The Haunting
Admiral Biscuit
“Daddy?”
I jerked my head up. I’d gotten just a little bit too lost in a Daring Do novel. They were campy and cliched and Milfoil swore that Daring Do was a real pony who really had those adventures. I wasn’t sure if I should believe her or not.
I set the book on the side table and looked down at the eager purple eyes of Berry Blossom. “What’s up, honey?”
She took a deep breath. “Martingale went into your room and got dressed in your clothes even though he’s not supposed to and he got stuck.”
“He got stuck?”
Berry Blossom nodded soberly.
How the hell did he get stuck in my clothes?
I got up and Berry trotted up the stairs, shouting words of encouragement to her adopted brother as I followed along.
When I got up to the bedroom, it was all I could do to suppress a laugh. Martingale had two socks on his hind legs, but he’d had less luck with my long-sleeved shirt, managing to get one foreleg and his head partway through a sleeve. I could see the glow of his horn as he tried to work his way out with magic. Maybe if he could have seen what he was doing, he might have managed to extract himself.
As I watched, he tried to push himself free with his hind hooves again, only managing to slide his socks down.
I grabbed him around the barrel and clutched the hem of the shirt with my other hand, tugging it free from his head. His horn dragged across the fabric before he finally popped free.
“This is why you don’t play dress up with Daddy’s clothes,” I said with all the seriousness I could muster.
“Told you so.” Berry stuck her tongue out at him.
“Now, both of you. What do you do when someone—somepony—needs help?”
“Ask for it.”
“Good. And what do you do when you see somepony in trouble?”
“Help them. Get an adult,” they chorused.
“That’s right.” I took my shirt and slipped it over Martingale the right way. “It’s a little big for you.”
He looked down at the shirt draped over himself, puffed out his chest, and then nodded resolutely. “I’ll grow big enough that it’ll fit.”
An instant later, he went to strut across the bed, stepped on the hem, and crash landed on his forehead.
Berry giggled. “Maybe you should get clothes your own size.”
“Can I?”
He looked at me eagerly, and I couldn’t very well say no. “Well, your birthday is coming up. . . .”
•••
Milfoil and I had gotten married in the village green a week after the Summer Sun Celebration. It was like a scene from a movie, there was no better way to describe it. I didn’t know any of the songs or the ritual at all, and yet everything felt right. I even found myself singing songs I didn’t know that I knew.
When we finally got back home, instead of rushing up to the bedroom, we sat in the backyard, her in a wedding dress and me in a tuxedo—well, the pony idea of a tuxedo.
We stayed there until nightfall, watching the setting sun paint the garden in new colors.
A week later, Milfoil sold her house.
Just her house—carpenter ponies came over and took some of the additions off, plumbers disconnected it from the water and sewer line, and then a team of strong stallions dragged it off to its new owner. That was fascinating to watch.
Even though it was late in the year, I helped her plow her land—there was enough for a decent-sized garden. She planted winter rye and winter wheat as the first crops, along with several rows of carrots.
A month after that, we both began visiting orphanages.
•••
The winter wind howled through the village, and snow swirled and eddied around the houses. I’d stayed late at work—foolish in hindsight—and was in the thick of the storm, walking through a nearly-abandoned Haywards Heath.
I didn’t mind a bit.
Every now and then, I’d get nostalgic for the randomness of Earth, for the lack of safety and security and predictability, and I embraced being out in the weather. Milfoil didn’t understand it, and I couldn’t blame her. No sane person would want to be out in a snowstorm like this.
I rounded the corner and between the spits of snow, I could see our house, lights glowing brightly, wreath on the front door, drifted-over snowponies and snowmen in the yard. A Thomas Kinkade vision of perfection, complete in every detail—even a pony-drawn sled sitting in the side yard.
For just a moment, I hesitated at the door. I could hear Berry Blossom and Martingale and Milfoil inside, and that alone cast aside the cold snowy blowiness as much as the fire in the fireplace or the kitchen stove could.
I’d hardly gotten the door open before Berry was at the door, skidding to a stop, ready to be picked up and flown through the house. She liked playing airplane, and I was only too willing to oblige.
Martingale was right behind her, undoubtedly ready to show me some new bit of magic he’d learned, or a drawing he’d made, or his perfect math homework.
In the kitchen doorway, Milfoil, hair up in a sloppy bun and a soup spoon in her mouth. I crouched down and gave my adopted foals a hug and hoisted Berry into the air as I made my way to the kitchen, holding her aside long enough to give my wife a kiss.
And then I was flying Berry through the living room, swooping her up almost to the ceiling and near the walls, three laps before I sat down on the couch and set her back on the floor. Martingale floated his schoolwork up so I could see how well he’d done, and I was surrounded with the blessed chaos of fatherhood.