The rehearsals quickly begin to blend together in your memory.
Even though the intensity of practice has been ramped up since a performance is right around the corner, you’re rapidly growing bored of the repetitive drills the musicians are forced through. Lyrica, ever the commander, runs a zero-tolerance boot camp, and it’s put a bit of a damper on your experience.
The only aspect of the daily exertions that interests you is the banter between your fellow musicians, which is extremely entertaining.
A particularly bold move is made by a violinist named Concerto. Lyrica is about to alter the violinists’ parts drastically, giving them music that they haven’t been practicing since years before, an unreasonable and ridiculous request. While giving the announcement, Concerto stands and advances on her and they begin to argue heatedly over the rapt attention of the other musicians.
“Are you questioning my judgment, Concerto?” says Lyrica angrily.
“No,” Concerto answers evenly. “I’m merely pointing and laughing at your idiotic decision.”
The silence after the statement was tangible. You look over to see Symphony and Octavia with their mouths hanging open at Concerto’s courage. Lyrica has fire in her eyes, looking like she’s ready to throttle Concerto where he stands. She takes a deep breath through the nose. “Concerto, have a seat.”
“I will back down after you’ve agreed not to change our part. Not before.”
“Concerto!” Lyrica snaps. “Do you realize who you’re talking to?”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” Concerto retorts. “What is your answer?” He has diplomatic immunity, since the orchestra is too close to a performance to lose a violinist. Lyrica can’t dismiss him—finding a pianist was difficult enough.
“I am not inclined to oblige.”
“Lyrica, this is madness.” Royal Riff stands, anger in his voice. “We haven’t played that piece since a few years ago. You cannot expect us to pull through in three days.”
“Madness? No.” Lyrica clenches her teeth. “This is the Royal Canterlot Orchestra. You must be prepared to face whatever challenges arise.”
“This challenge is unnecessary and suicidal. What in the name of Celestia was wrong with what we have been working with?”
Lyrica has no answer.
Rehearsal ends early, since you can’t continue without a conductor.
You slide the piano’s cover over the keys and stand. The rest of the musicians are still sitting, stunned by the events that had just taken place. Concerto and Royal Riff are standing still, muttering quietly to each other.
“That was brilliant,” says Vinyl’s voice.
“How do you do that?” you ask casually, your heart jolting from the surprise. Vinyl is now sitting on the piano bench you had just vacated, grinning from ear to ear.
“Dark magic, of course. But that was awesome. I didn’t know that Concerto had that in him. Sure told her what for.”
“Hello, Vinyl.” Octavia appears on the other side of the piano. “What are you doing here?” You look at her uneasily. The two of you haven’t spoken since your little informal performance before rehearsal the other day.
“Hey, Octy. You know I can’t resist tuning in to some of the drama you all ooze. This was particularly juicy. And of course, I wanted to visit my two favorite ponies in all of Canterlot.”
“Please don’t call me that, Vinyl.”
“What? Octy? I kind of like it. Anyway, what else do I have to work with? Via? Tavi? C’mon, give me something.”
“Go with Tavi,” you suggest.
“Hold on a moment . . .” Octavia starts.
“He has spoken!” Vinyl interrupts impressively. “Cool. Tavi it is, then.”
“Thank you, for that.” Octavia’s eyes meet yours. Her face bears annoyance, but there’s no malice behind her expression. “That nickname will most likely stick until the end of time.”
“No problem, Tavi.” You playfully throw out the name to rub it in.
“You do not have my permission to use a childish nickname to refer to me.”
“But my inner child often overpowers my better judgment.”
Octavia’s body language suggests that she might be about to launch into another argument like when she first met you.
Vinyl stretches widely. “Grab some popcorn, kids. This one might last a while.”
“No,” says Octavia. “I refuse to lower to your level of petty bickering.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re getting there, you autocratic bigot.” You smile to let the cellist know that you’re not serious.
“Is that so? But you are a puerile novitiate.”
“Chauvinist.”
“Abecedarian.”
“Monomaniac.”
The two of you glare at each other, neither of you willing to back down and admit defeat.
Then, suddenly, you’re both laughing.
For no discernible reason, your argument has turned into giggles. Something about the staidness of your stares became hilarious.
“Well, that was unexpected.” Vinyl whistles. “What’s up, you two?”
“I don’t know,” Octavia chuckles.
“Did you kiss and make up while I wasn’t watching?”
“Vinyl!” you and Octavia say in unison. You look at each other, and inescapably, you start laughing again. Your side begins to ache from your mirth.
“Kidding, guys. Kidding,” Vinyl assures you. “But seriously though. Is there something I don’t know about going on between you?”
“Really, Vinyl? Really?” you ask, with mock seriousness.
“I’d sooner start a relationship with an Ursa Major,” Octavia adds pointedly.
Vinyl holds up her hooves in surrender. “Fine! Fine! I see how it is. You dump me and run off with a cellist and it’s complicated.”
“Two things.” If you had fingers, you would have held two up. “One, I was never dating you. Keep dreaming. And two, I did not run off with a cellist. There’s no need to play matchmaker.”
During your conversation, the auditorium has emptied, except for Royal Riff, who is sitting a good distance away, listening to your palaver interestedly. At your last comment, he smiles mirthfully. He sees you looking and waves good-naturedly. “This has been an interesting turn of events. I’m with Vinyl, though—you two should get together.”
“Not you too,” you moan. You and Octavia covertly glance at each other. An awkwardness that wasn’t there a minute ago now permeates the air.
“Not this second, but think about it.” Royal Riff winks.
“Sure thing, Riffs. I’ll put some deep thought into the matter.”
****
When Royal Riff said to think about it, he had no idea to what lengths you were prepared to go.
You sit alone in your new apartment, an immaculate flat you selected because of the unmatchable view out the living room window. Royal Riff had mentioned that you needed a more permanent solution for living quarters, since a hotel room at the Emerald Palace could only last so long.
But now, the sight of Canterlot’s skyline is blocked by your heavy curtains, leaving you in semidarkness. Your trusty spellbook rests in front of you, open to a random page in the middle.
Several glowing lanterns hover above you, slowly roving around the room. They are made of translucent magical bubbles, with flickering orange fire trapped in the center. A trick you had just invented yourself, by combining spells for solidifying magic, and conjuring fire.
Royal Riff and Vinyl’s comments drift around through your head, forming an entangled mess of thoughts.
You can’t go out with Octavia. You’re not sure what your feelings for her involve, even if she is attracted to you. The insensitivity toward Frederic is unacceptable, but it seems like everypony is shunting him to the side in order to play Princess Cadance with you and Octavia.
One of your lamps meanders in front of your face, and you study it, mesmerized by the scintillation of the fire. You reach out and place it into your hoof. The sphere is warm to the touch, but also very soft—contrary to what the glazed surface would suggest.
You close your eyes, and your horn ignites, brighter than usual.
You send out a magical probe, like you do with the piano. But this exploration covers the entire room. The wave fans out around you, exploiting every last crevice in the dark corners. Your analysis paints and extraordinarily detailed picture in your mind, so you don’t even have to use your eyes to know exactly what is going on in the room.
Your consciousness melts into the flow of the room. Your body is no longer your own; you can see yourself sitting, as though watching from overhead. An overwhelming sense of peace comes over you, and your troubles all fade.
The serenity is complete. Your thoughts can now be focused flawlessly.
Then the knock at the door ejects you from your happy place.
“Come in!” you call wearily, trying not to let your annoyance show in your voice.
A soft click sounds from the door, but you don’t turn around until your hear the voice. “You okay? What are you doing?”
Symphony.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“That word again.”
“I’m . . . fabulous.”
“Better. What have you been up to?”
You gesture at the bubbles levitating near the ceiling. “Bubbles,” you answer simply.
Symphony cautiously steps over the threshold, eyeing the objects curiously. “Did you make these? If so, how? Magic?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re beautiful!” Symphony crosses her eyes to focus on a bubble that had just lowered itself onto her nose. She smiles, making her face look ghostly in the firelight.
“So . . .” You cough to bring the violinist back down to earth. “What brings you around these parts?”
“Oh. Vinyl sent me to ask if you wanted to tag along for dinner. She told me to tell you that it’ll work out better than last time, whatever that is supposed to mean . . .”
“Yeah. Who’s coming?”
“Me and Royal Riff. Octavia if Vinyl can convince her.”
Perfect. More quality time with the cellist. Just when you thought things couldn’t get any more confusing. Feeling it would be rude to turn down the offer though, you agree to accompany the group. “Sure. I’m guessing we’re going now?”
“Yep. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”
Vinyl and Royal Riff meet you and Symphony at the Crimson Griffon. This time, the lights are illuminated, and the “closed” sign is no longer present. A consistent stream of customers is flowing in and out of the double doors, so you take that as a good sign that the restaurant is open.
“No Octavia?” you ask, immediately noticing the cellist’s absence.
“Nah. She needed to have a bit of a nap. More like a break from you, you dog. You wore her out.”
“Give it a rest, Vinyl,” sighs Royal Riff.
“Anyway,” Vinyl continues. “I thought ahead and reserved a table this time. We’re just waiting for them to clear it up.”
As if on cue, a mustached stallion in a black suit top appears at the doors. “Vinyl Scratch?”
“That’s us, guys,” Vinyl says unnecessarily. “That’s us!” she adds, louder for the waiter’s benefit.
“Right this way, Miss Scratch . . .”
“Hate that,” Vinyl mutters in your ear.
“Now you know where Octavia’s coming from, not liking her nickname,” you chortle.
“Touché.”
The four of you take a seat in a wide booth, Royal Riff and Symphony across from you, and Vinyl at your side. The waiter slides a set of menus across the table, placing them in front of each occupant. “I will be with you in just a moment.”
You flip the menu open with your nose and begin to peruse the selection of meals.
“So, you guys gonna be ready for your performance?”
Never a dull moment with Vinyl.
“I suppose,” says Royal Riff, his gaze fixed on the salads section of his menu. “It would help, however, if we had a competent conductor.”
“Too late to arrange that, though.” Symphony has already set down her menu, having decided quicker than the rest of you. “We’re going to have to suck it up and muscle through.” Her tone was suggestive that this topic shouldn’t have come up, and the conversation is over.
You don’t contribute to the dinner conversation. After deciding on a pecan and apple salad, you simply lean back and let Vinyl’s consistent flow of words flow over you. She’s going on about something related to her clubbing last night, but you’re not taking in a single detail of what she’s saying. Symphony is looking at the DJ with rapt attention, but her eyes are glazed over. Royal Riff, on the other hoof, doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge Vinyl.
The waiter returns to take your orders, and promptly turns to go and fetch your drinks.
You look around at the assembled ponies around you. Symphony, the soft-spoken violinist who gave you dating advice. Royal Riff, your self-appointed coach. And Vinyl Scratch, the DJ pony that livens up your life with her crazy antics.
Despite your reservations at first, your trip to Canterlot has turned out better than you ever expected.