“Today… hmm, yes, today is a good day to dye.”
The quiet peace that always came with Sunday morning tea suddenly shattered like a tea set spilling across the floor. Whipping around, Rarity rushed out of her inspiration room to find exactly that. Bits of porcelain rocked along the floor as a river of tea coursed around them, and in between it all sat a paler-than-usual filly.
“Sweetie Belle…” In the past, the mess would have pulled out a scream, but Rarity only sighed as she began to pick up the pieces of former teacups in her magic. At least it was not the good china set. Still… one could never have too many. She twirled a piece before her, frowning and shaking her head. Her chest tightened with each crack.
A sniffling breath from below cooled it. Sweetie stared at her hooves, eyes darting this way and that. Occasionally they flicked up to Rarity, but only for a moment before fleeing. As though a monster stood before her. Heart twisting, Rarity hovered one of the more intact plates before her face. No frown, no glare. Why, even the vein on her temple rested flat. Nothing scary. Whatever could be the matter?
“Sweetie, dear, it’s alright.” She took a step forward. The filly scurried against the wall, reaching blindly towards the nearby cabinet. Her horn flickered. Bits of scrap cloth rose and fell upon the floor. Rarity froze, foreleg raised and jaw swinging open as Sweetie scooped up a swash of brown fabric and hurried toward the spill. A flash of blue stopped her.
Rarity took a step forward, biting her lip. She took the swatch in one hoof, placing the other atop the trembling filly’s head. The rest of Sweetie sagged with her curls. “How about… how about we got downstairs and make a fresh pot?” Rarity suggested. “Would that sound good, Sweetie?”
She said nothing. Her eyes, her muzzle, her ears; all pointed at the floor. “Yes,” Rarity said after the air grew too heavy, “I am thinking that would be just the thing to cheer us up. No worries.” Something wet brushed against her hooves, causing her to jump backwards. The tea streamed forward, edging dangerously close to her worktable. “I could use a towel as well. And a bucket. As much as I love tea, I would prefer to dye some other way.”
Sweetie finally moved. First an ear, then her eyes. They trembled, as did her lip. She mouthed… something. Rarity leaned in. While still barely audible beneath the chirping birds, she could discern a single word: “But… but…” Her eyes rested on the tea.
At last, the meaning behind Sweetie’s actions stitched together. Rarity placed a hoof over her heart. Such a considerate filly. “Oh, it’s okay, Sweetie. I always have time for a break for my most precious sister.” She eyed the white fabric strewn along the table. She could see the hour hand ticking closer to her deadline, but she could make do. Her sister was more important. The poor dear had returned her gaze to the floor, her chest heaving in breaths. “Really, Sweetie. It is no trouble. I can always dye later.”
Sweetie sniffled and squeaked.
The tea had no doubt reached her scraps by now. However, at that moment, they were the furthest thing from Rarity’s mind. While the tea kettle resting on the stove was now the only thing shrieking, and she had been able to get the trashcan in front of her little sister’s muzzle before the downstairs carpet could be ruined as well, each sniffle and gasp was another needle right in her hoof.
She hovered two teacups over. Sweetie did not spare it a glance—not even as Rarity placed two sugar cubes (not one, like a lady of culture; two, like ruffians… and her dear sister, of course, liked it) into her cup. In the past, Rarity might have demanded for Sweetie Belle to spit out what was the matter, but patience was a virtue. She could not force such things. They needed to come with time.
As she poured herself a second cup, Rarity decided it had been time enough. “Sweetie. You have not even touched your tea.”
“I’m not thirsty,” mumbled Sweetie. The steam had long since dissipated. Rarity hovered the kettle over and topped off the already topped cup. A drop of tea dribbled down the side, leaving a garish stain snaking down one of her favorite cups. Rarity sighed. The sacrifices one must make for their sisters. Their fine china, their valuable time. Their very livelihood. Her mind drifted upstairs, back to the fabric still spread untouched atop her counter. Come closing time, Fashion Plate would be arriving, searching for the latest Summer flare. He would find only dull sundresses fit for a simpleton at this rate.
Time was money. Money was life. She could not wait any longer. “Sweetie, are you going to be alright?”
The filly did not nod. Her chin had slumped near the counter. She let out a quivering sigh. Rarity winced. Please, Sweetie, whatever you do, make sure you aim for the bucket.
Taking a towel in her magic, Rarity rose from the table. Each step toward the stairs—each step away from her still-forlorn sister—weighed heavy on her heart, but… she would understand. Years down the line, after she had gone through life never wanting because of her dear older sister, she would understand. “Sweetie… relax, dear. I shan’t be gone long, but I really must return upstairs and dye—”
“No!” A weight wrapped itself around Rarity’s hind legs, sending her tumbling onto the stairs. She glared back at Sweetie. The sobs had returned. Rarity’s sympathy had not. No, she was being nothing but a selfish filly at the moment. Rarity waved a hind leg against the squirming filly, but she held tight like one clutches a bedpost in a tempest.
“Sweetie Belle—”
“No! No!” Sweetie’s tears—or so Rarity hoped; knowing her luck, the snotty nose had returned as well—soaked into her fur as she squeezed tighter and tighter. Rarity swore she heard cracking. “No! I can’t let you! I won’t!”
“Sweetie, please,” Rarity said through gritted teeth. She held fast to the banister and pulled. Thanks to her, Sweetie had clearly been eating well. If she did not let go then she could say au revoir to such hearty meals. “I really need to go dye now, dear.”
Green eyes, shimmering in the light, met hers. It was almost enough to cool the boiling rage. “No. I don’t want you to. Please, Rarity!”
“It’s not about what you want, dear. Sometimes we must do what we must so that we can live our best. And to do that, I need to dye.”
“Please!” Sweetie’s voice cracked and broke alongside the rest of her. “What did I do? What can I do? I don’t want you to die!”
Rarity let go of the bannister. Sweetie had broken down like this before—pretty much ever birthday, that time she thought she had toasted Opal—but never on this level. She supposed… she could send a letter to Fashion Plate. Orders came and went, but time with your dear sister? Those were precious. She sighed. “I suppose… I could always dye tomorrow. Would you prefer that, Sweetie?” She smiled.
Sweetie’s frown only deepened. “I don’t want you to die at all!”
“Dear. I need to dye. If I don’t dye—”
“There has to be something we can do! Something I can do! You don’t have to die…” Sweetie’s voice broke. “Is it because of the glitter I spilt? That I took the last muffin the other weekend? I’ll buy more!”
Rarity rolled her eyes. Against her and the goddesses of fashion’s instincts, she proposed another option. One that Sweetie would hopefully disagree with and let her be, but… quality time with her sister would be nice. She smiled against gritted teeth. “Well, we could always dye together.”
That, at least, made Sweetie let go. Rarity stood and brushed herself off. Her gaze settled on Sweetie. The gasping had stopped; she nary breathed at all. Her green eyes had somehow managed to grow even wider. Silence permeated, but Rarity could feel a pressure rising—pushing out with each lurching breath from her little sister, clawing out of her runny nose. It was like looking in a mirror. Dramatics, apparently, were hereditary. “What do you say to that? An afternoon dying with your sister sounds fun, yes?” Rarity’s smile wavered. She loved Sweetie Belle with every fiber of her being, but swatches and stitches, the filly could not be trusted to draw a stickpony. Co-dying the Summer line? No, there were a few scraps Rarity had left over. Those would suffice: Sweetie could dye alongside her—valuable time spent with her most precious commodity: her dear sister.
Outside the window, the Ponyville clock tower struck noon. “Come along, Sweetie Belle. We haven’t much time. All our dying must be finished by four.” She marched up the steps. No hoof falls echoed hers. Sighing, she lit her horn. A series of squeaks and whimpers sounded behind her. Rarity rolled her eyes as she marched to her inspiration room.
As she entered the still tea-stained room, her neck twisted, horn flickering and sparking. Sweetie braced her forehooves against the doorframe, kicking against the door as her own horn held fast to something. Rarity snorted and tugged. Honestly, Sweetie had made such a big deal over her not leaving, and now that she had given her such a generous proposition, the filly was pitching a fit about staying with her as well? Truly, it was ridiculous.
“Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said, lowering her to the ground and releasing her magic. “Clearly, you wished to spend time with me, did you not?” Sweetie blinked, wiped her eyes, nodded. Rarity groaned. Why must conversations go in such endless cycles with her? “Well then, dear, I need to dye. You can dye with me or leave me to dye alone.”
“There has to be another way…” Sweetie shook her head.
Rarity glanced at the table. The order list stretched from the back wall to over the edge. “Preferable as tomorrow would be, a grown mare must meet her deadlines. I must dye today. You can join if you wish, but I shan’t be moving the needle another inch.”
“I’m too young,” Sweetie whispered, almost as though she was talking to herself.
“Nonsense. By the time I was your age, I had dyed so much that I could dye in my sleep. Coats, hats, dresses, throw covers. So many ways to dye.”
For once, Sweetie responded not with a whimper, but a blink. “You’ve… died before?” Rarity swore she could see smoke drifting out of her sister’s ears. She knew not why—it was a simple enough concept.
“When one gives their life to fashion, one of the first things they must do is dye,” she said, taking a seat at the table as she dropped a towel over the tea stain. “Dying is the simplest of arts, but to do it right… one must be an expert. The more you dye, the more you live.” Lighting her horn, Rarity draped a long roll of fabric and checked her first order: ‘One orange and white shirt. Sunbeam patterns preferrable.’ Rarity sighed. Maybe she should recruit Sweetie into actually dying alongside her with this list. The simple orders. Certainly, even an incompetent fashionista like her could not possibly screw up tie-dye.
“So, what do you say?” Rarity forced a smile as she looked back at Sweetie, whom still stared at the floor. The tears were nowhere to be scene. Celestia, please, let the tantrum be over. “Would you dye with me?”
“Oh.” Sweetie Belle shook her head… and laughed. A gentle giggle that rose into a silly cackle. Were the clock not inching closer and closer to one o’clock, Rarity might have laughed along with her. She could at least muster a smile. Sweetie was happy.
Check, Applejack, she thought as her sister squirmed her way up on the stool, rocked a bowl of purple dye with her hoof and laughed once more. A lady can learn, after all.
“Are you ready to dye, Sweetie?” Rarity asked. With a light of her horn, she poured several colors into a single bowl. A blank white t-shirt followed not far behind.
“Of course,” Sweetie squeaked as she took the shirt in her and tried to dunk it in the dye. Rarity slid the bowl away before it could be ruined. “I can’t wait to dye.” Sweetie burst into another series of chuckles.
“Just make sure you soak the fabric first, dear. I expect you to dye properly.” The filly chuckled and nodded.
Rarity rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. Dying alongside those you love truly beat dying alone. Sweetie smiled on as she washed the fabric and wrung it out. Yes, Rarity thought as she rested her chin on a hoof. Today is a good day to dye.