The day had overheated, so much so that the ground shimmered, the sky turned to brass and the scents of early summer, of cut grass and late spring blooms and sticky tree sap, were burned away and replaced with the bitter tang of sun-cracked stone and baked earth.
A wall of silence surrounded Octavia as she lounged on the verandah of her modest home, in the southern quarter of Canterlot's Garden District. The neighbourhood was entirely deserted, with not a single pony in sight, as everyone had retreated indoors to escape the burning stillness, or had travelled to the by-now crowded city parks, with their dozens and hundreds of water features, fountains and cool river glades. Even the insects had called off early to enjoy the heat, leaving Octavia's jug of lemonade unmolested as it sat in the shade behind her. A glass of the same was nursed against her side, topped off with a long straw and a cute little umbrella that she had absolutely no memory of even buying, but which seemed quite appropriate nevertheless.
Perhaps thanks to that umbrella, her lemonade was still quite cool when she took a sip. Octavia sighed and lidded her eyes against the sun as she returned to watching the silent peace of a world that had, for the moment, fallen asleep. It was tempting to join in, and perhaps she would have, had a shadow not chosen to flicker across her lawn at that precise moment.
After a lazy stretch, Octavia slunk from her seat and leaned on the verandah fence, peering up at the sky before. A pegasus drifted lazily across the endless, cloudless blue, its wings outstretched and still as it rode some distant thermal to ever greater heights.
"Nothing important," she murmured, as she stepped back into the shade, just in time for a needling, high-pitched squeal to impinge on her consciousness.
From above, her mind sang as her ears swept to find the source. At the same time as she looked up, she heard, or more accurately felt a thunderous crash as something crunched against the verandah roof. The sound was followed by a second, quieter impact, and then a third, before a bright grey pegasus flopped from the roof and landed on the grass with a loud yelp.
"Oh my goodness, are you—" was all Octavia could manage before a second, large and very familiar object slid from the roof and crashed to the ground right in between the pegasus and Octavia.
She stared at the curved black shape lying on the grass, losing interest entirely in the pegasus that preceded it. It was a case. A cello case.
Her cello case.
"Ah," she said.
The pegasus shook her head and stared up at Octavia with freakishly mismatched eyes, but Octavia didn't notice that. She was too busy staring at her cello case. There was a scuff mark on the side, one that was very familiar, from a time several years ago she had dropped it while climbing from the train. The accident had tormented her with horrible visions of a smashed instrument all the way back to her home, where she had finally found the courage to open it and had been rewarded with the sight of a perfectly intact cello. It had fallen all of a metre.
Perhaps slightly less...
Now that mark was joined by several large, obvious cracks across the lower body of the case. She took a single step closer as the pegasus, whose grin had grown a little uncertain, hopped over the cello case and held up a piece of paper in front of Octavia's face.
"Hi! Miss Octavia? I've got a package you need to sign for!"
Octavia's gaze dropped to the pegasus in front of her. "What?"
"The package. Gotta sign for it so I can get along home. You are miss Octavia, right?" The pegasus lowered her form and stared up at Octavia in a somewhat roundabout way. She was frowning as well, and pouting too, if that could be believed. "I know I got the right place this time. I'm sorry if I'm late, I had a few, um, paperwork problems to deal with before I could start my shift. But I got your package here in one piece, so everything's fine!"
"What?"
The package mare backed up and tapped the cello case, eliciting a disturbing rattle from its contents, a sound not entirely unlike that of several thousand bits-worth of finely crafted spruce and maple shortly after they had been reduced to matches and kindling. With great care the pegasus lifted her hoof from the package and grinned uncertainly at Octavia, then quickly turned her back as she wrestled with the case's latches.
"I'm sure it's fine!" she squealed as the first latch snapped open.
"What?"
Another latch flew aside and then detached from the case entirely, ringing quietly as it arced away into the grass. "J-just fine! I-I didn't—I didn't break another! I..."
A final latch gave, and the case popped open in a shower of splintered wood. Octavia felt her breath catch in her throat just as she heard a tiny squeak of terror from the pegasus. When she tried to speak it was as if her windpipe were clasped in the grip of a minotaur, and at that a particularly cruel beast who only let her breathe in, but never out, until each gasp threatened to burst her lungs.
She closed her eyes, forced her quaking mouth to close, and swallowed very carefully. Perhaps the heat was making her imagine things. She hadn't just seen her priceless cello reduced to splinters before her eyes; she was fast asleep, and probably had just spilled a little lemonade on her coat, and that's why she felt as if her chest was burning and her heart was about to crawl out of her throat and dance a waltz on the floor. And anyway she hated waltzes.
The sound of crackling, falling shards of wood made her wince and cringe. Then came another yelp. It sounded almost... triumphant?
"What?"
"I said it's okay! Look!"
That sounded hopeful. Octavia opened her eyes and looked down just as the pegasus lifted her miraculously intact cello from the wreckage. She ran, practically leaping the low verandah rail as she raced for the cello, before tugging it from the other mare's grip. Its polished face gleamed in the bright afternoon sun, and its strings sparkled with taut life, humming gently as the instrument was maneuvered by reverent hooves.
"I guess the case is busted," the pegasus continued, oblivious to Octavia's rapture. "But at least it kept your giant fiddle safe!"
Octavia's grip on the cello tightened and she closed her eyes, refusing to look at anything.
"So, are you gonna sign?"
"Cello."
"What?"
The uneasy grin was back when Octavia turned to look at the torment of her instrument. She stared down at the rumpled form held before her. By instinct she clutched the cello a little closer to her neck.
"This is not a 'fiddle'." Octavia ran her hoof down the face of the cello again, listening for a sign of anything amiss. "It is not some two-bit lump of wood and paper with a missing string and a wonky bridge, to be played by a half-deaf folk singer in a seedy bar, but a finely crafted classical instrument built to serve as the expressive outlet of an artist. It is constructed from the finest of woods, by the most skilled and meticulous of craftsmares, to the most precise tolerances, in order to produce the most exquisite sound! It is perfection, it is beauty, it probably costs more just to have it relacquered than you earn in an entire Celestia-blessed year, and you have just dropped it several-hundred metres onto my roof!"
The last of Octavia's words echoed back to her from some distant wall as she gasped and leaned forward to catch her breath, while the cello and its all-too-perfect finish slid against her coat, threatening to fall again. Her hoof shot to the neck, and the instrument hummed briefly as she wrapped it in a tight hug, while her gaze roved over its face in search of any sign of damage.
There came a sniffling gasp, and then a sob that hitched in the delivery mare's throat as she tried tried to pretend she hadn't made the sound. When she looked up it was impossible for Octavia to ignore the tears tracking down the poor mare's face, and matting thick, grey valleys in the coat on her cheeks. Harder still to ignore the way she swallowed and choked back another quiet moan.
Shoulders slumping, heart rent and burning, Octavia closed her eyes and held out her hoof for the papers. Again a moment later she held it out for a pen, which the pegasus duly provided. It was slick with tears, though Octavia had no idea how that could have happened. She scribbled her name across the form and passed it back without a word, and the pegasus sobbed again as she snatched it away to stuff in her saddlebag.
The cello felt heavy in her hooves as Octavia turned to it again. Its strings sang brightly as she ran a gentle touch down its face.
"I'm sorry," she breathed.
The sniffling continued, which at least meant the mare had heard her. Probably. Octavia lowered her instrument to the ground as she moved toward the pegasus, who was now making a valiant attempt to water the garden with her face. As she drew close, Octavia could see a coat that was ruffled and unkempt, matted and lathered with sweat, and a mane plastered slick to the poor mare's neck.
"I shouldn't have been so..." Octavia continued. She glanced back at her verandah, and felt her body collapse into her legs just a little more. "You didn't deserve... I'm sorry."
Though she didn't take her eyes from the ground, the pegasus still managed a small nod. Sniffling and wiping her face with her wrist, she turned and raised her wings for flight. Octavia glanced at her verandah again, and the pitcher of lemonade sitting in the shade.
"Wait." Octavia closed her eyes again and took a breath. "Don't go. Not yet."
The pegasus looked back at her between feathered limbs, blinking tears from her eyes. She lowered and folded her wings and turned slowly to face Octavia again, frowning, but curious. When Octavia smiled at her, she responded with a shy smile of her own.
"You look as if you've been working very hard, miss..." She raised her eyebrow and waited. The pegasus frowned a moment, then her eyes went wide and she made a little oh sound.
"Derpy, miss. Um... no. Ditzy Thunderpeal Hooves. The first," she added quickly, before rubbing her snout and sniffling again. "That is, I think so. Momma was never too clear about what she meant by that. But everypony calls me Derpy."
"Miss Hooves."Octavia pressed a hoof to her forehead for a moment. "Forgive me, I—you look as if you've been in this dreadful heat for quite some time, and I'm sure you've tried your very best. I didn't mean to snap at you like that, but this cello—" she paused, letting the emphasis of the word reach the messenger's ears "—means a great deal to me. If it were damaged..."
Octavia shook her head and let out a short breath. There was no way to carry on that sentence without accusing the poor mare again. She let her head hang and tried to smile.
"Forgive me."
"Oh i-it's okay, miss Octavia. All in a d-days work, right?"
"Of course," Octavia sighed, looking about herself. She stepped back to her cello. Grasping its neck between her forehooves, she lifted the instrument onto her back, where she could just about balance it if she kept one hoof on the peg box. "Of course, but I feel I should make some form of recompense. Perhaps..."
Her eyes came to rest again on the lemonade sitting in the shade by the wall.
"It is rather warm. Perhaps some refreshments?" Octavia turned back to find the pegasus nodding enthusiastically to her suggestion. "Very well. I shall take my instrument somewhere a little safer."
Satisfied that she had mollified the mare, Octavia hiked her cello onto her back and trotted up through the front door of her house. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she passed into the shady interior. The spacious open-plan reception echoed to the sound of hooves on rich oak flooring, and Octavia found herself trapping along to the rhythm of the first movement of Villazorra's O Imprevisto as she crossed the room.
She settled the cello on a stand in the corner, where it joined a bass, a viol she never used and a music stand bearing the treasured, mouth-written pages of her own first – and so far, only – symphony. Her eyes strayed to the scribbled notes on the page, while her mind yet again wandered through the memory of her first performance of the piece; she smiled, though without humour, and turned away to give her cello one final examination while the sound of hoofsteps echoed again through her home.
And then, frowning, Octavia turned to look at the pony who had dared intrude on her privacy. Derpy grinned back at her from a short distance inside the door.
"What are you doing in my house?"
"Oh, I—um—" Derpy turned a fraction to show the lemonade jug resting between her wings. The gesture was accompanied by yet another of those strangely infectious smiles. "I brought the lemonade. I figured you didn't want to just leave it outside where anypony could drink it."
It was difficult to resist a return to those earlier monosyllabic responses, but Otavia rallied herself with a firm clench of her jaw and nodded. Once. Symbolic of acknowledgement, but not necessarily acceptance. She raised a hoof toward her kitchen.
"Leave it on the bar. And since you're here, you may as well make yourself comfortable as well."
"Thanks! Gee, this is a big house you got here..."
Octavia watched Derpy with narrow eyes as she carefully deposited the jug on the kitchen counter with both wings. Satisfied that there would be no further damage, she turned for one last look at her cello. If there had been so much as a scratch... but the instrument was whole and unblemished, its skin shining bright beneath a fresh coat of lacquer that, truth be told, cost rather less than Octavia had claimed in the heat of her anger.
"Are these all cellos?"
To her eternal gratitude, Octavia froze before she could jump in shock at the voice right by her ear. Instead she turned, slowly, to glare at the pony now standing uncomfortably close to her viol. Derpy – the nickname had lodged in Octavia's mind already – held her nose a hair's-breadth from the viol's strings, which were even now humming gently beneath the mare's breath.
"Miss," Octavia said, her voice strained. "Miss, I would be grateful if you could perhaps close the door."
"Oh." The mailmare stumbled back a step and turned most of her gaze to Octavia. She smiled. "Right! Sorry. It's just, they all seem so important to you."
"They are as important to my livelihood as your wings are to yours," Octavia replied. She frowned, unable to quite stop herself leaning away from her not-quite guest.
Yet something about the mare's face, some innocent lack of guile perhaps, damped Octavia's ire before it could begin to truly burn. She found herself glancing between the instruments and the pegasus, this Derpy, and could only shake her head at the absurdity of it all.
A sigh escaped her lips. She hooked a hoof over Derpy's withers and turned her toward the bar. "The largest is an instrument called a bass, which I rarely play. The smallest is a viol."
"Like a violin?"
"In the same way that a princess is like a pony," Octavia drawled. "Or a cello like a fiddle."
The barb was unwarranted, but Derpy didn't rise to it. Instead she hopped onto a stool, humming tunelessly as she looked about the walls of Octavia's home. There wasn't a great deal to take in: a little artwork here, a few photographs there. A minimalist clock case, little more than a slender black box with a face atop it, stood opposite the door.
A quiet hiss of entrained magic whispered around the room, accompanied by the chill of a fresh breeze falling from vents around the ceiling, as a (very expensive) unicorn-crafted air conditioner drew cool air from the deep cellar below her home. Octavia closed her eyes and let the dry chill caress her neck and back, before turning her attention to serving her guest. Two glasses were easily retrieved from beneath the kitchen, where she kept a stock large enough to serve a substantial gathering. She paused only a moment to ponder how increasingly rare such occasions had become in her life.
As Octavia lifted the jug to pour, she found herself the sudden centre of Derpy's rapt attention. And when had she decided to use that nickname anyway? "While I don't mean to pry," she said as she poured a generous serving for both of them, "I can't help but wonder by which name you prefer to be known."
There. All nice and formal. She wouldn't suspect that Octavia had been mentally labelling her an idiot for the last ten minutes.
"It kinda sticks, doesn't it?"
Dammit. Octavia sighed. "I didn't mean to offend."
Derpy grinned, the very image of guileless simplicity, at least until you paid attention. "As long as you aren't chasing me with a bill you can call me whatever you like."
"Fortunately the case you broke is only a minor exp—" Octavia closed her eyes and let out a long, quiet groan. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep bringing up your—"
"Accident?" Derpy picked up her glass – oddly, grasping it between the primary feathers of both her wings – and took a delicate taste of her lemonade. "It's ok, you can be mad about it if you want."
"No." Octavia looked away, lest Derpy see the pleading of her eyes. Instead she picked up her drink, holding it in salute toward the trio of instruments. "That's what a case is for, is it not? To protect its contents from little accidents? And after all, my cello is safe."
"Even so." Derpy set her drink down and pulled the hat from her head, retrieving a squat, black pad of paper from somewhere within it. She set it and a quill pen on the counter between them. The pad made a quiet squeak as she pushed it toward Octavia.
She thought it best not to focus on the fact that the quill was grey.
"What is this?"
"Insurance claim. If you want to," Derpy added quickly. "If I don't ask and you write my boss, I get in even more trouble."
The sincerity in her voice was galling to Octavia, so used to the superficial smarm of her professional circle, not to mention the never-ending intrigue and gossip. She moved the pad aside and shook her head again. "As I said, it is no matter."
"Ok!" Derpy slipped the pad and quill away somewhere.