But…” She bites her lower lip. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the things I heard about you were a little… well, let’s put it this way. I have a question for you before I get started.”

    “No problem. Shoot,” you say.

    Fabric Study looks around the garden as if for a reminder of what she’d been about to say. “All right. Answer me this. Once upon a time, my father was three times as old as my mother, but just one year later he was only twice her age. My father’s 52 now, so how old is my mother?”

    Something about the wording locks out any kind of rational attempt to analyze whether this topic change makes sense or not. All you hear is the puzzle, and you can focus on nothing else.