There was a liquid library and Lamp was in awe of it. As a pot of potato soup simmered steadily on the hob, she studied the jars filled with mysterious liquids. In some jars were spells, suspended in spellbinding solutions. In other jars, there were extracted memories, held secure in an alchemical jelly made from forget-me-not ferns, the mysterious plants she had seen outside. The very idea of memories being stored in a liquid library left her in a stunned state, and she wondered just what else Miss Combes might be capable of.
The memories, of course, were invaluable to Ficklewick for his studies.
"So you could pull all the stuff that happened today out of my head so it could be studied?" asked Lamp.
Miss Combes did not respond; she was far too busy brushing the deaf-mute colt, who rather seemed to be enjoying the experience. Lamp turned away from the liquid library so that she might watch. Not content with merely studying magic, Miss Combes was an alchemist. It seemed that her studies were wide and varied. Though she did not say it, Lamp felt a certain attraction to this sort of power—but it took dedication and discipline, something that the young filly knew she did not have in abundance.
"Would I forget it?"
"No," the busy housekeeper replied. "Think of it being more like a copy." She continued brushing, her face contorted in a stern frown as her eyes went from one scabby place on the colt's pelt to another. "Ye did well on the soup, Lamp. I told ye, 'twasn't no real work at all. Ye seem to 'ave a knack for it."
"Thank you." Then, after a bit of almost bashful beaming, she added, "It was fun."
"Yer more than a lamp, Lamp. Yer caretakers are fools with brains like o'erboiled puddings."
There was so much that Lamp wanted to say in response, but words failed her. Tongue tied, she stood there, rubbing one foreleg against the other. All of her emotions threatened to overwhelm her; so much had happened this day. She'd connected with her mark in some meaningful way and it had changed her profoundly. At some point, without realising it, she'd made a new friend; the cantankerous housekeeper wasn't so terrible, if you didn't mind the grumpiness.
"Poor colt is so scabby," Miss Combes muttered beneath her breath. "Infection is bad. I 'as 'igh 'opes that Ficklewick will try to 'elp you. At least, I 'ope 'e does. I'm almost certain the old coot will. Will ye stay if 'e offers, Lamp?"
"I dunno," she replied, but she already knew the answer.
"I could use a 'elper." The housekeeper sighed, put down her brush, and shook her head. "Ficklewick will want to study yer friendship, no doubt. Why, 'e's greedy like that. That old nutter is obsessed with 'earthfire. That's a story and nothing more. A tale told by old mares sitting by the fire. A myth. A folktale. But if ye know what's good for ye, Lamp, ye'll 'ang on 'is e'ery word, ye ken. Ficklewick wants evidence of what 'e calls the magic of friendship… which might exist… might not."
Her expression soured into something magnificent.
"Ficklewick believes it exists. The old fart knew the Founders. Clover the Clever was 'is teacher, for a time. Not magic, like ye might think, but thinkism. Ficklewick is old and wise… which is a power unto itself that I covet a great deal. I want to live long enough to be wise, ye ken. To know. For nopony but myself. Ne'er much cared for what others think. When the Maguses came to court me I told them to sod off and get stuffed. Old Ficklewick almost split 'is sides laughing. Couldn't remember a time that somepony told the stuffy old boffins right off."
"But… the Magus' Circle—"
"Is a place where free thinking and free thought go to die," the grumpy mare said before Lamp could finish. "The power they 'ave to offer comes at a price. They'll let ye know what yer opinions are, what ye'll feel about any given subject, and what magic is acceptable for ye to study. Them and all their restrictions will wrap tight 'round yer neck and choke out anything they themselves do not agree with."
Standing very still, Lamp bowed her head low, took in everything said, then nodded.
"Buncha spods. What they did to Ficklewick… I cannae e'en talk about it. Time to change the subject."
Lamp fairly gleamed; her coppery pelt was shiny and sleek, while her burnished brassy mane and tail bobbed and bounced. She couldn't recall ever looking this good—or even feeling this good for that matter. Never before had her dull coppery hide had such a shine, nor such a shimmer. Why, she practically glowed and she almost didn't recognise herself. She admired the filly in the silvered glass mirror, incredulous that the resplendent reflection was her.
She was now a well-polished Lamp, and she was ready for her light to shine.
Her new friend—the rescued colt—sat on a cushion near the fire, wrapped up in a somewhat scratchy grey wool blanket. He seemed happy, pleased even. Miss Combes had fed him a small portion of boiled oats and apple mash just to see if his stomach could keep anything down. So far, so good. No doubt, the hot soup would do him good. It was nice seeing him clean now, with a colour other than crud-caked filth. He was a pale yellow, the colour of moonlight in fog. What was left of his mane and tail was almost—though not quite—purple, though neither was it blue. His eyes, bright, were glassy with feverish illness. Still, he seemed comfortable and happy enough at the moment.
Lamp dared to dream that somehow everything would be alright.
"There are others like ye, Lamp," Miss Combes said whilst she pulled her mane up and tucked it beneath a knitted cap. "I don't mean urchins, either."
Intrigued, Lamp gave the housekeeper her full attention.
"Some call yer lot Princess Celestia's Little Lights. There's stories… most of them are fanciful rubbish. The Waking Nightmare and the malignant darkness caused a great many foals to develop a knack for excessive illumination. I've met a few."
"There are stories?" asked Lamp. "This is the first I've heard of this."
"Oh, there's stories a-plenty." Heaving a sigh, the housekeeper rolled her eyes while the most embittered scowl contorted her face into something most unpleasant. "The most common theme of the stories is that Princess Celestia was losing the fight to 'er sister, so she divvied up 'er essence, 'er spirit, 'er very soul… and then sent it forth into the most capable receptacles. The idea is that there would be an army to fight Nightmare Moon, but this is all a bunch of painful idiocy."
"Why is it stupid?"
"Well, to start," Miss Combes began, "something like that takes effort. Concentration. If it could even be done, it isn't something ye could do mid-battle. Beyond that"—she inhaled—"doing so would weaken 'er something fierce, practically guaranteeing a loss. Princess Luna would sense what was going on and do something to stop 'er. If Princess Celestia's essence went out into a bunch of colts and fillies, Princess Celestia's Little Lights as they are called, Nightmare Moon would've 'unted them down and destroyed them, because a foal poses no threat to a monster like that, ye ken."
This made a painful amount of sense, Lamp decided.
"Ponies tell stories to make sense of things. The 'eart of the matter, near as I can tell, is that a whole bunch of wee bairns got a-frightened of the sudden monstrous darkness. Out of this multitude, quite a few got blessed with a mark and the means to make powerful light. And make no mistake, Lamp, yer light spell is powerful. I can't make a light 'alf as bright. And neither can the Magus' Circle. This… this upsets those in power, 'cause it don't seem right that a foal could have stronger magic than one of the mighty, mighty maguses.
"So stories are made to explain these things away, so they make sense. Ye ken?"
"Stories help the world make sense when it doesn't," replied Lamp, who nodded her head.
"It's easier for a pony to believe that Princess Celestia tore her soul a-twain and put part of 'erself into a foal than to believe that a foal might be powerful by their own merits." Eyes narrowed, a shrewd scowl on her muzzle, Miss Combes became the very epitome of mischievous grumpiness. "Weakness is abhorrent to unicorns, Lamp. When we appear weak, we do our utmost to explain it away… to find means of explanation so we can dismiss it. We're beings made to seek out power, Lamp. Ne'er forget that. It's our strength… and our weakness."
"Something happened today with my light spell," Lamp said to the housekeeper. "I don't know what it was. But when I let my light shine, there was heat. It got hot. That's never happened before, and I felt… strange. I got angry… I was mad. He was shivering"—she pointed at her deaf-mute companion—"and there was a cold sensation that was eating at me. All I could think about was how nopony would help him… nopony would help us, and I got… I got… is there something beyond mad?"
Miss Combes' knitted cap went askew as her ears moved beneath it. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, widened again, and then one eye went squinty while the other went into an over-open stare. "Ficklewick will want to 'ear 'bout that. That's…" her words trailed off.
After a few failed starts, Miss Combes was able to recover and she said, "I can make 'eat, and I can make light, but the two are separate things. My light spell has no 'eat. But the magic I use to make things 'otter, well, there's some light but it's just the magic from my 'orn, ye ken. What yer saying… Lamp, I know precious few ponies that can do what yer saying. 'Tis a rare thing… a rare gift. Princess Celestia can turn a winter's day into a sweltering summer in the area just around 'er. Ye need to tell Ficklewick 'bout this. Especially since it 'appened today."
In a moment of intense understanding, Lamp had a flash of insight: her magic, both light and heat, would allow her to live in a world where the sun did not rise. It made a certain amount of sense. Her magic was an adaptation for a future narrowly avoided. A preparation for what might have been—but thankfully was not. Now, more than ever, magic did not make sense, but as a unicorn, magic was the very core of everything she was.
If she had power… she could use it to help herself so that she might help others.
Unwittingly, Miss Combes had set an example for Lamp, a lasting impression that would no-doubt forever change the course of her life. Whatever it took, young Lamp would take charge of her life, she would use whatever she had to gain more power, and then she would be free. She noted Miss Combes' rigid posture, the way the housekeeper stood, and the young filly did her best to emulate it. When one wanted to be powerful, one had to look the part—and something about the cantankerous mare suggested a nonchalant, insouciant authority. Not arrogance, but command.
Her deaf-mute companion needed a caretaker, and Lamp was determined to play the part.
No more excuses. No more waiting for something to happen. No longer would she stare out the window and wait for whatever it was that would set her free. She no longer had that luxury. In a moment of an illuminating epiphany, she understood that if she waited at her window, the day would come, it would go, and the opportunity—whatever it might be—would pass her by. The waiting would be her undoing. She would settle in, she would succumb to her fate, and she would become her namesake—little more than living furniture. A pony content to do as she was told, one content to live on scraps—a pony who took solace in staring out the window and mourned the opportunity she never took.
Lamp knew that supper was important; it was the turning point of her life.
She had to shine.
Not just for her own sake, but for her companion.
"How do I make Ficklewick like me?" asked Lamp.
"Well, not shooting 'im in the 'ead is a good start, Lamp."
She took this with as much grace as she could muster. It was something she would have to live with. The mistake she'd almost made. While it needled her a bit, it was all part of today, and this day was special. She nodded, because it seemed like the right thing to do, then she forced herself to accept what she'd done. After a bit of time lost in thought, she decided it was something she could atone for. In the stories she'd heard, good ponies needed something to atone for; that was part of what made them good, and Lamp would be a good pony.
There was a creak up above, and the sound of hooves on the stairs.
"Suppertime," Miss Combes said. "Prepare yerself, Lamp."