EET EET EET EET
I slammed a hoof against my alarm clock. I groaned, sat up, and buried my face in my hooves. I’d been doing this for five years, but five o’clock was still too damn early in the morning.
I sat that way for several minutes, then peeled back my covers and stumbled out of bed. I lit my horn, then groggily made my way to the glass case over the mantle. I opened it without looking, and fished out the Peytral inside—the wide, low-slung collar with the magic stone in it—then slipped it around my neck, pressed the two ends together behind me, and dropped the small, golden pin into the latch behind my neck. As soon as I heard the click of the pin sliding home, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a little shiver of magic ran up my wings and out to the tips of my feathers.
My wings. Five years later, and I still wasn’t entirely used to them. They were heavy, and hot, and itchy, and, more often than not, just got in the way. Plus, after the initial rush, flying wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be—I’d rather take the train, truth be told. But, love ‘em or hate ‘em, wings and horns came with the Peytral; as long as I was Princess, I’d have to learn to deal with the darn things.
I glanced at my alarm clock, the numbers glowing green in the darkness. 5:13. Dammit. Sunrise was at 5:30. It was always at 5:30.
But, then again, I wasn’t in the mood to wait. And fifteen extra minutes of sunshine wouldn’t hurt anyone.
I stumbled out onto my balcony overlooking the Palace Courtyard, and, beyond it, the Canterlot Valley below. The stars were still out, and the crickets were chirping. I lit my horn, and felt the stone against my chest grow warmer. Soon, the horizon began to grow rosy pink. As soon as the first sliver of sun peeked up over the horizon, I doused my horn, then reached back and ripped out the pin holding the Peytral together. Instantly, the stone turned cold—but, before I could feel it, I’d already pried the whole thing off my neck and walked back into my room. As I passed the case on the mantle, I tossed the Pyetral back into its case, with an echoing crash of metal. Philomena, dozing on her perch, squawked irritably at me as I made my way towards the bathroom.
I stood in the shower, water running through my already sodden mane and down my legs, until the water started to go cold. I half-heartedly blow-dried and brushed out my mane and tail, flapped my wings to air-dry my feathers a little, then finished by snapping a scrunchie into my mane.
I plodded to my closet, then grabbed my hoodie from where it lay in a heap on the floor. It was dark blue, with CHS Senior Band printed in gold across the chest. I pulled it on and yawned, smacked my lips once or twice, then turned and gazed stupidly around my room.
By now, the sun was up, bathing everything in rosy-orange light. There, in the corner by the balcony, stood my ratty old armchair and matching ottoman, covered in loose homework and empty chip bags. Just at the foot of the chair stood my fireplace—a lifesaver in the wintertime, still romantic in the summertime, and useful for sending messages all year round. The mantle was crowded with little mementos—a cheap plastic snowglobe from Manehattan, a framed picture of me and Twi when we were little—and, in the middle—
I swallowed, then stepped closer.
In the center of the mantle, below a dramatic, full-size portrait of Princess Helia, lay a long, low glass case, currently hanging open. Inside, on a cushion of velvet, lay my Royal Regalia: my horseshoes, my crown, and, of course, the Big Mama—the Peytral Aurum, the true badge of my office.
The Peytral was a wide, low-slung collar made of gold, designed like some ancient piece of armor, engraved and decorated until it looked more like a piece of art than anything you could actually wear. It was set with a number of hefty gems, but the biggest stone by far was almost invisible, save for a peek through a small, diamond-shaped window in the front of the collar: the Sun Stone, a wide, flat, eight-sided purple gem. It was mounted on the back side of the Peytral, placed so it would press against my chest when I put the thing on.
Truth be told, the Peytral was still a little big on me, but that wasn’t the important bit; after all, the local jeweler’s can’t exactly resize a magical artifact on demand. I would grow into it, eventually—that was part of the magic. No, the most important part of the whole thing was the Sun Stone itself: not only was it a priceless gem on its own, but it was, y’know, what gave me the magical power to raise the sun every day. No biggie.
The Peytral, the single most important thing I owned, literal priceless artifact and the reason for my existence, currently lay upside-down in tangle of ornate horseshoes in the corner of the case where I’d thrown it, with my crown lying haphazardly on top. Looking at it all, I felt a little twinge of guilt—but I quickly brushed it off. The maids would straighten it up. They always did.
I sighed, then turned back to my room. Opposite the fireplace stood my old four-poster bed—still a mess, of course, with pillows and stuffed animals scattered everywhere. Philomena, my pet phoenix, stood on her perch just beside my bed, dozing; she looked up at me, tweeted sleepily, then put her head back under her wing. Leaning against the base of her perch were my schoolbags, the flaps hanging open, papers spilling everywhere. Next to it stood my trumpet case, CHS BAND painted on the side, a pile of sheet music sitting on top. Above it all hung a crooked, black-and-white poster of Joust Hoofstrong, his trumpet pressed to his lips as gently as if he was kissing a pretty mare. I smiled a little, then looked away.
Beside the bed stood my nightstand, bearing a messy stack of blank parchment, a few gnawed quills, and a half-empty bottle of ink. And there, beside the lamp on my nightstand, stood my alarm clock, the display currently reading 6:52.
I stared. 6:52.
Another breathless moment—then I swore, turned, and scrambled out the door.
Two minutes later, I stumbled into the Palace kitchens. It was always rather hectic in here, but ponies knew to give me wide berth, at least in the mornings. They already had my pancake mix laid out, next to several dishes of sliced fruit and an empty griddle—but I didn’t have time for pancakes today. Instead, I grabbed a spare bowl off a passing china cart, filled it with Gold’n Hooves from a box in the pantry, and sloshed some milk over it from one of the open jugs in the walk-in fridge. On the way out, I shoved a spoon and a can of Mountie Dew in the pocket of my hoodie.
I hurried from the kitchens to the Breakfast salon, pushed open the door, then hesitated. The clock on the opposite wall read 7:01. Two of the seats at the circular table were already full, leaving the one in the far corner for me. I rolled my eyes, then sidled along one wall. As I passed behind one of the chairs, I accidentally nudged it with my hip, and its occupant, my older brother Blueblood, turned and shot me a glare.
“Sunbutt,” he said by way of greeting.
“Blueballs,” I shot back, as I squeezed past him.
“Now, children,” said a voice, “there is no call for that sort of language. Especially at the breakfast-table.”
I pulled my seat out and flopped down into it, just as Blueblood bowed. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies.”
I just shoved a spoonful of cereal in my mouth, not daring to look up.
Blueblood smirked at me, then turned back to his coffee. He had two years on me, and had apparently spent most of that extra time inventing new ways to torture his future sister. He’d graduated from school a while ago, and I kept on half-expecting him to go and try and make something of himself—he’s gotten his cutie mark in astronomy, after all—but it seemed he was never really going to leave the nest after all. His new life goal, as far as I could tell, was to be a gold medalist in the Debauchery Olympics. And he’d been making a good try of it, at least.
But, then again, he’d been born a colt. It wasn’t him who’d have to—
“Your Highness,” said the voice again, “no pancakes this morning.” An observation, not a question.
“She must have been up late again,” Blueblood volunteered.
“Writing Twilight?”
“Doubtless.”
I snarled. I had been writing Twilight, but that wasn’t the point. “I couldn’t sleep,” I said aloud.
“Even so,” said the voice, “that is no excuse for failing to take adequate care of oneself.”
I almost shot back that I’d had a nightmare—but then, I remembered who I was speaking to. I was in a bad mood, but I wasn’t crazy. Instead, I cracked open my soda, put the can to my lips, tilted my head back, and took a long pull. As I set the can down, I locked eyes with the owner of the voice, the other occupant of the table.
“Great-Aunt Luna,” I said evenly.
Aunt Loonie sat at the third seat of the table, already wearing one of her old-fashioned dresses, with long sleeves and a high, lacy collar. She was tall and lean, wrinkled, almost withered sometimes, but she had an inner fire that anyone who crossed her—including myself—was all too familiar with. She wore her blue-steel mane in a tight bun, and a tiny pair of pince-nez glasses. Honestly, with her millenium-old fashions and equally-strict manners, sometimes she looked like she’d stepped straight out of a history book—and, truth be told, most of the time I wished that was where she’d stayed.
But, despite my wishing, she was a Princess. Though I couldn’t see it, I could tell it was there—under her dress, across her chest, lay her own ceremonial collar, thought lost for a millennium: a wide, black-iron band, set with a clear-cut crystal. The Peytral Ferrum: the badge of her Princesshood. She was never without it—sometimes, I suspected she even slept in the thing.
Loonie watched me for a moment longer, then turned back to her breakfast. I knew what she was having without even looking at it: a single cup of hot chocolate, thick and old-fashioned; one crumpet, lightly toasted; one pat of butter, warmed; one small pot of orange marmalade, cool but not cold; one butter knife, placed in the upper-left corner of the plate at a thirty-five degree angle; a tiny spoon, placed beside the marmalade, for serving; all prepared, ready, and in place, at 7:00 AM sharp.
I looked down and shoved another spoonful of cereal in my mouth. I heard Luna light her horn; a moment later, she tapped the marmalade spoon on the edge of the pot, which rang out with a high-pitched ting-ting.
“Princess Celestia,” she said, almost casually. I looked up; that was her “I expect a response” tone.
I swallowed my cereal. “Cece,” I corrected her.
“Unless there has been a recent development,” she said, her eyes on the knife she was using to spread her marmalade, “your mother named you Celestia, not See-see.” She enunciated the nickname, disdain dripping from every letter.
I scowled.
“In any case,” she continued, “after Orchestra, there will be a short dedication ceremony at the new Starflower Memorial Elementary. It would be most gracious of you to attend.”
Most gracious. Coming from her, that was an order.
“Actually,” I said, “I already have plans. For after Band,” I added.
Loonie glanced up at me over her glasses. “Really,” she said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. “Pray tell.”
“I’ve... scheduled a public service opportunity,” I improvised. “Helping the less fortunate, you know.”
Don’t ask what don’t ask what—
“If I may ask,” she said, “Doing what?”
Dammit.
I sighed. “Helping… helping an old family maintain a historical site.”
Loonie raised an eyebrow, then gave a little approving half-nod. I started to smile—
“Meaning,” Blueblood interjected, “she wants to help the Apples down on the farm.”
I whirled on Blueblood. “Who told you that?” I snarled.
“You did,” he said, “just now.” He grinned at me, somehow maintaining the grin even as he took a sip of his coffee.
I scowled at him, then turned to look at Luna, who was already glowering at me over the top of her glasses. I smiled sheepishly.
“Well,” I said, “I really wouldn’t put it that way…”
Loonie set down both knife and crumpet. “Your Highness,” she said firmly, “Though surely you find it amusing to gallivant off like this, you are a Princess. You have duties. And playing in the dirt is not one of them.”
“But why can’t Blueblood do it?” I said, letting a little whine into my voice. “This is really important, and—”
“Blueblood is exempt,” Loonie interrupted, “because Blueblood is not a Princess. And besides,” she said, her voice dropping into a growl, “what, exactly, about spending time with your friends is so important that it simply cannot wait?”
I sat up a little taller. “I promised I would,” I said. “And I keep my promises. Besides, they need the help. Applejack has been trying to harvest the whole orchard by herself. Twilight said they’re—”
Luna’s eyes flashed. “So, that is who this is about, is it?” she said.
I shrank back in my chair.
Loonie leaned forward a little. “Believe me when I say,” she said carefully, “that I have no malice towards my granddaughter. And building good relations with the future Moon Princess is an admirable pursuit. However,” she added, “despite what you may think, your private social obligations do not trump your Royal duties. And your continual habit of shirking your responsibilities must stop at once,” she said. “Especially if doing so involves physical labor. Such is not…” she sniffed. “...proper.”
I scowled. Proper. That one word ended the discussion. Loonie was obsessed with “Proper.” That was about the only thing she ever talked about, at least to me.
Loonie picked up her marmalade knife again. “So,” she said, “I shall expect you to visit Starflower Memorial after you have finished with Orchestra. Some Royal presence is needed there, I think, and I have a previous obligation of my own I must attend to.” She glanced up at me. “Can I count on you to be there?” she asked.
I looked up at her, my eyes smoldering,
“Yes, Aunt Luna,” I lied.