Octavia had appeared as suddenly and silently as Vinyl had back at the Ponyville train station.
She strikes an impressive figure, standing resolutely upon the black matte of the stage, lights silhouetting her form. Propped against her thin body is a beautifully crafted cello, and a matching bow dangles from her right hoof.
Octavia is clearly the grey mare who was watching from the back of the room; her coat is the color of charcoal. Her mane and tail are inky black and brushed neatly, but not elaborately styled—as opposed to most of the Canterlot crowd, who feel the desire to bring as much attention as possible to their expertly individualized manes. Her cutie mark is a lavender treble clef which matches her eye color perfectly. Hugging her neck neatly is a crisp, white collar, framing a pale pink bow tie.
“I’ve been backstage.” Octavia’s voice is crisp and clipped, pleasing to listen to. “Tuning for rehearsal.”
You’re not an expert on the maintenance and tuning of string instruments, but what common sense tells you is that the instrument would have to be played in order to tell whether it is in tune or not. The past few minutes have been relatively quiet, and you would have been able to hear the sound if the cellist was tuning backstage. This deduction snaps you out of the shock at her sudden appearance. “When were you tuning? I didn’t hear anything from back there.”
Octavia’s gaze rests on you. As Vinyl and Royal Riff had warned, there is hostility in her stare. Overlaying that though is cold calculation, her eyes methodically taking in every inch of you. A faint glimmer of curiosity peers through the venom, giving you reason to surmise that Octavia isn’t quite as heartless as Vinyl has led you to believe.
“No,” she says slowly. “But fortunately I know my instrument well enough to know exactly in what position the tuning pegs need to be in in order for it to be in tune. Can you say the same?”
Royal Riff coughs uncomfortably. “Really, Octavia? Is there any need for that kind of hostility?”
You wave him down. “Don’t worry about it, Riffs.” You accidentally use the nickname Vinyl had coined for him. Your stare meets Octavia’s flawlessly. “Fortunately, I play the piano, and it rarely actually needs to be tuned. But when it does, I can do it in under ten seconds, while polishing the keys and oiling the pedals, simultaneously. Can you say the same?”
Something about the cellist’s demeanor has filled you with reckless confidence. You want to pick a fight, to prove that you’re not as useless as Lyrica insists. Instead of the usual belittling of your magical ability, you’re throwing it out in all its glory, if slightly exaggerated. In reality, the last time you tuned your piano, your attention had lapsed and snapped two strings. But Octavia doesn’t need to know that.
Octavia looks surprised by your retort. Evidently Royal Riff or somepony had told her about your submissive personality, and this has thrown a wrench in her plan to appear dominant. “Well, neophyte. My musical ability has secured me a position at the Grand Galloping Gala every year for the rest of my life, which includes a personal audience with Princess Celestia herself.”
Neophyte? You browse your mental thesaurus to locate an adequate comeback. You come up blank, so you resort back to pointless banter. “The first time I played for Vinyl, it shocked her speechless.” You point to the DJ, whose jaw is hanging slack. “I also swept the competition in these auditions without breaking a sweat.” Also a bit of a stretch; the only reason you stayed on your hooves was because of Vinyl.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You’re too uptight to know any different.”
Royal Riff and Symphony’s eyes are bouncing between you and Octavia as though following a tennis rally. As for Vinyl, you can’t tell because of her shades—she simply stands with a stunned expression plastered to her face.
Octavia falls silent. She lightly drops from the stage and props her cello against the raised platform. She advances on you, and it takes all the willpower you possess not to cringe away. Her face stops inches from yours, and you catch the delicious scent of coffee wafting from her mane. “Do not try me,” she hisses. “You saunter in here, bedazzle Royal Riff and Symphony into accepting you, and then act all high and mighty in front of me. Let me tell you this now, you will never live up to the legacy of Frederic Horseshoepin, but you might as well try. You’re like Lyrica, and it sickens me.”
The inner strength you had tapped into to match Octavia’s insults has left you. Her last jab leaves you wordless. You hadn’t realized it, but during your heated conversation, the pain from your headache had been numbed, but now returned in full force. Your eyesight goes shadowy and your knees tremble. Vinyl notices and grabs your shoulders.
The fire in Octavia’s eyes flickers when she sees you start to fall over. A brief light of concern peeks through, before being extinguished once again by fury.
“You okay?” Vinyl mutters in your ear.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement. Octavia’s cello tips, about to fall over, and instinctively, you reach out with magic and catch it inches away from cracking on the ground.
A bad idea, since the fresh jolt of pain sends you to the floor. You magical hold on the instrument is relinquished and the cello touches down gently. You’ve saved Octavia’s instrument, but you also have propelled yourself farther down a road of discomfort.
Your hazy vision locks on Octavia’s face. Her expression has gone from anger to relief, and interest. Despite her supposed hatred for you, she can’t help but be impressed by your reflexes.
You barely notice Royal Riff and Vinyl helping you into a seat. When your focus is ready to latch onto something besides the cellist, you bat their hooves away. “Guys, I’m fine!”
Royal Riff looks at you skeptically, but Vinyl gives him a look, like: “Just go with it.”
“Are you sure you want to come to rehearsal?” asks Symphony. “I mean, you’ve had a pretty taxing day. And you don’t really look . . .” She cuts herself off.
“Yeah, I don’t look like I’m up to it,” you finish for her.
“Well, yeah.”
Back by the stage, Octavia picks up her cello and inspects it for damage. Judging by her body language, you did an excellent job preserving the instrument’s quality. Even though she acts cold, she’s grateful to you. Giving you one last look, she grabs her bow and mounts the stage again. Without another word, she disappears behind the curtain, making her way backstage.
“I hope you’ll excuse her,” says Royal Riff. “She hasn’t been herself since Frederic . . . I mean, she’s not normally this . . . aggressive.”
“It’s okay. I understand where she’s coming from.” From her point of view, you’re showing total insensitivity to the loss of her very special somepony, and it’s logical that she would be angry at you for showing up so suddenly.
Hopefully, the wrath of the cellist will be short-lived.