//------------------------------//
// Chapter 7 
// Story: The Garden of Ideology 
// by kudzuhaiku 
//------------------------------//

Removal of the bloodstain from the book caused an immediate problem; that spot was far too clean, and the rest of the book was far too dirty. The hardbound novel was tattered, worn, had a sagging binding, and was no doubt stained from many hours held in hooves. It was a loved book, that much was obvious. Whatever slipcover it once had was long gone, but the book’s title could be seen on its spine. 

Pinkie Pie: Element of Laughter. 

He opened it up to have a look inside, saw that it was written by one Marble Pie, and while his eyes lingered upon the fine gothic print, he wondered if there was some relation. Overhead, the moon kept watch and Nut was thankful for the silvery light it offered. Tater had pulled her head out from beneath the faucet and was now allowing herself to drip dry. Realising just how much Tater loved this book, and that it was now her sole possession, Nut felt the need to be generous, to be kind, to do something nice. 

Teeth gritted together, lips pressed into a firm line, he cast a repair spell, which he was rather good at. The results relieved him, and lifted his spirits just a bit. Right away, the book’s slack binding tightened up, almost all of the dirt vanished, scuffs on the hardbound cover went away, and right before his very eyes, the book was restored to nearly-new condition. 

Satisfied, he placed the book back down upon his suitcase desk. 

Well, that was one thing sorted out. 

“What happened?” he asked, overcoming his hesitation, worry, fear, and doubt if the time was right for questions. 

Tater Blossom winced and hunched over a bit more. He heard her whimper, but he doubted that the sound was caused by physical pain. No, she was well beyond that. He had no doubt that her physical pain had to be excruciating, but that wasn’t what was hurting her at the moment. Her wounds—both visible and invisible—were quite raw. 

Opening up the basket that had been brought earlier, he decided that now was as good a time as any to patch her up. There was a lot of work to do, unpleasant work, but at least he had her trust. Or so he hoped. As he lifted up a container of salve, he thought of Black Maple. What would she say about this? Why did it matter to him what she might say? He found himself overwhelmed by peculiar feelings. His relationship with Black Maple was… confusing. 

But there were times, like right now, when he wondered what she might think, or how she might feel. Black Maple was an exceptionally common pony, with a keen commoner’s mind, and she possessed a clear, unobstructed understanding of how commoners thought and acted. Nut relied on her to keep him straight, he realised, and this sudden conclusion troubled him, though he could not say why. 

Well supplied, he went over to her, sat down, and began his examination of her so that he could determine where to start. She had many cuts and contusions, and in some places the swelling was such that the skin had either split open or threatened to do so. He decided that he would start with her face. With a light touch of his telekinesis, he began to gingerly feel around so that he would have a better idea of what needed to be done. 

“Mama got the whippin’ she deserved,” Tater Blossom said as Nut began his examination. “I crept up on her unawares with a switch. I knew just what to pick, ‘cause I done spent my whole life pickin’ switches so I could get my rightful hidin’. One might say I have a knack for pickin’ switches. For a time, I had bad dreams that I’d get a cutie mark for pickin’ switches.” 

With a dire frown, Nut wickered, and it rumbled up and down his throat. 

“She hollered, course she did, and then she fought back. We scuffled, and as it turns out, while I don’t hit as hard as she does, I’m faster, and so I started a-winnin’ our slobberknocker. But Mama’s a sore loser, and so she calls fer help, and the next thing I know, my sisters and my aunts are all taken turns beatin’ the stuffin’ outta me.” 

Firm-jawed, Nut began applying the medicinal smelling balm to the cut just below Tater Blossom’s eye. She winced, he paused, and waited for her to recover. When she leaned in, he had a chance to look into her open eye, deep into its orange depths. Within it, he could see himself and the moon reflected. 

“One of my aunts came to save me, but she’s not my Mama’s sister, but my Pa’s. She picks up a piece of firewood from by the stove, and she lays right into my Ma and everybody else thumpin’ on me. Then came the shoutin’, and the hollerin’, and the screamin’ ‘bout the windigos a-comin’ back, all on account of the discord I brought into the house, and you, and everything that was a-happenin’. After that, things got outta hoof.” 

Tenderly, he applied more medicine to the cut beneath her eye. Windigos? As far as he knew, windigos were an extinct species. But he supposed they made a suitable threat for the superstitious types, a spooky-scary motivation to keep the peace. To be quiet. A fine bit of discouragement so a ruckus was not raised. 

“There was a moot,” she explained while Nut continued his careful ministrations. “We all got dragged there. We had us a moot, and I was tried, and in the end, I was shunned. And that’s fine, I reckon. I got shunned, and Ma and Pa, they got shamed, because that’s what happens to the parents of a shunned pony. Ma lost all of her positions, and she ain’t allowed to preach no more, or teach, or be librarian, or mayor. She’s shamed, so she don’t get to do nuttin’ but be reminded of how she failed me. Pa got a little leniency, because he came right out and said that Mama sinned, that she done gossipped and forsook hospitality.” 

What had been said earlier when the young mare brought out the basket now made sense to Nut. Oh, he didn’t like it, not at all, and he didn’t agree with these sorts of practices, but this was their way, not his. On the other hoof, actual harm had been done—real, serious harm. He didn’t know how to feel about it, though a part of him wanted these practices to end. Though, not all who engaged in these practices were bad sorts. A sour taste clung to the back of his tongue and his throat was hot with bile. 

He needed a pint. 

“His sister got shamed too, ‘cause she took my Ma’s ear off with that log. Everypony hates everypony. Everypony hates me. I’m shunned. Cast out. I don’t have a name no more, or parents, or a place to live. I’ll be scrubbed from the records and it’ll be like I was never born. I s’pose I should feel bad about it, but… I just… feel… free.” 

Nut sighed. 

“I ain’t s’posed to be here now,” she said, whispering suddenly. “I was dragged outta town and told to go on up the road. But I snuck back around this-a-way once it got dark.” 

“I think your father expected this. He had one of your sisters bring supplies.” 

A tear rolled down her cheek, and Nut turned away, unable to bear the sight. Ignorance had a cost. A tangible cost and he’d borne witness to it. He suspected that Tater Blossom was being brave, and in reality, she was far more torn up inside than she let on. But he admired her bravery, her courage, and her pluck. 

“Mister Nut… take me with you.” 

He paused, and with a turn of his head, returned his gaze to her. 

“Please, I ain’t go nowhere to go. I’m scared. Whatever you ask of me, I’ll do. Just be kind to me, that’s all I ask.” 

These words caused his brows to furrow. He didn’t like it, not at all, but he understood desperation. There were some who would certainly take advantage of this situation—and truth be told, he wouldn’t be too bothered by indulging his talent upon them. A great weight settled upon his brow; not an unseen crown, the spectre of which was said to haunt royalty, but a circlet perhaps. His father had warned him of this, that there would be moments in his life when he took notice of it. 

“I’d rather end up with you,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “if’n I have to end up with somepony.” 

“Enough of that talk.” Though his words were stern, his tone was kind. “Look, I don’t know about this. About you coming with me.” 

Raising her hoof, she pointed at the now restored book. “Pinkie Pie left home when she was half my age. I shoulda done the same. But I was scared. All my life, I was told stories about how wicked the world was, and what outsiders would do to me if they caught me. But Pinkie left home, and she found the Cakes, and she was fine. And I wish I was braver, so I’d’ve found my Cakes, but I was a chicken.” 

“From the sounds of it, you’re still scared.” 

“Well, yeah, I am. I was trapped, Nut. I still am. My thinkin’ is all messed up.” 

Again, he sighed. 

“My thinker is broken.” Tater Blossom leaned in until their noses bumped, and she let out a muffled, muted whimper before she continued, “I know my thinker is broken, because Pinkie Pie sees the world as this big, wonderful, beautiful place, and I want to believe her, but I can’t. So something must be broken. I needs to fix it so I can be normal. Please, Nut… I’m beggin’ ya, take me with you. Please?” 

When she clutched his foreleg and squeezed with her powerful grip, he found himself startled by the unexpected grab. Somehow, she was still very much a filly, but also a young mare. It confused him that she could be so much of both, and he found his heart and mind being pulled in two very different directions. 

“I am a pauper—” 

“Then I’ll work, Nut.” 

“You need to be in school.” He was surprised by how stern he sounded. “Not working. Committing yourself to the drudgery of labour would be detrimental to the advancement of your intellectual and mental development.” 

“Could ya try speakin’ Equestrian, Nut?” 

“My point exactly. I am speaking Equestrian, Miss Blossom.” 

She was still clinging to his foreleg, squeezing almost too tightly. 

“I am a pauper,” he began again. “I live in a room above a carriage house and do odd jobs in lieu of paying rent. Mrs. Oleander prefers it that way.” 

“So you work, but you also go to school.” 

“I suppose I do,” he remarked. 

“What do you do fer her?” 

“I clean the soot from the lanterns. The brass is maintained and polished. All of the carriages are properly serviced, greased, and kept in good repair. Oh, and I don’t use magic for these repairs, because we can’t have the carriages falling apart. These are special carriages. Limousines. Hearses. Mrs. Oleander engages with exceptional clients who have the most exacting standards. If there is so much as a smudge or a loose, rattling door, it would go badly for her.” 

“So she’s fussy.” 

“She has to be, Miss Blossom.” He paused, thoughtful, and then began to rub a bit of salve on Tater Blossom’s nose. “Come to think of it, she does have a spare room. Now, these rooms are not heated. They’re not actual apartments. These rooms are drafty, chilly, and during inclement weather, they can be… somewhat unpleasant. I am positive that Mrs. Oleander would allow you to stay, but she would expect work from you in return. The room has been posted for quite some time now, but as of the day I left, there have been no takers.” 

A part of him wondered what he was doing, and why he was considering this. 

Just what was he thinking, anyhow? 

Vanhoover was a rough place. A hard place. What was he thinking, taking a naive farm filly to such a place? Fillies like her ended up in Vanhoover and suffered all manner of unwholesome fates. She would be a hen left among the foxes. He would have to watch her. Constantly. The apex predators would sniff her out as prey. If he did this, he would have to protect her… What For would have to be given, and freely. If that failed, sterner measures would have to be taken. Pip-Pip What’s All This Then might be necessary. 

“Once, when I was just starting university, I took a job to assist the city archives.” His brow furrowed a bit and the hard edge of his brass-framed monocle pressed into his cheek. “They had an infestation of mimics. Book mimics. Magical predators that disguised themselves to look just like books. City record books, in this instance. Nothing went quite as planned, but everything was sorted out. I was paid quite handsomely. Dealing with the book mimics gave me a bit of a reputation, which was just what I needed to establish myself. I dare say the experience contributed to my education.” 

“So can I come with you?” she asked. 

He was not surprised by her single-mindedness and her determination. 

“How old are you?” He looked her right in the eye and would not allow her to look away. 

“Old enough to be shunned and tossed outta town.” 

“If you want to come with me, it would behoove you to answer me. With honesty.” 

She squirmed, but he did not let her look away. This would not do. There were times when being headstrong was a hindrance, such as now. She had to know that her answer might cause some friction. While the contest of wills stretched out, he applied a bit of the medicated balm to a cut on the corner of her mouth, and she hissed, no doubt from the stinging pain. 

“Old enough to be married. I’m an adult.” 

“Miss Blossom—” 

“I don’t even have a name no more. That was taken from me. I’m a nopony.” 

“No distractions, Miss Blossom. What is your age?” 

“I’m thirteen, alright? It’s embarrassing being this old and having nothing to show for it.” 

“Oh. I say.” Mindful of his monocle and how it liked to slip away from him, he gave this number careful consideration as he applied still more medicine to another place of injury. Fourteen was old enough to join the guard, due to the First Tribes. Most of Equestria was attempting to push the age of adulthood to a somewhat higher number, though nopony could agree as to what that number should be. 

Or if there should be a number at all. 

Ponies would think terrible things of him. Accusations would be slung about. This could very well hurt his reputation, his credibility. The most progressive voices could be the most intolerant, at least at times. In this place, with these ponies, no one would bat an eye if they were together. Such a thing was expected. But in other places, with other ponies, things could be misconstrued. 

Nut knew he would have to face these things—if he did this. 

She was still gripping his foreleg, and when he applied still more medicine, he felt her squeezing. He found it remarkable just how determined she was—how brave she was. She had done something quite foolish, or perhaps it wasn’t. Who was he to judge? Perhaps there were factors he was unaware of. Maybe, just maybe, she felt a need to prove herself, just as he did. 

“I want my Pa,” she whined. “In the end, he did right, and it cost him.” 

Nut’s ears fell into a splayed position, jutting out sideways from his head. 

“Hold me, please.” 

Quite without warning, she flung her forelegs around his neck, and he was very nearly bowled over by her sudden embrace. She was strong—but also gentle. Slowly, cautiously, he raised one foreleg, and unsure of himself, not wanting to bring her harm in any way, he gingerly slipped it around her neck. 

“I did it ‘cause I thought you’d take me with you,” she said. 

Did he praise her for her honesty, or chide her for her foolishness? He didn’t know. Very little made sense right now. She clung to him, and he to her, and he could feel the hitch in her barrel as she fought to contain her sobs. Just what was he to do with her? He barely kept his own head above water. School and basic survival were almost enough to drag him under. 

“Am I a mare now?” she asked, her words muffled and somewhat slurred. “See, I don’t even know. Things seem so blurry. They always have. It seemed so easy for everypony else I knew, everypony else ‘round me. Day suddenly became night. It was like where a row of taters ended and a row of carrots started. But for myself, I never seemed to know where things ended or started. Pa said I’d be a mare when I was married, but that ain’t happened yet. This happened. I’m shunned and sent away. If I don’t marry at all, do I stay a foal forever? Everything feels so confusing.” 

“You want definition in your life.” 

“Is that it?” 

“Seems that way to me, but I could very well be mistaken.” 

She started to pull away, but then, without warning, redoubled her embrace. He felt her shudder, he felt her sigh, and then he heard a constrained, low moan that sounded more like a sob that would not be let go of. She writhed against him and for a moment, everything was unbearable. There was far too much pain in the moment, everything was too raw to be dealt with. 

Then, after a soul-rending howl of grief, the shunned filly began to bawl. 



 

She seemed to be doing better, but Nut was no expert on these matters. He was used to the females in his own family, rational, thoughtful creatures, and this one quite defied his expectations. She was so full of emotion and in so much pain, he almost expected her to burst into tears again at any moment. This didn’t seem so irrational though, she was grieving. But he didn’t understand how normal ponies dealt with grief. 

In his own family, grief was dealt with in quite a different manner. One might suddenly announce to anypony listening that they were sad, and then tea or coffee might be prepared. There would be conversation. Food would be served. Afterwards, noses would be buried back into books, and things would return to normal. That was grief and the method of processing it. If said sadness or state of sorrow was announced for a second time, stronger medicine would be sought out, such as alcohol of some type, followed by a trip to the symphony, or perhaps the museum. There would be conversation at some point… and then a return to the books, for such was their way. 

“Can I come with you?” she asked around a mouthful of half-chewed food. 

He did not answer, for he had no answer. Catching a train meant walking right through the heart of town, as the train platform was right in the middle of the town proper. Walking through town with Tater Blossom in his company might very well mean trouble. There’d been enough trouble in this place. Violence was the last thing he wanted. But was the one thing he was prepared for. 

“You say a moot was held.” 

“There was.” She swallowed, then immediately took another bite. 

“Something from the democratic past of the earth ponies.” He paused to muse for a moment, to reflect upon his history lessons, and after a short period of silence he asked, “Were you given representation of any sort?” 

She shrugged as she chewed and this time, she did not respond with her mouth full. After she swallowed, she said, “Pa stood up for me. That’s the worst ‘bout all of this. I don’t care what happens to my Ma, but I’m powerful worried about what this will do to my Pa.” 

“Did they say what you did wrong, exactly?” He leaned forward, pulled his monocle away from his eye, sighed, and wondered to himself if he’d done a decent job of treating his companion’s wounds. 

“I was violent,” she said plainly. “I was violent and I disobeyed my parents. I attacked my own mother. It wasn’t my place to punish her for her sinnin’, and I was told that I should’ve come to the elders. But my Ma, she is one of the elders, and well… maybe I didn’t think all of this through. But I did what I did. Everypony knows now that my Ma says one thing, and does another. She’s not allowed to say another word about the Way of Almighty Celestia ever again, and maybe I’m petty, but I’m happy that was taken from her.” 

Then, shaking her head, she added, “There’s more.” 

“More?” One fine eyebrow arched. 

“I fell sway under the influence of an outsider.” 

“Oh. Well then. I suppose I was blamed?” Nut found himself worrying about what might happen if a team was sent here to investigate the trolls. They would not be welcomed, he suspected, or wanted. The issue of hospitality might be an issue again. Cultures would clash. New and unwelcomed ideas would once more be presented. 

As the consequences unfurled, he felt quite sad. 

“I forsook the ways of my father and mother for the ways of an outsider, and that was bad of me.” Her head bowed, she sighed, and then halfheartedly nipped at her food. With her mouth full, she said, “Seems to me there was a lotta forsookin’ going on. But none of it made sense. We’re supposed to be hospitable, ‘cause that’s the Way, but at the same time, we done condemn outsiders just for existin’. We judge them just ‘cause they is different than us. And when I tried to say something about this, I got shushed. When I wouldn’t stay shushed, I got smacked, and that hurt something awful, ‘cause he done hit me where I was already hurtin’.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry, Nut?” 

“I just am.” 

“I followed the method,” she said. “I got me the proof I needed. My hypothesis has some truth to it. They gave me all the proof I needed. At the end of it all, I just wouldn’t shut up, and I done told them what I thought of them, the Way of Almighty Celestia, and their shunnin’. I told them where they could stick it. And when I was getting thumped on again, and made to be silent, I was all satisfied with the truth I done discovered.” 

“This was never my intention,” he said to her as guilt nibbled upon the tender edges of his conscience. “I wanted to teach you rationality. I wanted—” 

“That you wanted to teach me at all, I’m powerful grateful for that.” 

He felt his words die in his throat. 

“You taught me.” She blinked her unswollen, unblackened eye and licked her lumpy lips. “You gave me proof that I was worth it. That I wasn’t just some dumb hick filly. You showed me that there was something beyond just foalin’ and misery and drudgery. You taught me things… things that maybe I didn’t need to know, but you taught me, and that means so much to me. More than you’ll ever know.” 

“And then you had to go and teach yourself…” Whatever else he wanted to say wouldn’t come, these words were raw and it pained him to speak them. 

“Will you be my teacher?” she asked. “I think I failed this lesson. I promise to do better and not fail the next.” 

“Failures happen,” he replied while he tried to ignore the pain in his heart. “We have to fail so that we might be successful. Don’t make promises like that. How we deal with our failures determines what sort of ponies we are.” 

For some reason, he found himself thinking of Black Maple; there were a whole string of failures for him to reflect upon. Why, he didn’t even know how to begin. Returning to Vanhoover would mean returning to her. Which meant that, if he brought Tater Blossom, they would meet. If there was a pony that could actually help young Miss Blossom, it would be Black Maple. She was more than an innkeeper; perhaps it was cliché, but she truly had a way with ponies. 

She had a way with him. Nopony was more infuriating. There was nothing in all of existence that could push his buttons in the manner that she did. She made him feel things, unwanted things. When she got into one of her moods—and she was always in one of her moods—she found ways to make him react. He loathed her explosive provocations—but also treasured them. Because of her, he discovered he was passionate about things, that he had strong opinions. She brought out the very best and the very worst in him… 

And perhaps, if he was lucky, she might do the same for Potato Blossom. 

But that would mean taking her back to Vanhoover. 

He watched her as she ate and something about her enthusiasm left him hopeful. She’d been beaten, but not broken. Even after all of the awful things that had happened, she seemed focused upon the dirty business of living. After all that had transpired, she still dared to hope, to dream, to have wants and desires. 

“What does it say about me that I feel that everything that just happened was mostly fair?” 

Dragged from his thoughts, Nut found that he did not agree. Nothing about this felt fair at all. Had things been fair, none of this would have happened in the first place. But the world was what it was. It baffled him that Tater Blossom thought this was somehow fair. She was shunned, her parents were shamed, and the fragile bonds of the community had been sorely tested. 

Things had not held together so well.

“Or maybe it wasn’t fair. I don’t know. Think I’ll go back and forth on it. So, Nut… what do I do? Where do I go? How do I leave this place? What’ll I do with myself now? I was never prepared to leave this place. I wasn’t taught about the outside world, ‘cept that it was bad. Leavin’ scares me.” 

“You won’t be alone,” he said, having made his decision at last. 

A long, slow, shuddering exhale could be heard, and then, “Thank you, Nut.” 

So, that was it then. He had paired her survival with his own, come what may. The prospect terrified him. What if he was a bad teacher? What if he was already a bad teacher, and the lessons taught had caused this? Self-doubt hung over him like a shroud, and he found his vision obscured. The way forward did not seem so clear now. Failure had a terrible cost now, a cost that went beyond his own life. Blundering meant that his companion would suffer. 

“There are conditions,” he said, his demeanour transitioning into something a bit more stern. “Rules. You will need to obey them. First and foremost, you must do as I say. There will be times when I am attempting to look after your better interests. Do not thwart my efforts. You will be going to school. That is a requirement. Getting you into school might be a headache, but it will be done. And you will apply yourself, young lady. There will be no excuses made. I am aware of your potential, and if I think that you are selling yourself short, there will be a conversation about it, I assure you. You may come to find that I am not as good natured and mild-mannered as I might first appear.” 

“That’s fair,” she replied. 

“I am relieved to hear that you feel that way, though I do wonder if your sentiment will change with time.” 

“After the rainboom, Pinkie Pie left home to find her place in the world,” Tater Blossom said. “She had to rely upon the kindness of strangers, and that… well that… I want to believe that is true, but everything I’ve been told about strangers is bad. That book”—she pointed to said book on Nut’s suitcase desk—“went against everything I was told. I wanted to believe it, but I was scared. From the time I was tiny I was told that only we have virtue, and only if we cling to the Way. But now… now… now I see that every rotten thing I was told about the wicked ways of the outside world… it’s us. Everything I was told to fear, it’s us. Everything I was taught was wrong, it’s all the stuff we’re guilty of doing. Don’t judge others, that’s Almighty Celestia’s job… except we judge outsiders. Us and them. And now, I’m them. I stopped being us. That book, and you, that’s all I have now. Please, Nut, don’t lead me astray. I want to believe in the kindness of others, just like Pinkie Pie.” 

What could be said at a moment like this? 

Tater Blossom transformed herself into something resembling a battered, bruised, rather busted up squirrel when she crammed a whole biscuit into her mouth. Unable to respond, Nut pulled out his pocketwatch, flicked it open, and had himself a look at his parents. What might they say right now? His father would recommend caution, there would be wise words aplenty. As for his mother, he suspected that his mother would have little to say to him, but rather, she would have much to say to Tater Blossom. 

Such as not cramming whole biscuits into one’s mouth when eating. 

His mother was full of helpful life advice such as that. 

“None of the Elements of Harmony came from this place,” she said after swallowing some—though not all—of her biscuit. 

“The application of critical reason and logic is dangerous for the cause of zealotry.” 

“I don’t know what you just said.” 

He closed his pocketwatch, spent a moment enjoying the satisfying metallic click, and slipped it back into his pocket. “You are starting to open your eyes, Miss Blossom. You begin to see self-evident truths. Your statement is self-supporting and self-reinforcing. If this place was the only place to find virtue, to find goodness, then the Elements of Harmony would have, indeed, originated from this location. But they did not. Destiny found what it needed elsewhere. There is your proof of good ponies to be found, away from this wretched place.” 

“Still a lotta big words, but I think I get it.” 

“Beware of those who claim to hold a monopoly on virtue. Or anything else for that matter.” When an owl hooted, he took a moment to listen, and thought to himself, who indeed. “The city is full of these sorts. And by city, I mean Vanhoover. You will hear all manner of proclamations and statements. You will be subjected to advertisements that will prey upon your insecurities and your need to do good, to be good. Lest you become a victim to all this social predation, you shall have to learn how to filter it all out, and this means sharpening your mind. Critical reasoning and logic will save you. Think of critical reasoning as a microscope and logic as a scalpel. One will allow you to examine and inspect, the other will cut things apart so that you might get to the heart of the matter.” 

“Big words. Can you give an example… without the big words?” 

Sighing, he summoned his patience. She would learn… in time. For now, he would humour her. “All over Vanhoover you will find signs. Billboards, we call them. They are omnipresent. Such signs adorn every conceivable surface, such as buildings, rooftops, any available open space, et cetera and so on. Quite a popular one bears the message, ‘Happy ponies drink Lady Lumberjack’s Birch Beer.’ This assertion is plagued by all manner of problems.” 

“This is my life now, ain’t it?” 

Caught off guard, he gave Miss Blossom a wry smile. 

“First off, exclusionary language.” He held up his hoof and his smile flipped frownward. “Vanhoover is a diverse city. There are griffons there, a great many griffons, and Vanhoover is practically their home away from home. It is as much their city is it is ours. The sign only mentions ponies, and the happiness of ponies. What of griffons? Do they not deserve happiness? Can only ponies be made happy with lady Lumberjack’s Birch Beer? Then there is the troubling implication of happiness. You can be quite happy without birch beer, but the signs suggest that birch beer is somehow necessary. Other signs promise beauty if you use a product. These advertisements use conditional obligation to worm their way into your mind and prey upon your insecurity. X is necessary for Y to happen.” 

Tater Blossom carefully wiped her mouth with her foreleg. 

“Everything I’ve said applies to this place as well. It is another X leads to Y formula. To be virtuous, to be good, you must be from here. This place. The Widowwood. But you’ve discovered that this isn’t true.” 

“No.” She seemed sad when she said this. “And thanks.” 

“For what?” he asked. 

“For this. For what yer doin’ right now. Takin’ my mind off my troubles. I might be cryin’ otherwise. All this hurts. It hurts so much. But it’s nice to be made to think of other things.” 

He swallowed. It hurt. When he swallowed again, the lump lodged in his throat seemed to grow even larger. When he spoke, his words were strained. “You’re very welcome, Miss Blossom.” 

“That’s not even my name anymore.” 

“It is if you want it to be. They can’t actually take that away from you. Their judgment will only have as much bearing upon you as you allow.” He felt the muscles in his back stiffen, his neck filled with tension, and his ears rose at sharp angles. Was this statement true? It was too late to retract it. These words could not be unspoken. He suspected that their judgment would harm Miss Blossom in ways he could not conceive. 

“I’m sleepy.” 

“Get some sleep. Save some food for the trip home. We’ll need it. Would you feel safe and secure atop the water tower?” 

He expected sarcasm, even hoped for it, but when she tilted her head to look up that way, he came to the realisation that she was considering it. She looked up, then back at him. Then, upwards once more, perhaps pondering, and then she was peering at him once again. Back and forth she went, until at last she seemed to reach a decision. 

“I’ll sleep in the wellhouse. You’ll keep me safe.” 

“Indeed, I will. Get some rest, Miss Blossom. I am going to pack everything up. Tomorrow will be a long day. A trying day, no doubt.” 

“Will you pack up my book, so it’ll be safe?” 

“Of course I will.” 

“Thank you for making it new again. That was mighty kind of ya.” 

“It was nothing.” 

“It was something.” Then, after a prolonged pause, “Good night, Mister Nut.” 

“Just Nut.” To which he added, “Good night, Miss Blossom.”