An early morning sun drove golden spears against the carefully mowed lawns of Lachrimose House, scattered with the last sprinkled blossom of the cherry trees that stood in a carefully arranged sweeping curl on the east. Within the bowels of the house, a clock struck the sixth bell and was followed by the faint stump of hooves on carpet as the household set about preparation for another day.
Slowpoke's ears twitched at the sound; he gave a quiet grunt and took another draw from his pipe. He had been seated on the verandah for a good half hour, watching the sun stretch slowly across his domain, where it burned at the mists that curled from the previous night's dew and the moist, rich earth to which he had spent so many years tending. His eyes reached the greenhouses and his hoof strayed to the watch resting in his waistcoat pocket. For a near-uncountable moment he smiled, after a fashion, and shook his head.
A newspaper lay at his side, crumpled and folded until its pages had given up any attempt to remain in line. It was yesterday's paper and there wasn't much of interest left within it, but he had read it from end to end as the sun had risen even so. Perhaps he should read it again. It would give him something to do while he waited.
Not that he was waiting for anything in particular this morning. The garden had reached that rare and blessed state in which there was little to do, save pluck at the occasional weed and tie up a loose stave here and there. It was a state that wouldn't last long, however; something would wilt without warning, or suddenly drop its foliage, or there'd be an unscheduled storm tearing branches from trees and scattering pots and twigs and mulch every which way. Or there'd be a 'request' from their ladyships to alter some patch of their paradise, and he'd have to break out the seedling trays and the shovel, and plan an expedition to explore the estate's immense catalogue of exotic flora.
But that was for the future. For now he could rest, and wait. Slowpoke let out a rumbling sigh, sending a fresh curl of smoke to join the cloud drifting out over the grass. He drew at his pipe and picked up the newspaper.
The verandah door creaked wide just as he had managed to restore the paper to a readable state. Slowpoke didn't look up as hoofsteps bore down on him, but instead carefully smoothed out the page before him and held it up to better catch the light. He waited as the mare – these days it was always a mare, and always one in particular – stumbled to a halt beside his bench.
"Good morning, your ladyship," he said, turning a page and settling it flat before looking up and away.
"There's not much good about it," the mare replied, flicking idly at her lank lavender mane before collapsing onto the bench with a relieved sigh. She lifted her hind legs one after the other, groaning with each motion. "And I thought I told you not to call me that. I'm not any sort of lady."
"Right you are, ma'am."
Slowpoke turned back to his newspaper and waited for what would likely be another rambling gripe about the world at large. Star Sparkle might be generous as an employer and, if rumour were to be believed, in a few more intimate ways as well, but her views of the world, ponies, other species, and anything else that caught her ire were meaner than a griffon's grip on a gold bit.
It was a surprise, then, when he looked up from his paper to find a good few minutes had passed between them in silence. Star was staring out at the garden, empty-eyed, her body somehow shrunken and slight, as if age had finally caught up to her. Or perhaps she'd always been that way and he'd just never noticed before. Slowpoke touched a hoof to his pipe, thinking to set it aside, but there didn't seem to be any reason for it. Instead he turned another page of his paper, as much to convince himself that he was still reading it than anything else.
"If you're so desperate to read that rag," Star grunted, "there's a new one in the parlour."
"I was aware, ma'am, but I reckon his lordship hasn't had his fill of it yet."
Star snorted. "Oh I doubt Luci would give a shake if you took it. Besides, after what they wrote about Twilight and me I'm determined to wean him off the damn thing."
"Terrible business," Slowpoke replied, then turned another page.
"They should spend some time in the real world and see what it feels like to have ponies yammering on with half-truths and rumours about their parentage!" Star slammed a hoof on the bench hard enough to send a splinter of paint skittering across the verandah. She was huffing through her nose and glaring at the deck, the haunted look she had worn earlier long banished. "They've no respect for decent ponies."
Slowpoke's gaze rose slowly from the newspaper, travelling the length of the garden before it came to rest on a broad, white gazebo. He hummed and nodded, and then carefully plucked the pipe from his mouth.
"There's ponies as say all sorts, ma'am, bad'uns with no care for how they hurt others if it'll give them an edge, but they ain't worth troublin' your ears over."
"But you saw what they—" Star's jaw snapped shut. She closed her eyes.
"Aye, and it don't bear thinkin' about neither, the way they treated the poor young miss after she'd done so much for em' too," Slowpoke replied. "But who'd believe in that who wouldn't have believed it anyway? Some folks is just mean, ma'am."
He stood, setting the paper aside once more. "Now if you'll excuse me, there's things—"
"That need seeing to hereabouts, yes," Star muttered. "I suppose I have overstayed my welcome again haven't I?"
"Your garden, ma'am."
"Lucent's garden. Actually I think it might belong to Crinkle, I never really asked. Oh!"
Star tumbled from her seat and turned to face Slowpoke. She flicked at her mane again – perhaps she needed to get it trimmed, and that reminded Slowpoke he'd have to see to the privets before they grew too bushy again. At least he didn't have to maintain any topiary, unlike the poor sod two houses over.
"You've reminded me," Star said. She smiled, after a fashion, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Crinkle seems to think that you and your son would like to attend dinner with us tonight. Seven-thirty. No need to dress up."
She turned and stalked away before Slowpoke could think of a reply. He snorted and slumped back on the bench with a heavy sigh. "Right you are, ma'am," he muttered, and tapped his pipe out against the wall.
* * *
Breakfast for most of the staff was barely the start of their day. The maids were always first, bustling about the kitchen table in a giggling heap as they raked over whatever tidbits of scandal and gossip they had gleaned the previous day's work, while shovelling down slice after slice of fresh-baked bread and butter, cakes, soup and whatever scraps of expensive food they could get their hooves about. All jennies, save a lone unicorn mare who always ended up pulled right to the middle of the group.
Behind them loomed Marie, the head chambermaid, who watched with dull-eyed malice for any maid who might step out of line, say the wrong thing or take too much butter for her tastes. She turned the same gaze on Slowpoke as he ambled into the kitchen, barely tempering it for his sake. A curt nod was the only greeting he would get from her.
By contrast the cook, Chantal, was cheer personified, hustling Slowpoke toward a smaller table close to the ovens before he could protest.
"Not seen you here for a while my lad," she declared as she set a fat bowl of bread and butter pudding on the table before him. His ears twitched briefly in her direction and she laughed. "New recipe, chuck! I was thinking I'd serve it up tonight for their ladyships, seein' as it's their first real meal together since—well..."
She bobbed her head and poked a spoon into the bowl. After a glance around the kitchen, Slowpoke carefully lifted a healthy serving of the pudding and pressed it into his mouth.
"Not bad," he said, after chewing it over. He set the spoon down and nodded. "Bit buttery maybe."
"Aye... well, you know his lordship, he likes em fatty," the cook replied, before turning away. "Want something to wash it down? I've got that beer in you like."
Slowpoke shook his head. "Not this early, Chantal. Might be the weekend tomorrow but I've got things to be going along with until then."
"Always the same, you," Chantal replied, returning with a pitcher of water and a glass. She set them down on the table centre, then settled herself in a seat opposite Slowpoke. "Josephine says as you're to be dining with their ladyships tonight, you and Dal. Been a good while since they had you up to the front, hasn't it?"
"Not since I retired," Slowpoke mumbled around another mouthful of the pudding. He swallowed and set the spoon aside. "Dal's never been up there before, either."
"Aye. Shortbread's been snottier than normal too, last week or so, since Dal got that new girl a spot on the staff. Remember? Made a right fuss about him usurpin' her authority she did." Chantal sighed and shook her head. "One day that mare'll step too far and earn herself the side of her ladyship's tongue, you mark my words."
"She's only doin' her job," Slowpoke put in, before taking another mouthful of his pudding. It was growing on him.
"Puttin' on airs more like." Chantal paused, chewing at her lip. "Thinkin' she's better'n us just because she ain't a donkey."
"Shortbread's the same with everyone she meets, Chantal. Even young Sunrise over there, and we both know who got her the job in the first place," Slowpoke replied, once he'd swallowed the last dregs of his meal. He set the bowl and spoon aside and leaned back. "It'll pass, soon as the new girl's settled in. You'll see."
"Aye, maybe," said Chantal as she eyed Slowpoke's empty bowl. She turned back to Slowpoke, all cheer and grins again. "You finished that off quick, my lad. Want some more?"
"Plenty for me," Slowpoke replied, patting his belly. "Sides, I'll need to keep some space for dinner. Wouldn't want to see your cooking go to waste."
"As if their ladyships'd leave anything behind. Miss Crystal could eat a whole cart and not notice, scuse my pardon. Not that I'm complaining, mind you." Chantal hustled from her seat, tossing Slowpoke's crockery across her back to the sink as she went. "Does a soul proud to see a pony what enjoys my food, so it does, if only I could figure out how she keeps so skinny all the time. Ain't natural! Still, as long as she puts it away, I shan't make a fuss. You run a long now chuck," she added, winking at Slowpoke. "I'll make sure to keep some of that beer waiting for you."
"Chantal, you're a saint."
Slowpoke eased from his chair, stretching his legs and then his back as he moved. He looked back toward the door; the maids were skittering through it in pairs and threes as they returned, under Marie's sharp-tongued orders, to the jobs they had begun before their riotous breakfast. Soon the last of them had left and the kitchen was quiet, though not so pleasant now that the ovens had warmed the place so thoroughly. Better to be outside, he thought, and turned for the far door.
"Slowpoke."
It was Marie. Slowpoke turned, stiffly, to face her and that glower she always carried. "Yes lass?"
"Miss Josephine wants to see you," Marie said, lumbering through the sentence like a minotaur along a crowded street. She huffed sharply and stared at Slowpoke then, as if daring him to contradict the statement. "Reckons it's important."
"Course she does," Slowpoke replied, glancing at Chantal. He shrugged and bobbed his head. "Tell her I'll be along at lunch, then," he added, turning away before Marie could think up a reply.
* * *
Slowpoke found Dal lurking by the potting sheds, stomping about the little yard between them and the compost heap and sorting empty planters into neat piles and rows. A young filly watched from the corner, where she sat on a broken down wall and tugged nervously at a quilted green jacket two sizes big for her.