The call of dawn pressed into Sundance's half-roused consciousness and the tapestry of dreams was rent asunder. As he was pulled into the light by wakefulness, the hazy, jumbled images of his dreams began to fade into forgetfulness. He'd flown too close to the ceiling of the sky and had run out of air. The terrible memory of suffocation felt far too real, until the light grew too strong and the dream retreated into the depths of his psyche.
After he rolled over in the bed, he gulped in great gasps of air and the sting in his lungs hurried him to a state of wakefulness. His first real thought of the day, at least the first thought that his conscious mind made sense of, was of his grandmother. She had taught him to fly. Weekends. Her days off. So many hours spent in the park. As he thought of her, a flood of overlapping images rushed into his mind, memories so real that he could smell them, hear them, taste them.
Ice cream. Skinned knees. The smell of grass stains on his pelt. Sometimes, other ponies shouted at his grandmother for allowing him to take his lumps, for letting him fall or crash. But she insisted that this was the best way, the only way that mattered. He remembered a miserable molt where most of his feathers fell out and he was mercilessly teased in school. His grandmother told him stories to make him feel better. All of these happened at once, each one overlapping the other, and with his senses overwhelmed, Sundance lay in the bed, gasping, fighting for air.
She was gone and there would be no more lessons in the park.
Mrs. Hawthorne had to be at least as old, if not older, than Cucumber. She teetered around the kitchen in a slow, hurried shuffle, trying to fix breakfast and tea. Her husband, Mr. Brush, was every bit as old as his dear wife, but nowhere as useful. Completely blind, he sat in the corner and polished silverware while occasionally grumbling to himself about glory days.
As for the kitchen itself, it was long, narrow, and cluttered. But not claustrophobic. In the rear of the kitchen, at the back of the house, was a small round dining room, which is where Sundance sat. The dining room was the base of the tower that stood in the back of the house, and Sundance found it quite charming. This tower was more decorative than functional, with a small round room on each floor. On the second floor, where he'd slept, there was a bathroom, which had the most remarkable shower.
When Sumac arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Hawthorne huffed, "Late as always."
In response, Sumac yawned and covered his mouth with his wing as he made his way through the long kitchen. When he reached the dining room, he yawned again, forgot to cover his mouth, and sat down opposite Sundance. It took him several long seconds to get settled in—he fidgeted in his seat while Mrs. Hawthorne relentlessly cleared her throat—and Sundance wondered what the morning routine was around this place.
"It's not right for a husband to be away from his wife," the harried housekeeper said beneath her breath.
"Wives," Sumac said as he slouched in his chair. "Wives."
"All the more reason to be at home."
"I am at home," Sumac said to the fussy mare. "This is my home. I am here. With two wives, I get nagged twice as much, and this is my refuge."
"I don't need yer sass!" Turning about, the withered old mare waved a wooden spoon covered in oatmeal in Sumac's general direction. When her husband chuckled, she waved her spoon at him as well, and let out a long sigh of exasperation. "Such crassness! And what is that smell? Bottle Brush, have you been eating pickled eggs again? You know what the doctor said about you eating pickled eggs!"
"Leave me alone, ye old nag!" the blind stallion said in return.
Sumac and Sundance exchanged silent glances with one another.
"For the love of Princess Celestia, somepony open a window!" When nopony moved to open a window, Mrs. Hawthorne did so herself, muttering beneath her breath the whole time about her husband's utter lack of decorum.
"Sleep well?" asked Sumac.
"Well enough," replied Sundance.
"I like it here," Sumac said as he straightened up a little in his seat. "It's quiet. And peaceful. Mostly. There's no bratty dragoness to play pranks on me. I don't live in fear of vast puddles of excited manticore slobber. There's just sublime bliss. Though, I must confess, I do get lonely."
Mrs. Hawthorne was still muttering to herself.
"We have a long day ahead of us, Sundance. Have a big breakfast."
"Mister Apple, good morning. Pleasant to see you. You're here early today, Mister Apple. Do you need my assistance?"
A young, eager mare practically bounced on her hooves. Too young, really. So young in fact that it somehow seemed wrong that she worked in the morgue. It was downright disturbing and gave Sundance the shivers. Death was an uncomfortable subject—even more so with his grandmother dead—and this perky prancing morning pony who was barely even a mare seemed terribly out of place in the morgue.
"Not today, Miss Gladiolus. I'll be heading out to the Sunfire Barony. But if you need something to do, the drains could use servicing." It was at this point that Sumac lowered his voice considerably. "The drains definitely need attention and I would be most appreciative if you were to look after them today."
"Sure thing, Mister Apple!" Her cheerful face never wavered, and neither did her exuberant tone. "I can unclog the drains. Anything to urn a living." She leaned in a little closer, winked once, then a second time, and as she winked a third time, she pulled away. "Eh? Eh? Urn a living. Boxing clever, right?"
"Indubitably, Miss Gladiolus. But please, do try to remember, this is a morgue. A house of the dead. We must try to be somber so that we might be accommodating to the grief of others. Do you recall what I said about self-restraint?"
"Uh, no. Sorry. I'm really sorry."
There was a long sigh from Sumac, followed by a prolonged inhale, and then came another extended sigh. When he spoke again, it was with remarkable patience. "Miss Gladiolus, we shall discuss this at a later time. For now, please, busy yourself with the drains. I do so treasure and appreciate your enthusiasm. You do good work. Now, away with you."
"Thanks, Mister Apple!" the young mare whooped as she pronked away, her hooves clattering against the marble floor.
Sumac watched her go, and once she disappeared beyond the door, he said, "She's good at what she does. Absolutely nothing phases her. Nothing at all. She genuinely loves the dead, and she treats them in exactly the same way that she treats the living. Which is to say, she's downright loquacious and will make every attempt to talk their ears off. All of her nattering is her way of making them feel better. When dealing with foals, she is almost playful and she speaks to them as though they weren't dead. She's a remarkable creature, but she lacks even an iota of self-restraint. I am sorry if she disturbed you, Sundance."
After staring at the door for a short time, Sundance shrugged, then replied, "I'm fine, really. It's actually rather nice to see a cheerful pony around here."
"That is kind of you to say, Sundance. Please, follow me to the garage. I'm sure that you're eager to be going."
The hearse was sleek, black, and lozenge-shaped. It had two wheels near the middle, and support struts up near the front to keep it level. At first glance, it appeared to be made out of wood, but Sundance realised that only some of it was made from wood: the rest of it was some kind of lightweight metal, probably aluminium, which was then painted and textured to look like wood. It was streamlined for flight and black as Princess Luna's night, with brass trim. The tires looked plump and mostly new, as he could hardly see any signs of wear.
"It has a Celestium-assisted weight reduction system," Sumac said as he began the pre-flight inspection. "Battery powered. Good for about four to six hours of flight time. Makes the hearse nice and light. Allows for smoother landings, but you still need to be careful, because the hearse will be bouncy. It is a system of my own design and was recently patented. I daresay that it will change the funeral industry as we know it. This trip should be mostly effortless."
Wooden double-doors opened at the far end of the room and a young stallion entered. He was remarkably well groomed by any standard with not a single hair of his mane out of place, and his chestnut hide practically gleamed. Sundance failed to notice that he was even looking because he was so distracted. From Sumac, there came a soft sigh, one that sounded an awful lot like resignation, or the sound made when patience was tested.
"Good morning, Mister Apple."
"Yes, good morning, Mister Muscadine."
"I did as you asked," the young stallion said. "The hearse is ready to go. Batteries are charged. Everything was packed, just as requested, and I made certain that the cooling system met regulations."
Again, there was a soft sigh from Sumac. "Do you seek praise for doing your job, Mister Muscadine?"
"Goodness no!" Suffering a total loss of composure, the young, well-groomed stallion's mouth fell open, his eyes widened, and he stood there, frozen in abject horror.
"Then what do you need, Mister Muscadine?"
"Um, well…" Now the young Mister Muscadine appeared more coltish as he cleared his throat and recovered his failed composure. "Sir, it is Miss Gladiolus."
"Go on," Sumac deadpanned.
"When will the young miss be transferred?"
"Never," was Sumac's ear-flattening response.
Ears now down, Muscadine averted his gaze to the floor. "But… sir… she's—"
"Amazing at her job?" Sumac suggested.
"Well, no, that wasn't what I was going to say, and I find she is rather—"
"Willing to do all the horrible jobs that you think that you're too good for? I just sent her off to clean the drains."
Sundance saw a visible shudder travel through Muscadine's body.
"Here's what you are going to do, Mister Muscadine. You"—Sumac paused for a short time, and something about his demeanour changed drastically—"are going to take that nice young mare to lunch."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"You are going to ask her to lunch, and you… you are going to plant your flag. Work up the courage to ask her out, Muscadine. Stop being wishy-washy and hoping that the problem will just go away. It won't."
"Sir?"
"Gladiolus is a rare treasure, Muscadine."
"Sir, we have nothing in common."
"Is that so?" Sumac asked rhetorically. "She went to beauty school and became a cosmetologist. As I seem to recall, you went to beauty school and became a stylist. Both of you had trouble with living clients, did you not?"
Gaze averted, Muscadine remained silent.
"She talks to you in a way that she doesn't do with any other living creature, Muscadine."
"I have trouble talking to the living," Muscadine blurted out. "Nothing makes sense. I can't make sense of them. Social cues make no sense. I am constantly putting my hoof in my mouth. She's here because she genuinely loves her job, and I'm here because I have nowhere else to go!"
"Which is why you are going to take that nice young mare out to lunch, and you are going to let her help you sort your life out. Just let go and let things happen. Everything will be fine. You'll see. If you get scared, just go silent and still the way you do. She'll sort everything out."
"But I—"
"No buts, Mister Muscadine. Thank you for preparing the hearse. You did a fine job. Now go help Miss Gladiolus with the drains, will you? And ask her to lunch. Just… play dead and everything will sort itself out, I promise."
Defeated, Muscadine bowed his head. "Very good, sir. I shall do as you ask, sir. The drains will be cleaned and made spotless, sir. And the young miss will be made aware that I wish to share my noontime repast with her."
"Cheer up, Muscadine. It's not like you're attending your own funeral."
"Oh, but I am, sir. She puns. It's dreadful."
"Away with you, Mister Muscadine. I must be going. There's only so much daylight."
The young stallion started to say something, but then didn't. He lingered in this state for a short time, but slowly, he recovered himself. First his ears pricked, then he stood up tall, and some starch returned to his posture. Sundance watched with curious interest as the transformation took place, and the young fellow looked a bit less coltish and more stallionish with each passing second.
"Very well," Muscadine said at last. "I shall go and announce my intentions to Gladiatrix Gladiolus. I suppose that if she's not going to be sent away, I shall have to find some means of living with her. I bid you a good day."
Then, without further ado, young Mister Muscadine trotted away and vanished through the wooden double-doors that he'd entered through. Thoughtful, distracted, Sundance watched the doors for a short time, and he wondered if it were really that simple. Love was waiting just around the corner, so it seemed, and yet he had nopony. The death of his grandmother was an excellent reminder that life was fragile, and without warning, could end with unexpected suddenness.
"Do you think things will work out for them?" he asked Sumac.
After a thoughtful pause, Sumac replied, "Maybe. They're both sad ponies, but one hides it better. Happiness is a funny thing, Sundance. It comes from the oddest, most unlikely sources."
"I need to find me some happiness."
"Perhaps I can help," Sumac offered. "Tell me about it while we fly to the barony…"