//------------------------------// // 2. The Harsh Light of Day // Story: Bon-Bon the Demon Slayer // by ObabScribbler //------------------------------// I find myself disbelieving of this ‘printing press’ others so heartily endorse. It shall forever be my opinion that a quill and ink are all a scholar requires to commit his thoughts and wisdom to the ages. My ‘peers’ call this machine a sign of the future. I say it is folly and declare this to their faces, as I did also declare when they heralded as splendid some artist’s sketches of wings to render earth ponies’ flight. ‘Tis foolishness! Therein lies ruin and I shall never be dissuaded from this opinion. Equestria will never need machines more than magic. Should such a day ever arrive, methinks it will signal the end of the Age of Enlightenment and the dawning of a new Dark Ages. Her Majesty furnished me with a new servant three days past. This one is a mere earth pony and scrawny at that. It is a rare induction, indeed, for a civilised scholar such as I to be saddled with one so lowborn as a domestic, yet I shall endure. Her Majesty did suggest my servants past were many owing to some defect of mine! She did even go so far as to suggest my brusque manner as yielding none who wish to serve me from the ranks of those in service to the castle and those who live here. I informed her of the need for upper classes to instill in those born below them that there is great honour in serving a scholar of my magnitude, however she did respond with less than the belief I would expect of her. That one so regal would submit to me my flaws as phrased by servants – and by simple earth ponies! An earth pony has no business passing judgement on a unicorn, much less one such as I. Such an affront shall not be endured. Thus I am not unhappy that this new one avoids me and does not linger when I enter my chambers. I do not expect this one to last much longer than the others. In addition to their artless tongues, earth ponies are slow of wit and small of courage. My upcoming studies will no doubt render me in need of another soon enough. Indeed, my studies do entrance me far more than Her Majesty’s words regarding servants. This latest line of enquiry vexes me greatly and yet it is enthralling. I do believe it shall yield some fascinating insights into the very nature of magic itself. It would be most fitting for a scholar such as I to be the pony who uncovers such mysteries that have thwarted those before me. None have come as far as I in the study of magic and none but I shall untangle its secrets and commit them to the ages. And I shall NOT use any ridiculous ‘printing press’ to do it! -- Extract from the journals of Starswirl the Bearded, 488 AS. Bon-Bon arrived home with her cloak and belt in her tail. What had been good camouflage at night made her stand out like a broccoli floret in a box of chocolates during the day. At the edge of the forest she carefully wrapped the belt in the cloak and tucked the bundle amongst the layers of hair, clipping it into place with a few grips so it didn’t fall out as she walked. When she finally reached her front door she went in without looking around. Lyra would be at work already, so there was no chance of her popping seemingly out of nowhere to say hello, as she often did. Once inside Bon-Bon leaned backwards against her door. She was still tired but her mind raced. Mistaking Zecora’s voice for Windwhistler’s had unsettled her. She knew that she would not be able to sleep if she went straight to bed. One attribute of being Slayer was the ability to get by on minimal sleep; while other ponies needed a whole night, she could function on a handful of catnaps during daylight hours, leaving her ready to patrol the town after dark, when the demons were most active. If she had needed to hold down a full-time job things might have been tricky, however Princess Celestia had ensured she did not, so Bon-Bon was free to organise herself around her Slayer duties. Levering herself up, Bon-Bon trotted into the kitchen. Slayers of the past had probably never kept their tools or clothing in the pantry but it made perfect sense to her. She spent most of her time downstairs so it would be pointless for her to keep it in her bedroom; and the kitchen was home to lots of other things that could be turned into weapons if necessary. She opened the pantry door, knelt down and pulled a huge old tin from under the shelves. The words ‘Madre Migliori Biscotti’ and a picture of a rearing pony emblazoned the front, though both were faded from their original glory. It was one of the few things Nonna Cioccolata had left her and Bon-Bon could think of no better place to store her things now. It seemed fitting that Bon-Bon, this generation’s black sheep of the family, would feel closest to her grandmother. Nonna had been everything Bon-Bon’s mother hated. She had strived to keep Nonna’s ‘bad influence’ away from Bon-Bon as a filly and raise her to be a ‘true Manehattanite’ instead. However, Bon-Bon had revelled in visits to her grandmother’s little redbrick house, where the carpets didn’t quite fit the floors and everything smelled vaguely of mothballs and burned sugar. She often called in on her way home from school. Nonna had been full of stories about the ‘old country’ and what life there had been like before she and her husband moved to Equestria. Of course, when Bon-Bon’s mother found out about the visits she had put a stop to them. Nevertheless, Bon-Bon loved her grandmother and had been devastated when she died. There wasn’t much inheritance – most of the contents of that little brick house went in the trash – but Bon-Bon had snatched back the tin, wreathed in memories of hot sweet tea, stories in the musty old sitting room and Nonna bringing out of it whatever cake or confection she had made. “You never met your grandfather,” she would say over and over, “but this was his favourite.” “What was he like, Nonna?” Bon-Bon would ask, which would set her off. Nonna looked misty-eyed into the past, which irked Bon-Bon’s mother incredibly. “Ah, my Marzapane. He looked so much like you, little one, except his mane was all blue, not pink. You get that from your mother, which she got from me. But your coat, your beautiful, beautiful coat; that is his.” She would stroke Bon-Bon’s hair from her face with one arthritic hoof, the other waving as she talked of the sea voyage, the struggle to make ends meet, the shock of a big city after life in a country village, learning the Equestrian language and trying to make herself understood to ponies who had no concept of life beyond Equestria. She liked to talk of Bon-Bon’s mother in glowing terms, even though she was such an embarrassment to her daughter. “Such a clever girl, my Candito, to make so much of herself from her humble beginnings,” Nonna would say reverently. “And she married so well! You live in such a nice place, Bambolina. I wonder why come around here so much when you have such a nice place to live in.” The expensive apartment was indeed nice, yet it lacked heart. Bon-Bon rarely reminded Nonna that her mother had changed her name to Candy. It was too hurtful to keep bringing up how much her only foal had grown away from her. “I like it here, Nonna,” Bon-Bon would say instead, every time, without fail. She meant it every time, too. “I like spending time with you.” “Ach, you will grow out of it someday, when colts and make-up and all those things fill your head.” Bon-Bon brushed at the old tin with the flat of her hoof. Nonna had brought this over from the old country, filled with trinkets and whatever she could fit in and carry onto the boat with her. It was a piece of history: her history, the one her mother had tried so hard to erase and forget. Bon-Bon was filled with a sudden grief, sharp-edged, like swallowing a piece of broken peanut brittle before you’d had time to chew it. Or maybe it was more like swallowing glass: cutting all the way down to her heart and bringing tears to her eyes as it went. I miss you, Nonna, she thought. You were wrong. I never did get into colts and I never outgrew you. She pulled the lid off the tin and placed the cloak and belt inside for her grandmother to look after. Nonna might have understood about the whole Slayer thing. She knew what it was like to no longer fit in and have to live your life pretending. Scrubbing furiously at her eyes with the back of her hoof, Bon-Bon slid the tin back under the shelves and got up. As she did so, she caught sight of a jar on a higher shelf labelled in her own neat writing: ‘vanilla beans’. Next to it was a packet of sugar she hadn’t opened yet. She narrowed her eyes at them, thoughts turning over in her brain. There was one sure-fire way of calming her down when she was on edge. She snatched up the jar and packet and carried them out into the kitchen. Thinking quickly, she retreated into the pantry and hunted out a block of bittersweet chocolate. She had three, plus some light corn syrup in a jar that would have proved difficult to open for anyone without Slayer strength. Carting these out to sit with the vanilla and sugar, she checked her refrigerator. On a typical day it had two sets of contents: her own and the decoys for Lyra, for whom the phrase “Did you want this?” was just a formality. Even Lyra would not have wanted the pat of butter unless there was bread involved. Bon-Bon plonked it next to her growing collection of ingredients, along with a carton of whipping cream she had been saving. She clattered around in the cupboards around the kitchen, fired by a desire to be doing something instead of just sitting around with her thoughts. A baking pan, parchment paper, a saucepan, a wooden spoon and a pastry brush joined them. The sieve proved harder to find but eventually turned up in the freezer compartment. “Lyra,” Bon-Bon muttered as she flipped the icy cold implement between her hooves. Slayer strength did not keep one from freezing one’s tootsies off. “Okay, I think I’m good to go.” The sounds of tearing parchment paper and tuneless humming filled the air as she got to work. Bon-Bon greased the paper in the baking pan, set them to one side, plucked out a vanilla bean and scraped the seeds into the saucepan. Pouring the sugar on top, she placed the saucepan on the stove and spent a few minutes fighting with the hob to make it light. Ponyville was a quaint, pretty town, but not exactly flush with modern conveniences she was forced to revert to a match held into the pouring gas until it lit with a blue-flamed whoosh. She watched as the sugar melted and darkened, turning the consistency and colour of liquid amber. She loved the smells of cooking, but especially that of hot sugar paste. Scent is the most powerful time machine in the world, transporting us back to times and places we have thought long-forgotten. When Bon-Bon inhaled the smell of melting sugar she was a filly again, balanced on a chair to see over the counter as Nonna did this very task. When she stirred, it was with the same movements Nonna had taught her, holding her hoof over Bon-Bon’s tiny one as, together, they gripped the wooden spoon. When Bon-Bon was satisfied she turned down the heat and stirred in the corn syrup and brought the whipping cream to a boil in a smaller saucepan on a neighbouring gas-ring. She reached for her over mitt without needing to look where it was and slowly poured the hot cream into the sugar saucepan. It sputtered and foamed, spitting tiny globules of scalding liquid up at her. She flinched but her hooves remained steady – a handy by-product of learning to fire a crossbow so it hit its mark every time. Once everything was mixed together and the bubbling had subsided she tossed the small saucepan into the sink and was about to leave it when Nonna’s voice chastised her from across the years. “Clean up as you go along, little one, or you’ll have hours of work when you’re already tired at the end.” She splashed water and washing up liquid into the small saucepan. When it had cooled a little she scrubbed at the cloying bits of cream that were left with a sponge. The combined smell made her nose wrinkle and she soon returned to the much more pleasant aroma around the stove, but not before taking with her a drinking glass filled with cold water. Using an old method Nonna had taught her, she stirred the mixture once and held the wooden spoon above the glass. A little dripped into the water, forming a ball that sank to the bottom. She fished it out and pressed it lightly between her hooves, satisfied when it didn’t squash easily. “Good, little one, very good!” Smiling at the happy memory, Bon-Bon removed the saucepan from the heat, added a tablespoon of butter and stirred vigorously – though not so vigorously that she broke the pan or the spoon. That had happened many times in the beginning, before she had a real handle on her increased strength. It would have been much easier, she reflected, for Slayers to be born strong so they learned how to cope with it before they were gawky teenagers already uncomfortable in their own bodies. Then again, that wasn’t how the magic worked: Starswirl’s spell explicitly stated that there could only ever be one Slayer at a time and that the death of one instigated the calling of another. Slayers were made, not born. Now she just had to add … “Salt!” she exclaimed. “Ponyfeathers, I forgot the salt!” Hastily returning to the pantry, she had to jump to fetch down the container. The shelves wobbled precariously but didn’t fall. Bon-Bon went back to the stove, fetched a teaspoon from a drawer and shook it over the mixture, spreading around the granules and watching as they glistened like frost on the surface. It always amazed her how pretty each stage of cooking could be. Anyone could admire the finished product, but they always missed the beauty of what it took to get to that stage. Crystal ginger could be amber, chipped away and ready to be made into jewellery; honey was soft gold flowing into whatever shape the metalworker wanted; powdered sugar was the first snow of winter; the entire world could be found in a well-stocked kitchen and the hooves that knew how to turn it into art. “Look at me, getting all philosophical,” she muttered to herself. Nevertheless, food had never just been food to her. Food was a warm hug after a bad day, a way of giving comfort when someone was grieving and you couldn’t stop their pain, a silent ‘I love you’ … Bon-Bon hefted the saucepan and poured the mixtures into the prepared baking pan. She lifted that onto a cooling rack and sloshed cold water into the still steaming pan. Once that was clean and on the draining board, she glanced at the rapidly cooling mixture. She had enough time to put away all the ingredients she no longer needed before the last couple of stages. Tempering chocolate was a delicate matter. She had begun boiling a pan of hot water while she tidied and placed a glass dish of broken chocolate pieces on top. They melted into thick, smooth brown goo that smelled divine. She removed it before it could burn, stirring in the last few solid triangles. Using a small square of greased paper, she smeared a little and placed it in the refrigerator for a couple of minutes. If it was streaky, she had to start again. Thankfully it was dry to the touch and evenly glossy. “Is there anything prettier than chocolate this way?” Nonna used to say when she did this. “Of course there is. You are, little one!” When it was cool enough, Bon-Bon turned the baking tray over onto a freshly cleaned work surface. It took a little pat, but the firm rectangle popped free and landed heavily. She peeled off the parchment paper, screwed it into a ball and tossed it over her shoulder. It landed in the trash with unnerving accuracy. That had bothered her mother a lot when she did it back home in Manehattan. All the crazy things that her daughter had started experiencing after she became Slayer (though she hadn’t known that was what it was at the time) and Bon-Bon’s ability to dunk garbage without looking was what had creeped her out. Bon-Bon took out a new sheet of parchment and laid it flat. She sliced up the rectangle into squares and dipped each one in the warm chocolate, then placed them on the sheet in rows. Lyra probably would have haphazardly put them anywhere but Bon-Bon formed them into neat, orderly rows. When she was about halfway done she sprinkled a little salt over those she had already done, turning them from brown blobs into crystalline fragments, like part of a fallen star. When she was finally finished she surveyed her work. All told, she had made around fifty little pieces of her grandmother’s Salty Caramels. She felt like she had achieved something, even though all she had done was make a few candies. She was also far more relaxed than she had been. Yes, the only sure-fire way of calming her down was making sweet treats. She washed up that last of the cooking equipment and yawned a little. She needed to put the caramels into a container when they had completely set. In the corner of the room sat an old wooden rocking chair; not her grandmother’s, but so close it was almost identical. She had bought it here in Ponyville, though it was not a purchase she had expected to make. Bon-Bon sat in it, thinking she would wait there for the ten minutes it would take before she could touch the cooling chocolate. The frame creaked, taking her weight easily but letting her know how it felt to suddenly be filled with pony. Though she had not expected it, Bon-Bon’s eyes closed and she finally drifted off the sleep. …. The darkness is calling her. No, it’s summoning her, like a faithful dog or a … a … It doesn’t know her name. That will keep her safe. She clings to that. It can’t hurt her if it doesn’t know her name. It doesn’t know her. It can’t force her to come if it doesn’t know who she is. Nameless. Anonymous. Unknown. Secret. Keep it secret. Keep a secret. Keep the secret. No feet to run away. No floor to run on. Nothing but the darkness; always calling; always lapping at the edges of her mind like an incoming tide. Can the tide have teeth? The darkness nibbles like thousands of tiny teeth. If she stays still the beach will move like bedclothes being shaken and she will be tossed right into the darkness; chewed up and … and ... Keep it secret. Keep a secret. Keep the secret. The darkness is calling her. There’s something there. There’s something IN it. It’s calling to her – or is it just calling her? Is there a difference? Calling her or calling to her? So faint, like a quiet voice far away. Has it been calling for long? Did she just not hear it before? The bad thing lurks in the darkness. The tide with teeth is in the darkness … of the darkness … IS the darkness … Keep IT secret. Keep A secret. Keep THE secret. It keeps calling her. She doesn’t want to go to it but how do you run away when everywhere you go is just you – YOU – YOU? The darkness laps closer, nibbles more, calls louder. The darkness is coming. The darkness is coming for her. The darkness is coming … coming … coming … The darkness is here. Bon-Bon jolted awake and flew out of her chair, hooves raised in a ready position. Not many ponies could fight on two legs as easily as four but she could switch between them with no trouble. The kitchen was empty. She could neither hear nor sense anyone else in the house. She was alone. She sank back into the rocking chair, pressing a hoof to her forehead. She was used to getting nightmares but that one had been a doozy. She felt shaky and unsettled even as her heart rate returned to normal and her breathing slowed. The images were already fading, as dreams always do, but she retained an unease that felt like static along her fur, crawling all the way up to her scalp and ears. The after-effects were not helped by a sudden thump against her front door. She leaped to her hooves and cantered to see what it was, reminding her jumpy insides that demons couldn’t appear during the day. When she checked the peep hole her heart sheepishly left her throat and slid back into her ribcage. Bon-Bon opened the door with resignation. “Oh!” Derpy Hooves looked up from trying to gather the spilled letters and parcels off the doorstep. “Morning, M-Miss Sweetie-Drops.” She gave a bright smile, not looking as she hastily reached like ponies on a fishing trawler gathering in a net of struggling fish. “Here you go, Mommy.” On the other side of the pile, a small unicorn filly tried to her mother’s attention so she could unload the pile she had also gathered. “What happened out here?” Bon-Bon enquired, though she thought she could guess. Derpy self-consciously opened her satchel to receive her daughter’s offering. “I’m real sorry, M-Miss Sweetie-Drops. I was r-rushing and had a little a-accident.” She pointed to Bon-Bon’s door, which had a fresh indent in it. “I couldn’t s-stop in time, I g-guess. I was just trying to f-finish to I could g-get Dinky to school on time. I’m n-not allowed to break off from w-work before I finish my shift b-but there’s so m-much more mails than usual t-today.” Her speech impediment, proportional to her nervousness and stress levels, made it a little difficult to understand what she was saying but Bon-Bon successfully decoded the stuttered words. “It’s show and tell day today,” Dinky announced proudly. “I’m gonna tell everypony in class about my new pet rabbit.” Derpy shoved letters into her satchel. Her hat was hanging off the door handle. Bon-Bon retrieved it and Derpy received it gratefully. “C-Can’t lose th-this.” She jammed it on over her ears. The Equestria Royal Mail insignia shone in the early morning sunshine. Derpy’s nose, by comparison, throbbed an angry red. “Are you okay?” Bon-Bon asked anxiously. “Oh, sure.” Derpy waved away her concern. “Happens all the t-time. I have a problem with s-stopping sometimes.” “You could have a concussion.” Derpy bumped the side of her head with a balled hoof. “Solid as a r-rock.” Bon-Bon remained unconvinced. “I still think you should get checked out. The doctor’s office isn’t too far from here.” “N-No!” Derpy was aghast. “I have to f-finish my round so I can t-take Dinky to school!” “Miss Hooves, your health has to come first.” Derpy shook her head so vigorously Bon-Bon was half-surprised when it didn’t twist all the way around. “I t-told you, Miss Sweetie-D-Drops, this happens to me all the t-time. I’m used to it. I didn’t even hit v-very hard today. If I hurry I c-can finish up and g-get Dinky to school before –” “I’ll take her.” Derpy blinked, nonplussed. “Excuse m-me?” “I’ll take your daughter to school. That way you can finish your round and go to the doctor’s to get checked out.” Bon-Bon wondered where the words emerging from her mouth had come from. She didn’t mind kids but had limited experience looking after them even for short periods. Dinky looked more foal than filly, although maybe that was just because of her small size. She was old enough to go to school, after all. “It would really set my mind at rest if you did that.” Derpy stared at her. Being stared at by Derpy Hooves was not something to be taken lightly. Bon-Bon shuffled her hooves uncomfortably, wondering whether she should meet that stare and, if she did, which eye to focus on. Derpy was not a naturally intimidating pony but politeness lent its own pressure. “You’ll m-make sure she gets there on t-time?” Bon-Bon nodded as vigorously as Derpy had shaken her head. “Absolutely.” “All right then.” Derpy spoke as if she were the one doing Bon-Bon a favour, not the other way around. She turned and bent her forelegs so she was staring her daughter in the face. “You behave for Miss S-Sweetie-Drops, okay?” Dinky bobbed her head, her tiny saddle-bags shaking from side to side. “Okay, Mommy, but you gotta do as she says and go see the doctor, okay?” “Okay, muffin.” Derpy’s expression cleared and she scrubbed a hoof into Dinky’s mane. “Bossy little m-muffin.” “Mommy!” Dinky protested, though she was giggling. Bon-Bon watched the exchange with mixed emotions. There was something immensely endearing about the clear love between the two. They didn’t care about things like embarrassing each other in front of a stranger or even sustaining bodily injuries in the name of that love. You couldn’t help but want a piece of what they had – something Bon-Bon had never experienced with her own mother. Candy Drops was an aloof filly who grew into an even more aloof mare, more concerned with wearing the right brand names and going to the right parties than making sure her daughter got to school on time. That was what the hired help was for. Derpy and Dinky, however, obviously adored each other. Derpy would never forget Dinky’s birthday or treat her like a fashion accessory, while Dinky would never sit in her room drawing pictures of the family she would rather have. “Behave yourself for M-Miss Sweetie-Drops,” Derpy cautioned as she flapped her wings and rose into the air. When she was almost a dozen feet up she paused and dived back towards them. Bon-Bon thought she was about to repeat her collision with the door. Derpy allayed this by pulling up and rummaging in her satchel. “Here you go, M-Miss Sweetie-Drops. The postmark says it’s all the way f-from Canterlot.” Bon-Bon glanced at it and saw that it had indeed come from the capital. She had received packages just like it before and knew that it was from Princess Celestia. The princess took care of all Bon-Bon’s bills in Ponyville in exchange for her guarding Twilight. Bon-Bon had not asked her to – being the Slayer was a calling, not a career choice – but Princess Celestia had reasoned that not needing to find or hold down a job would free up her time for training and patrolling, plus it would release her from having to explain to her boss why she could never work after it started to get dark. She had set everything up before Bon-Bon even got to Ponyville, as well as bank accounts and other things. Once in a while she would also send a parcel of something she or her aides had found that she thought might be useful in the fight against demons. Last time it had been a book for Zecora. This time, who knew? There was no time to unwrap it now, so Bon-Bon leaned inside her house to place it on the table inside her hallway. “Thanks.” Derpy gave a salute like an overeager cadet. “Just doing my j-job. Thank you again M-Miss Sweetie-Drops.” Bon-Bon waved Derpy off once more. Dinky used both forehooves, her whole body juddering with the force of each wave. If she was nervous at being left in the care of somepony else, she didn’t show it. She just turned to Bon-Bon, thrust out a little hoof and re-introduced herself. “Hi. I’m Dinky.” “I know,” Bon-Bon replied, gingerly taking the hoof. “We’ve met before when your mom was taking you to school.” On days with less mail Dinky had been known to hitch a ride in the mail bag. There were some advantages to be so small. Dinky nodded and clicked her hooves together. “So, are we going?” “Huh? Oh, right. Uh, just let me … uh …” Bon-Bon glanced behind her. “Come in for a second. How long do we have until you have to be there?” “About half an hour,” Dinky said knowledgeably. “School starts at half past eight. Your clock reads seven fifty-seven, which means there’s only three more minutes until it’s exactly half an hour.” She beamed. “I can tell time better than any colt or filly in my class.” “It’s really that late?” Bon-Bon frowned. She had slept for over an hour. It wasn’t refreshing sleep, although it had recharged her enough to function without being a danger to herself or others. She wouldn’t want to fight a twelve-foot tall Raptorian demon but she could probably manage an imp or two. “Late?” Dinky tilted her head to one side. “It’s early in the morning.” “Depends which side you’re looking at it from.” “Huh?” “Never mind. Come on in for a second while I pack some things.” “You don’t need to pack anything,” Dinky remarked as she stepped inside. “You’re not the one going to school.” “No, but after I take you I need to make a stop at Sugarcube Corner.” Bon-Bon led her through to the kitchen. Dinky raised her nose and inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell?” “I was making something earlier. I guess it still stinks a bit in here.” “It smells really good! Not stinky at all!” Dinky turned her face this way and that, trying to locate the source of the gorgeous scent. “Like when I accidentally left a candy bar too close to the fire and it melted on the rug.” She winced at the memory. “I tried to wash the rug before Mommy found out; only I’m not so good at that kind of thing. I accidentally flooded our kitchen when I put it in the sink. Then the mop was so big it was hard for me to hold, so I kept slipping over, so I got a really big bruise on my butt. It hurt really, really bad! And when Mommy came back from the store I tried to run and hide in my room, only I couldn’t because I’d made the floor all wet and shiny, so I was just running in place and Mommy thought that was so funny she totally wasn’t made about the water or the candy bar and –” “Would you like to take some of these to school?” Bon-Bon asked to interrupt the flow of words. She presented a few of the caramels and allowed Dinky to inspect them. “Ooh!” Dinky leaned forward but then pulled back sharply. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to accept candy from strangers.” “I’m not a stranger. Your Mommy wouldn’t have left you with me if she didn’t trust me.” Dinky didn’t look convinced, though her expression wavered. “You’re kind of a stranger. I don’t even know your proper name. Mommy calls everyone their ‘formal name’ on account of she doesn’t want anypony to say she’s being ‘improper’ again. One time, somepony said that to her boss and she got in trouble for it, so now she says ‘Mrs’ and ‘Mr’ and ‘Miss’ to everyone instead.” “Well I don’t mind if she uses my, um, proper name. It’s Bon-Bon. I never liked being called Miss Sweetie-Drops anyhow.” The double-barrelled surname was a leftover of her mother’s eternal quest for acceptance in the classes above her own. If she could learn from and be accepted by with the Manehattan elite, she had theorised for all Bon-Bon’s foalhood, she would someday know enough to make it in Canterlot too. Many Manehattanite couples kept both surnames when they married, so she had adopted the same practise and foisted it on her daughter too; giving Bon-Bon a name so sugary it could cause spontaneous cavities to appear in whatever mouth said it. “Bon-Bon?” Dinky giggled. “Your name sounds like Mommy does when she gets nervous.” Bon-Bon couldn’t help smiling. Dinky’s giggles were infectious. Something about having the filly in her kitchen made the place come alive in ways it didn’t even when it was filled with bubbling pans and cooking paraphernalia. Bon-Bon was not the motherly type, though she didn’t dislike kids; she simply never factored them as a possibility in her own life, thus they were not something she thought of very much. She had limited interactions with them, too, which left her awkwardly struggling to think what to say when she was put into positions like this one. “Should I start calling you Dinky-Dinky?” she suggested. Dinky giggled even harder. “That sounds weird!” “Dinky-Dinky,” Bon-Bon said hesitantly, wondering how far you could push a silly joke with kids compared with adults. Dinky just about collapsed on the floor in a fit of mirth. “You’re silly.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Bon-Bon smiled as she fetched a small polythene bag, put four sweets inside and deftly twisted it shut. “Here you go. They’re called Salty Caramels.” “You put salt in them?” Dinky picked herself and accepted the bag, wrinkling her nose a little. “Did you make a mistake when you were reaching for the sugar? Mommy does that sometimes when she’s making my breakfast. She can’t see so good, so I never say anything, but salty cornflakes sure taste yucky.” “No, I did it on purpose. It’s so that the sweet and the salt combine in your mouth to make a whole new flavour.” “Really?” Dinky eyes the caramels dubiously. “Have you tried them yourself?” “Lots of times. My grandmother used to make them for me when I was around your age.” “Oh.” Dinky looked at them for a few seconds longer, shrugged and put them in her saddlebag. “Thank you, Bon-Bon.” She sniggered as she said the name, not quite over how silly it sounded. “You’re welcome, Dinky-Dinky.” Dinky’s laughter echoed through the house as Bon-Bon packed up the rest of the caramels, driving away the last vestiges of any shadows lurking there. Dinky skipped ahead of Bon-Bon towards the schoolhouse. The clasp on one of her saddlebags flapped free and she danced in place as Bon-Bon tried to refasten it. “I’ve never known anypony so eager to get to school!” Bon-Bon exclaimed. “I like school,” Dinky enthused. “Next year in in Miss Cheerilee’s class but this year I’m with Miss Porcelain. She’s really, really, really, really, REALLY nice. She hardly ever yells and even when she does it’s only because the batteries on her hearing aid have run out. One of the colts in my class says she’s going to retire soon but I don’t think so. I think she’ll be a teacher forever and ever and ever and ever and ever …” The words turned into a mantra as they set off again, Dinky matching her hoofsteps to the cadence of her own voice. When they reached the schoolhouse door Miss Cheerilee was outside on playground duty, watching over the little colts and fillies play before the bell rang to summon them inside. She smiled when she saw Dinky. It wavered a little when she saw Bon-Bon behind her. “Oh dear; is your mother sick, Dinky?” “No, she just had a lot of mail to deliver this morning and she hit her head, so Bon-Bon is bringing me to school while Mommy visits the doctor.” “Oh dear.” Cheerilee’s gaze shifted to Bon-Bon, so it wasn’t clear whom she was addressing with her next question. “Is she all right?” “Of course she is!” Dinky giggled. “Mommy bumps her head all the time and she’s always fine.” “She seemed okay,” Bon-Bon elaborated. “But I feel better knowing any potential concussion is being taken care of.” Cheerilee nodded. “Sillies,” said Dinky. She knocked against the side of her head with a balled up hoof in a move reminiscent of her mother less than an hour ago. “Mommy says her head is solid as a rock.” “You run along and play now, sweetheart.” Cheerilee bent to nose Dinky gently towards the other students. “You still have a few minutes before school starts.” “Okay, Miss Cheerilee!” Dinky waved furiously as she cantered off. “Bye Bon-Bon! Thank you for walking me to school!” “Look where you’re going!” Bon-Bon called back with a surprising jolt of terror. Was clumsiness an inheritable trait? There were a lot of things a little filly could crash into in a schoolyard when she wasn’t paying attention. Cheerilee gave an eloquent smile. “She’ll be fine. When she finally gets her cutie mark and starts learning magic, maybe we’ll have to keep a closer watch on her than the other unicorn fillies, but Dinky’s a smart little cookie.” She sighed. “Thank you for what you did.” Bon-Bon was hit without another flavour of surprise. “Excuse me?” “Derpy is the most attentive and loving parent anypony could ask for but …” Cheerilee paused as if wondering how best to put it. “She’s rather, ah, accident-prone and has a habit of always putting Dinky’s needs before her own.” “Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?” Bon-Bon asked, trying to keep the hint of acid from her voice. Her own mother could take lessons from Derpy. “Up to a point, yes. I just worry sometimes that Derpy sees that point someplace else than the rest of us do.” Cheerilee shook her head. “It was nice of you to make her take care of herself for a change. You’re a good friend.” “Oh, I’m not … I mean, Derpy and I aren’t … she’s just my mailmare,” Bon-Bon stammered. “Then you’re a very kind pony to do that for someone who isn’t a friend,” Cheerilee replied without missing a beat. “Kindness is something the world can always use more of.” The bell went off with a mood-shattering ring. “I’d better go before there’s a stampede. Have a nice day, Bon-Bon.” “Uh, yeah,” Bon-Bon said uncomfortably. “You too.” …. Sugarcube Corner had a tinkling bell above the door that served as both fitting herald and eternal irritant to those who passed under it. Bon-Bon was barely inside before the thing alerted the pony behind the counter and she was accosted by a large mass of bubble-gum pink hair with some pony attached. “Ack!” she cried. “Is that a new way of saying ‘good morning’?” asked the hair-mass. “If so, then ‘ack’ to you too, Bon-Bon!” “Pinkie!” Mrs Cake hurried from behind the counter, though this time she didn’t have to pull her assistant off. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t jump all over ponies who come in here, no matter how happy you are to see them.” “But it’s Bon-Bon!” Pinkie Pie protested. “I can’t just greet her with a simple hello! A simple hello is for regular customers. She isn’t a regular customer. Are you, Bon-Bon?” A pair of large, persuasive blue eyes fixed on her with the kind of gleam usually reserved for very sharp knives and freshly polished mirrors. Pinkie was an overwhelming force of personality on a bad day. On a good day she was practically a force of nature; something that could not and should not be argued with. “Um …” Bon-Bon had faced down demons the size of buffalo but something inside her quailed now. Pinkie was the nicest pony in Equestria, always ready to lend a hoof and be a friend, but things like ‘boundaries’ and ‘personal space’ were just words to her. “Pinkie, why don’t you go see if your cupcakes are ready to be iced?” Mrs Cake came to Bon-Bon’s rescue. “We have to have the display case full by nine o’clock and it’s still half empty.” “Oh my gosh, you’re right!” Pinkie exclaimed. She leaped up and rushed through the door into the back kitchen. A burst of baking scent wafted out as the door shut behind her. Another burst escaped when Pinkie stuck her head back through to yell, “Whatever you brought today, Bon-Bon, I’ll swap you my best cupcake for it!” Then she disappeared again. “Sorry about that,” Mrs Cake apologised. “What can I do for you today, sweetheart?” “Don’t worry about it and I, uh, actually came in to give you these.” Bon-Bon presented her with a plastic container of her morning’s efforts. “They’re just Salty Caramels but I figured you could use them more than I can.” “Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs Cake accepted the container and pulled the lid off, inhaling deeply. “Mmmm. I’ll never understand why you make so many lovely things and then just give them to us for free. It’s very kind of you, sweetheart, but I always feel bad that you won’t take any payment for them. The ingredients alone must cost you a fortune!” Bon-Bon shrugged. “I can afford it. It’s not eating them that’s important to me. I just like making them. I’d much rather they went to somepony who can use them. I thought maybe you could serve them with your coffee orders around lunchtime – just not too close to the mugs,” she added with a self-deprecating smile. Mrs Cake never actually sold what she brought it, adhering to her own moral code by giving them away to customers during their busiest time of day. Bon-Bon was fine with that. It felt good to use her regular talents, not her Slayer abilities, to make someone else happy. There was probably something deeper to be read into that but Bon-Bon no longer cared to examine her own motivations too deeply. Mrs Cake’s mouth twisted. “Wait here,” she said abruptly. She turned and hurried through the same door Pinkie Pie had used. What seemed like only seconds later she re-emerged with a box made from pale pink card, emblazoned on the side with the name of the café. It was a standard takeout box that she presented with forelegs outstretched. “Here you are.” “No, really, you don’t need to give me anything,” Bon-Bon protested. “You’re doing me a favour by taking the caramels off my hooves –” “I insist.” Mrs Cake was emphatic. It was the kind of voice Bon-Bon imagined she used on her foals when they were acting up and had gone one step too far. Mrs Cake may have looked sweet and harmless but she had a core of motherly steel. “Consider it a thank you gift.” “Uh, okay.” Bon-Bon peered into the box. Inside was a large gingerbread pony with fresh swirls of pink and blue icing on its mane and tail. The icing was still wet. Mrs Cake had decorated it in record time but the perfection of each swirl was absolute. “Wow, Mrs Cake. You’re entering the National Dessert Competition again this year, right? It’d be a crime if you didn’t.” Mrs Cake’s cheeks darkened in a blush. She ducked her head coyly. “Well now, that’s a real compliment coming from you, sweetheart. We are indeed entering again this year and, um …” She trailed off, eyes flicking to the kitchen door. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “This year we’ll be escorting our entry to Canterlot ourselves.” The story of how Pinkie Pie had tried (and failed) to safeguard the Cakes’ cake last year was the stuff of legend. Come to think of it, lots of things Pinkie did were the stuff of legend, from helping defeat Nightmare Moon to flooding Ponyville with hyperactive copies of herself, but her turn as a wannabe detective was memorable for how earnestly she had been in every stage of her promise to her employers. No-one could ever accuse Pinkie Pie of doing things by halves. “We might even just take the ingredients and go a day early so we can make it while we’re there,” Mrs Cake confessed. “It’s not that we don’t trust, um, anypony else to look after our entry but, uh …” She was saved from having to complete the thought by the kitchen door flying open and crashing against the wall so hard Bon-Bon was surprised it didn’t crack the plaster. “Wait!” Pinkie shouted. She held aloft a beautiful cupcake wreathed in the same pink and blue icing as the gingerbread pony. “Oh good, you aren’t gone yet. Here!” She thrust the cupcake under Bon-Bon’s nose. “I’ve been experimenting for ages but I think I got the shade of blue just right without making it too bitter. Every time I try to make dark colours, the icing turns out totally bitter and yuck!” She stuck out her tongue to demonstrate. “But this time I think I got it right, see?” She twitched a lock of Bon-Bon’s mane to hold it alongside the icing swirl. “A perfect match!” “Thank you, Pinkie,” said Bon-Bon, though she wasn’t sure whether she was saying it because of the icing or the cake itself. Pinkie placed it in the box to nestle alongside the gingerbread pony. “That’s really nice of you, although you shouldn’t have.” “Nonsense!” Pinkie closed her eyes and waved her hoof like she was Mayor Mare giving a speech. She even mimicked the mayor’s inflections and facial expression. “It would be remiss of me not to show my gratitude.” Unable to maintain the primness, a giggle bubbled up her throat. She cracked open one eye. “Can I have one of the caramels?” “Sure.” Bon-Bon shrugged. “It’s fine by me.” “Yay!” Pinkie clapped her hooves together in delight and rushed back into the kitchen. “How does she have so much energy first thing in the morning?” Mrs Cake wondered aloud. “She doesn’t even drink coffee. It makes me tired just watching her.” “She’s just enjoying life, I guess,” Bon-Bon observed as she closed the cardboard box. “We should probably take notes.” “Speak for yourself. I have two foals at home. I don’t have the energy to be that happy.”