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// Prelude to Amor Hesternalis; the Grecian roses begin to fall... 
// Story: Oh! You Pretty Things 
// by Cosmic Dancer 
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While the noonday sun sweat its warmth into the air outside, Twilight was sat contentedly at the escritoire where she penned all her essays and letters, looking over the list of texts she needed to gather for one of her academic undertakings. Many of the drawers and compartments of the desk were unfastened, containing only writing materials; but on the right hand side, an ebony cabinet bore two striking features: the black wood from which it was fashioned contrasted darkly against the carven mahogany which comprised the rest of the desk, and there was no knob or handle by which it could be opened. Such novelties became common after unicorns began living among the other races of Equestria; want of a knob precluded non-unicorns from prying into the container’s contents, and talented sorcerers (or sorceresses, like Twilight) could easily ensorcel the ebony so that only magicians of comparable talents could access them.

Twilight opened the cabinet to reveal a neatly arranged stack of letters, to which, she had yet to reply. Most were invoices (for rare books and magical apparatuses) which she would have to forward to the court treasury, but some were personal letters from friends and family. Twilight set the invoices aside and looked over the usual correspondence from her mother, through which she was kept informed of the family’s goings-on (or, at least, what her mother knew of them); then, the odd letter from Shining Armor, or her father. Finally, Twilight unfolded a letter from one of her newer epistolary acquaintances, Morning Glory, fiancée to Trixie’s brother, Croix. Though Glory only reached out to Twilight a month prior, they had already exchanged a relatively healthy body of letters wherein they discussed their personal experiences with the family Lulamoon, and Trixie’s place in it.

Morning Glory, herself being a mare of intuition and intelligence (though not a magician), quickly divined Twilight’s feelings for, and relationship with, Trixie, after reading only two letters penned by Sparkle. As it stood, Glory was the only pony in Canterlot, to Twilight’s knowledge, who knew of the relationship.

Twilight had levitated a quill and vellum from another drawer to begin scribing a reply to Glory’s latest letter when she felt Trixie’s magical essence intermingling with the nexus of ley lines on which sat the Golden Oak Library. She returned all the letters and materials, except the invoices, to their respective containers and took special care to close the ebony cabinet. Taking the tins of cookies bought earlier, she trotted down the stairs, to the foyer.

There were spells Twilight was made to learn when she first volunteered to become Trixie’s ‘warden,’ which could have allowed her to passively intuit the stallion’s location at all times, among other vital information, by detaching a portion of her personality and affixing it, magically, to the sanctified golden ring that was fastened on Trixie’s horn. Early on, though, she decided teaching Trixie the value of trust was more important than keeping a metaphysical eye on him.

(There were other, less exacting modes of observing and controlling Trixie through the ring, which didn’t require active spellcasting. For instance, the ritual that bound the ring to Trixie and Twilight to the ring gave her the ability to paralyze Trixie’s body, or give him a painful but otherwise innocuous ‘zap’ simply by willing it. Twilight never found a reason to use these powers, and she doubted her resolve to do so even if Trixie were to provide ample cause.)

The ring’s most important and useful faculty was this: whenever Trixie cast a spell, or performed even a basic magical feat like telekinesis, Twilight instinctively became aware. No matter the circumstances, Twilight would immediately know if Trixie used magic in any way; if she were asleep, and Trixie cast a spell on the other side of the world, she would wake up. It was also Twilight’s privilege to restrict Trixie’s magic, against his will, based on her personal whims; and this was an ability she had no trouble putting into effect (as Trixie gave her many good reasons, on many occasions).

Twilight saw the ground floor empty, but felt a cool waft indicative of the front door being recently opened, and heard Spike and Trixie conversing through the half-open door to the basement. She continued, downward.

The idea of the ring had taken on a peculiar aspect after Twilight and Trixie’s romance had bloomed. When Trixie misused his gifts, it was Twilight’s responsibility to restrict his magical power, but the mercurial stallion’s crying fits and meltdowns (which punctuated these punishments) had become too emotionally painful for her to bear. Consequently, Twilight allowed Trixie to get away with much more than she ever would have had they not become romantically involved.

“I can just tell, Spike, alright?! I was in show business, I’ve seen more tr-” Trixie, album-in-hoof, stifled himself when he saw Twilight approaching.

“How do you even know he actually did it? Maybe this guy was just lying,” Spike picked up his end of the conversation, his back turned to Twilight, and Trixie dragged a hoof across his own neck, as if to say, ‘shut your trap.’ 

“What are we talking about?” Twilight trotted up to the duo, who were stood just outside of Trixie’s room.

“Trixie heard Big Mac was making fun of him, so he’s going to tell everybody that Big Mac likes to wear dresses,” Spike spun around, grinning. Trixie glared at the whelp and muttered some impotent malison under his breath.

Twilight could only shake her head. “Spike, go upstairs for me, okay? There are some bills on my desk I need you to mail to the treasury.”

After a moment of hesitation, “Sure thing, Twilight,” Spike said, with less enthusiasm than what would have been becoming of a number-one-assistant who had just been treated to dessert. He then waddled away, and upstairs.

Trixie was looking away, trying not to make eye contact. Once she heard the basement door click shut, Twilight asked, “Alright, Trixie, tell me what’s going on. Tell me why you’re threatening to call AJ’s brother a cross-dresser... again.” The mare motioned toward Trixie’s chambers and he opened the door to them.

The lovers entered Trixie’s bedroom and Trixie, laying on his bed, shyly elaborated, “When I was at the record store, Moccasin, the owner, graciously related to me that Big Mac has told everypony about the stipend you give me every two weeks, which he called an allowance. In a fashion so as to denigrate me.” Trixie stretched and assumed a position more suitable to lounging in bed. With many times less trepidation in his baritenor voice, he continued, “I suspect the oaf heard of my stipend from his sister; whence Applejack learned of it, I can only speculate.” Little snipes such as that were prevalent in Trixie’s verbal repertoire, but he meant this one playfully.

“M-hm… anything else?” Twilight smirked, arranging the messily arrayed piles of books on the ground into neater stacks next to the bookshelves. (As for the bookshelves themselves, she had long abandoned any designs to keep them organized; Trixie kept them arranged according the incomprehensible machinations of his eidetic memory.)

“Well, then he started hitting on me, so I left and came home,” Trixie said, nonchalantly, then levitated his new album next to his record player.

“O-oh,” Twilight, satisfied she had straightened up Trixie’s room as best as the circumstances allowed, stepped over to his bedside and examined the album for herself, saying, “Well, I’m going to talk to Applejack about it the next time I see her, and we’ll work it out. Just don’t tell anypony else about your theory, okay, honey?”

“‘Theory?’” he echoed. Lack of evidence had never stopped Trixie from proving anything, at least to himself. “You mean I shouldn’t tell the truth? That Big Mac is a transvestite?” another one of Trixie’s favorite, but ineffective tactics in conversation was the ‘last hurrah.’ “Surely that would be dishonest of me. I wonder how Applejack would feel about it.”

“Trixie…”

“I know.”

“Good,” Twilight said, levitating the two tins of cookies close and motioning for Trixie to make room in the bed. As far as she was concerned, the prior conversation had been totally resolved, and any effect it had on the afternoon’s atmosphere, dissipated. (Twilight’s relationship with Trixie necessitated her becoming adept at graceful transitions between gentle-but-firm castigation and ludic affection.)

“Y’know, I would get a job if I could, but the Enchanter’s Guild won’t let me in since I never finished magic school,” Trixie said, more to himself than to Twilight as the mare clambered onto the bed and between the silken sheets. “I imagine my felony conviction wouldn’t help my application either,” Trixie, making room,  pressed his back onto the cold stone wall against which his bed stood, and Twilight pressed her back into him.

“I know, sweetheart; but I’m glad you don’t work,” Twilight nuzzled Trixie, smiling. “I enjoy being able to spend the day with you. And you’re too smart for a job, anyway,” she continued, and now Trixie was smiling. Twilight levitated one tin down to him and one into her own hooves. She said, “I got you butterscotch cookies, but you can have some of my peppernuts, if you want.”

“Thank you,” Trixie kissed her cheek.

“Let’s listen to your new album while we snuggle,” Twilight suggested, opening her tin with some minor difficulty.

Trixie, obligingly, used magic to unwrap the album and lower the record itself onto the turntable. The stylus slid into the first groove on the spinning disc and the music began to play.