Octavia’s plea left Fleur feeling utterly deflated—and a little numb on her face.
Perhaps it was just the late hour talking, but after tossing snowballs, rushing across the city and back, and trudging through the ankle-height mounds, she elected to be wary. First the auction and now this! Was she really the only available pony for solving everyone else’s problems today? She should have expected that, considering how abundant in bizarre the day had been so far. But why now, of all the moments in time, when she was pursuing her own personal quest?
Stop. A numb face equaled a bad face, and such a blank bearing wasn’t much supermodel-y. Head high. Straight as a string. A delicate smile.
“And hello to you, Octavia. Merry Hearth’s Warming,” she greeted the other mare. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m kind of in the middle of something. Could it wait?”
“Hyacinth stuff doesn’t wait for nobody, it just happens!” Octavia replied. “It’s about what she—oh, good evening, Chestnut. Enjoying the evening? I-I just said ‘evening’ twice, my apologies. I love the scarf!” she complimented the filly before donning the panicked muzzle again. “I’m sorry, Fleur, I understand, I have no right to interrupt your evening, so uncalled for, but please, you have to listen to me. I-I’ll spare you the details and get straight to the point.” She turned red, blurting out words faster than her lungs could power them.
Wow. Hyacinth had a certain effect on ponies, but Fleur had never seen Octavia so distraught.
“Breathing first. Getting to the point, second.”
The mare took the advice and simmered down. When she wasn’t gasping for air, her voice was clear, tinged with high-societal tones, but without self-imposed superiority. It was a learned tone, not innate. As far as Fleur knew, Octavia first adapted that manner of speaking in Vanhoover, at the most prestigious music academy there was. She was never a socialite, though, and had been on the receiving end of a stipend for financially underprivileged. After years of living among the finest, there were few who knew she was but a miner’s daughter.
Not that Fleur would mind—not anymore—and although she was busy, she… she could spare a minute before searching for Princess Luna, right? Octavia was the first pony to talk to Chestnut on the party, so she owed her at least a moment of her time.
“Breathe in… breathe out,” she instructed, inadvertently making the filly join as well. “Good. Now, I’m listening. What is the Punch Mistress’ great plan this time?”
“Short version: someone I respect, a stallion from the Marelin Amusement Group—you know, the guys who run amusement parks, museums, organize shows et cetera—asked me if I could give an impromptu concert. A few carols, nothing fancy. I thought to myself: why not, it’s Hearth’s Warming and all. He even gave me this thing”—she waved a red-green songbook at them—“so I could find something proper to heighten the mood.”
“Then Hyacinth came about? Just a guess.”
“Then Hyacinth, obviously having heard everything, comes about. She’s overjoyed and all, and says she will gladly enrich my performance with her, quote, ‘utmost adequate vocal capabilities’.” Octavia’s hooves went in the air. “Adequate capabilities! Adequate for maybe making a manticore regret its life choices after you screamed at it for trying to swipe your quilt in the middle of the night!”
Fleur and Chestnut looked upon each other, but neither could make much of Octavia’s rant. The cellist was exceedingly proficient at not getting straight to the point.
“That’s… oddly picturesque, but go on.”
“So! I told her insisting face that her support is appreciated, but not required at the moment, but of course she turned a deaf ear like she always does,” Octavia said. “And, full disclosure, I’m not saying it out of spite, but remember last year at Blue Moon’s? Hyacinth is beyond terrible. Good lungs but nothing else. I felt so embarrassed back then, embarrassed I tell you, all those ponies were watching. And you know I don’t care much about what they say of me, but the fact that I disappointed so many was unbearable. Hyacinth, she’s like a foghorn…”
“It wasn’t your fault—”
“Bwaaam! A foghorn!” Octavia roared, causing Fleur and Chestnut to back off. “My apologies. Anyway, I blurted out that I already have a friend on stand-by who will be joining me.”
“Why, then the problem is solved,” Fleur replied. “Who will be replacing her?”
“Why, am I glad you asked.” She shoved the songbook into her hooves. “Congratulations. You’re the vocals now.”
Fleur was perhaps only as smart as the next pony, but it took her a good, tension-ridden moment to process Octavia’s words. ‘You’ and the fact she was looking her straight in the eyes suggested she was indeed talking to her, not Chestnut, not anyone else who might have been behind them the whole time. She glanced back—nothing but the fountain. ‘Vocals’ meant the role of a singer, a pony opening her mouth to create melodious words. You. Vocals. Singing. Octavia was congratulating her as if she’d won something which, given that entire tirade about Hyacinth meant…
Fleur’s brain has stopped working. We apologize for any inconvenience.
...Equestrian carols? Don’t be ridiculous, Fleur. We have plenty songs about snow and winter of our own, we don’t need foreigners to...
“Quoi?” she deadpanned. “Non, absolutely not, I can’t do that! I-I have my thing, I actually need to find Princess Luna, you see. Besides, I’m trained in doing a rather different kind of show.” The panic charge must have transferred itself onto Fleur as she laughed nervously. “Good one, Octavia, you nearly got me there. Me, singing? Bah! How delightfully preposterous.”
“Mom? I think Mrs. Octavia is serious.”
“I know, Nutsie,” Fleur squeaked with a stupid grin. “That’s how I cope.”
“What’s a cope?”
...just look at them, grinning like rabid monkeys. Honestly, allowing them to sing in the streets was the worst...
“Sing with me, Fleur, I beg you!” Octavia shook her by the shoulders. “I know you can, I heard how you sing the anthem. Equestria, the land I love. A land of harmony…” she intoned, and Fleur’s lips moved as if on their own. “See? Far better than most ponies. Trust a musician’s professional opinion on that. Seriously, I once heard someone singing ‘a land of high money’ while you knew all the words perfectly.”
“And that’s an achievement, how exactly?” She moved the other mare away. “It’s a song about flags and patriotism, of course I’d be good at that. But carols? Non, Octavia, that’s a different story!”
...for the last time, Fleur, no means no! This is a public place. Look to your sister, at least she can behave...
“How is it different?” Octavia’s face grew strained. “You have a clear voice, you can be heard if you want. The only thing you have to do is change the topic to decorations on a tree, presents, Santa Hooves, being together with others, you know, all those things which make the atmosphere of Hearth’s Warming so special. You just have to feel it!”
“Then find someone who can feel it!”
She shouted.
Not her proudest moment, definitely—she regretted it instantly. She raised her voice not to make a point, but in anger, plain and simple. Octavia stared at her wide-eyed, shocked even, and when Fleur raised her hoof towards her, she instinctively moved away. The ponies walking around the fountain took wider arcs now, just in case. Fleur didn’t dare to look at her daughter, she was too afraid to see disappointment in her eyes, or embarrassment, or any of a hundred feelings coursing through her. What just happened? How did it go from searching for the princess to shouting at her friend?
...we are Prench, Fleur, and we are proud to be so. There will be no silly caroling. Do you understand?
Yes, mother...
“Fleur… are you alright?” Octavia asked unsurely.
“Mom?”
She gasped for breath. It was getting a bit too emotional for her.
“F-forgive my outburst,” she mumbled. “But I don’t think I am the right pony for the job. It’s just… I’m not. Ever since I moved here I’ve been trying to figure out how Equestrians celebrate Hearth’s Warming, and how me, a Prench girl from a rather traditional Prench family which doesn’t care about this… this so darn wondrous time of the year, how I can fit it!”
She needed to collect herself. Breathe in... breathe out...
“You want me to sing about a tree which I never got to decorate until I was a grown mare. You want me to sing about presents that were just like any other gifts, because Santa Hooves was my parents all along. I… I can’t partake in the atmosphere… because I never understood it.”
She felt warmth forming in the corner of her eye, warmth which traveled down her cheek with a trail of coldness. She wiped the tear with her scarf.
“Forgive me, Fleur,” Octavia said quietly. “I never knew it was such a complex topic for you. Perhaps I should go look—nope, never mind. She’s here.”
“I—”
Following a tried and trusted way to regain her composure—and not for the first time escaping her inner, conflicted self—Fleur focused on looks and appearances.
Hyacinth appeared, a purse in her hoof and visibly displeased with the crowd. Her small, beady eyes went through a series of twitches, as if she was reevaluating her situation. Another twitch and the musician retreated behind Fleur, likely choosing the lesser evil. Hyacinth wore the right expression in an instant. She considered Fleur her greatest ally in the Elite, because of course she did. She brought to mind Fleur’s least favorite aunt whose sole reason for waking up was to criticize someone else’s life choices, so with that in mind, even Hyacinth’s warm smile she beamed at them felt somewhat patronizing.
Fleur’s thoughts dashed back to her family, but found only more unfulfilled childhood dreams. Back. Go back!
Unlike Auntie Jaune-Jonquil, however, that chubby mare had style, and to her credit, was choosing her ensembles accordingly. She didn’t try to squeeze herself into size six when she was clearly an eight. She wore her vintage floral dresses to impress, she was not extravagant, at least not from the forehead down. Upwards, it was a different tale, as she happened to have a certain affinity for hats, and owned possibly the largest collection thereof in the city. Tonight’s choice was a burgundy, wide-brimmed hat with silvered snowflakes scattered on the outer rim, and a row of tiny bells around the band which jingled with her every move.
Which were as numerous as her eye twitches.
“There you are, oh my dear, dear Octaaavia!” Hyacinth gave a high-pitched screech. “And, hello to you, Fleur. And young Miss Chestnuts, too!” She nuzzled her hoof at the filly’s cheek like they were besties, but if Chestnut had anything against that, she did not flinch. “How delightful to see you both. Now, Octavia, I must have misheard you the first time, dear. Surely you didn’t mean to tell me that you already have someone to work with you during your recital, did you?”
“Actually…”
In a last-ditch effort, Octavia looked up to Fleur, but the mare was too focused on keeping a straight face to look back. She was not a singer. She was a model, retired though, a socialite, a Prench not-so-ex-general’s daughter, she was all of those things, and she certainly did not see herself in the role of a singer. Of course there was that one time she thought it would be interesting to carol on the streets of Pearis, but her mother would always thwart her attempts as immature. In the end, she was not a singer. She was not.
She felt a discreet nudge, one that she’d given out earlier today, one that returned to her with the reassurance she needed.
After all, she’d never thought she’d have a thestral for a daughter either.
“Actually, she has. Me.” Fleur stepped forth, throwing a genuine fake regret at the other mare. “I’m terribly sorry to steal the spotlight from you, Hyacinth. I know how you love to sing.”
First came a torrent of twitches that jolted across Hyacinth’s face. Second, her sweetened giggle. “Really? How unexpectedly marvelous! I shall take the proverbial step back and leave the stage tonight to you, dear. And I will do so gladly! I’m looking forward to getting to know your dulcet aptitude. Or should I say, hearing forward”—she moved dangerously close to Octavia’s face with a chuckle—“if you forgive the parlance we, the ponies of music sometimes get into.”
“You do?” Chestnut raised her eyebrow.
“We really don’t.” Octavia deadpanned, but Hyacinth was already back by Fleur’s side.
“Perhaps my exquisite New Year’s Punch Tastextravaganza could use a vocalist like you? You do remember you are all cordially invited, don’t you?” she asked in what must have been the seventh or eighth reminder since the last Canterlot Elite meeting, not counting the announcement letter and the following invitation proper, or Rich Card’s morning visit.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Fleur drawled. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need a moment to, uh, prepare.”
“By all means! Do not waste your pretty, mellifluously inclined voices on setting the stage. I will take care of everything.” She ironed Octavia’s pink bow tie with her hoof. “You take your time and I will round up the ponies and inform them that this year’s Hearth’s Warming will be given the voice of none other than Fleur de Lis. Well, not all the ponies. Only those in the same income bracket as us. Still, a little excitement is very much called for, wouldn’t you say? Oh, is that North Star? I’m going to start with her. Toodle-oo!”
“Non, wait, I’d rather keep it… on the… low profile… thing. And, she’s gone.” Fleur gritted her teeth. “Seriously. It’s Hearth’s Warming. Why can’t she take this one day off? Just one!” She went as far as snarling, which was both largely inappropriate and much needed at the same time. The last thing she needed right now was the Elite scrutinizing her every move. “Nutsie, go find the others. Tell them that if I mess this up they better be coming to my rescue.”
“On it!” Chestnut spread her wings, but didn’t take off immediately. She did a double-take. “Wait, what? We’re still talking about just a carol, right?”
Fleur pushed a stray forelock of her daughter’s mane back under her cap. “Nothing is ‘just’ a something when there are ponies like me or dad involved.”
“Yeah. Kinda noticed that. But I’m not getting it in full details yet.” She gave an innocent shrug. “I mean, now that I’m in this together with you, I suppose it’s just another part of the fancy living stuff I need to learn.”
“There are ponies out there who look up to ponies like us. Whether we like it or not, our decisions can affect more than just one Fleur or Fancy Pants.” It wasn’t the best of times for a dodgeball seminar, but she managed to find a quick example. “Whether it’s choosing one designer’s dress over another or singing in public, there will be those who will and won’t approve the choice you’ve made, and you’ll have to live with the consequences.”
Chestnut nodded in understanding, but shook her head halfway through.
“Yeah... I’m not getting it. But you’ll teach me and I will one day, right?”
“Only if you’ll want to.” She raised her hoof for a bump, a gesture which was gingerly reciprocated. “Now go!”
With the filly gone, her expression grew sour.
“Since half the Elite has me for a deviant, getting half of Canterlot to think the same will be a definite step forward, wouldn’t you say? Don’t even answer, it was rhetorical. Now, what next?”
“You’re saving my life, Fleur, I won’t forget it.” Octavia was around her neck before she could protest. “Try the book—we can do something you’re comfortable with.”
Fleur leafed through the songbook, reminiscing about those couple of times in her life she actually sang. National anthems. Happy birthdays. That short-lived adventure in her high school’s choir. To her surprise, her thoughts took her deeper into her childhood. What experience did she have with carols, anyway? One Hearth’s Warming in Pearis, before her mother scolded her for making supposedly pointless noises in public, known also as singing, she actually learned a couple of winter-themed songs. She did it on the off chance of finding carolers along the way with which she could share some genuine cheer. Spoiler alert: she never did.
Were the old songs still valid today?
“Gah, it would be easier if I my repertoire wasn’t so limited. Where is it—aha!” She halted her search at a comfortable, classic piece. “This. Can you play this?”
“I can play anything.” Octavia threw her a glare before consulting the book. “Papaya Berry? Alright, this is going to be easy. And once again, I owe you.”
“Shush. I’m concentrating.”
“Sorry.”
There she was, caught between the fountain’s cold stone and a giant tree which she was certain would fall down should she sing out of tune. She was surrounded by a semi-circle of ponies, but at least she was not alone, backed by the greatest musician she’d ever known. Hyacinth was frighteningly efficient, she had to give her that. In addition to a lovely couple of North Star and Blue Moon, she brought the Canterlot art curator Silver Frames, and Four Steps, a dance teacher Fleur had been seeing frequently on high culture events. And about a hundred ponies that were there to judge her performance—alright, perhaps that hundred was more like two dozen tops. But they didn’t look any less intimidating. Of course she did face crowds before, but never armed with a songbook.
One stroke of the bow after another, the cello went alive. There was no escape now.
Fleur joined in with the vocals at a slow, rhythmic pace.
O wondrous night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the eve of Equestria’s birth
Long were the tribes in woesome mistrust fighting
‘Till hope appeared for all who dreamt of mirth
A flame of old, the weary pon’es rejoice
For yonder south a new land is born
Well, there’s that. Her voice was far from heavenly, but it was decent. At least the ponies weren’t running away, a good sign. At first she thought that singing over her accent would be troublesome, but it wasn’t so—after all, all the Hearth’s Warming songs she’d ever learned, she did in their original, Equestrian versions. Was it her juvenile way of protesting her family, or fate’s foreshadowing that she would eventually marry a stallion of this soil? She couldn’t tell.
Open your hearts
O hear our unity’s calling
O night for one tribe
O night to make amends
Ooh night to shine, o night
O night to shine
More ponies approached with varying degrees of interest, but Fleur liked to think it was only because of the cello. Right now, it was Octavia who took the stage with a purely instrumental passage, but in a moment’s time she would give Fleur the spotlight. She was no longer afraid. It was just another kind of performance, albeit a different one from a catwalk stroll. Standing still instead of parading back and forth, it was like finding a center to an aspect of her life that had been all over the place for the past… well, many years.
In the morning she set out to find the meaning of Hearth’s Warming. Now she was finally getting it.
A flame of old, the weary pon’es rejoice
For yonder south a new land is born
Traditional Prench families did not celebrate Hearth’s Warming, calling it a foreigners’ holiday. But Fleur had always suspected it meant more. It was about following the example set by the ancient pony tribes which was universal and didn’t apply just to Equestrians. It was about celebrating unity among ponies, proving their fraternity, about cheering to the liberty from their past when they were divided. Last but not least, it was about family—spending time with them, appreciating them and loving them for what they were and not just during a customary gift exchange.
Tonight, it wasn’t just a song she was singing. It was her creed.
Open your hearts
O hear our unity’s calling
O night for one tribe
O night to make amends
Ooh night to shiiine!
O night to shine…
The crowd, having grown by a substantial degree, cheered and stomped their hooves. Neither Octavia nor Fleur were rock stars, so the message they read wasn’t a ‘we love you forever’ but more like ‘thanks, we appreciate that you’re with us this season’—which was its own reward. A couple of ponies, from the high society and the regular crowd alike, came up and congratulated them in person. Congratulated Fleur on her performance!
Octavia twirled her bow. “Not bad! Perhaps in your retirement you should actually take up singing? You are—oh, alright, now you’re embarrassing me. Oh dear.”
“Oh merci, merci, merci!” Fleur’s hug wasn’t getting any less firm. “Thank you for dragging me into this. Singing on Hearth’s Warming Eve… it’s been kind of a big deal for me.”
“Careful with the affection!” Octavia giggled. “I don’t want to end up explaining myself to Fancy Pants, but if you keep on hanging off my neck like that...”
“Oui, of course. My apologies.”
“No offense taken,” the mare replied with a playful wink. “Oh, look. Hyacinth is already busy scoring points. What a surprise.”
Fleur got to the tips of her hooves to see over the crowd.
“…a close acquaintance of mine, naturally,” Hyacinth said to someone who looked both important and too well-behaved to tell her to buzz off. “Fleur de Lis, of course I do know her. Yes, she is a brave mare for singing in public like that. Why, of course I’ve been saying that for years now. Did you know that she adopted a lovely thestral recently? I was there, supporting her decision with all my heart. Such progressive thinking…”
Fleur stifled a giggle. One could always count on Hyacinth to be a Hyacinth.
“A most inspiring performance indeed,” said a new, familiar yet alien voice behind her. “You certainly have the aptitude... Fleur de Lis, is it?”
The mare in question turned around, glad to give a hoofshake to her newfound fan, or even a signature if they requested it. Yet, when she found herself facing the towering posture and the unmistakable flowing mane, she squeaked like a rubber duck. A surprised, slightly intimidated, and suddenly much less tall than usual rubber duck.
Because when Princess Luna compliments you, there’s really not much you can say.
“Eep!”