//------------------------------// // Chapter 2 — Escape from Sire's Hollow // Story: The Runaway Bodyguard // by scifipony //------------------------------// I studied myself in the full-length mirror. I shed my breakfast clothing so the white linen dress pooled on the floor at my hooves. I kicked it away. The flawless silver reflected an image of a pony who was... good enough. I'd shooed my hoof-maid, thus my coat wasn't curried, but it was an even shade of lavender. An artisan had inlaid the mirror frame with mother of pearl. I could see the dark wood paneling of my open wardrobe, stuffed with dresses and outfits arranged perfectly by color and type, laundered with a faint scent of gardenias. A clearstory perfectly lit me in a pool of faintly bluish, perfectly indirect soft light. No shadows. Except in my soul. A greenish blue aura formed around my horn and I piled my pigtails above my head, simulating the more adult bun hairstyle of my servant. I whispered, "It's official. You haven't grown taller since last years Hearth's Warming. Nopony’s mistaking you for a foal ever again. A yearling, more likely. It's today or next month." I tilted my head and my reflection's violet eyes looked at me inquiringly. "Your choice." "Now," I answered. I grabbed the stodgy khaki outfit I was required for tenant inspections, the one with pockets in the blouse. The pleated skirt didn't cover my lavender flank, which made it less than functional. It revealed my flank was blank, a state which was perfectly fine so far as I was concerned, but it made me look younger than I wished to affect. The blouse proved overly starched and crinkled as I struggled to open a sticky bottom drawer. I extracted a pair of old steel horseshoes and a small light-weight tarpaulin I'd collected over the last year as I'd hatched my escape plan. I grabbed blue culottes from a hanger that that banged against the wood backing of the wardrobe. Though lightweight and pricey, they resembled work pony working-blues if not inspected too closely. Proper Step, my butler and my Crown-appointed guardian, was true to his name. I owned dozens of both casual brass and dress high-hoof patent lacquer shoes, including decorative ones keyed to specific outfits, and I was expected to wear them. I knew enough from the novels I'd read that where I planned to run away to, the brushed and polished brass shoes I wore today would flag me as wealthy. In my nightstand, I rooted out the gold bits I'd managed to get my hooves on. I'd been told repeatedly that a lady did not need her own money. Her servants bought her necessaries for her, but I could ask for change or return things when I wasn't supervised. I dropped my cache into a stained red velvet drawstring purse I'd found discarded in the dirt last autumn. I stashed it in my saddlebags to prevent jangling. I inserted a small spell book. To myself, I sung, "No need to be bored!" My heart beat rapidly. Loudly. I hoped the sound wouldn't give me away. A tall thin grey stallion stood in the entry hall at the bottom of the stairs. Proper step looked about thirty, young for the position. He wore black frame glasses that matched his black bushy moustache and close-clipped black mane and tail, together with his usual long-tailed black jacket, white shirt, black bowtie livery. The jacket incidentally revealed his side-by-side and perfectly upright perfectly parallel golden horseshoes cutie mark. As I descended the marble stairs one resounding step at a time, his brown eyes followed my progress and inspected my appearance and demeanor. That pony, affecting his usual neutral unmoving expression, was the bane of my existence. That would end today. Hopefully. His eyes continued to inspect. I knew I had my outfit and hair arranged all a-right, but I feared my body nonetheless worked to betray my evil intentions. My corporal being had reasons to balk at my spirit's desire. She enjoyed regular meals, soft beds, good tutors, and plenty of books to keep her mind occupied. Life was good so long as I didn't dwell on why I had such a good life. Princess Celestia had bribed me with her blood money—it made me sick! I squared my jaw and inhaled deeply. I forced the issue and said, "All is well?" "Yes, my lady," he said in a high pitched gravelly voice. I think he liked my squared-jaw. I clattered across the travertine vestibule, trotting by him quickly, as a hoof-stallion opened the main brass doors to usher me outside. Descending the granite steps, I thought how I missed my old house and my old room. That place where I could be as messy and disorganized as I wanted, with the guitar I couldn't play and Midnight Haunt band posters nailed to a plaster wall. Even after my parents' death, going through my goth phase, that had been home. In my heart, it still was. Funny how I could remember my old sanctuary better than I could remember my parents' faces. It had taken years for the Crown to build the manor. I'd been transferred here at age 8½. It had stopped raining at dawn, and pegasi had thinned the clouds substantially since. In the damp morning light, the manor stood prominently on its grassy green hill abutting the stone wall that enclosed Sire's Hollow. Clear spring air let me spot the mossy red tile roof to my old house, beyond blocks of shingled roofs, cottages, and shops. A servant kept it preserved, I understood. It was the property of the Earl of Grin Having, after all. Not that Countess Aurora Midnight could be allowed to live somewhere so plain. Goodness, no. Waddles Worth had been smelling the red roses along the cobble driveway. He looked ready to sample a petal or two. The chamomile lawn, with its miniature daisy flowers, looked good enough to eat, and smelled delicious. The closest as any of it came to my lips was last evening's tea. No more evening teas for me. Good riddance. "Milady!" The slight and noticeably rotund blue unicorn bowed and tipped his tweed pork pot hat. It sported a crow down feather stuck in the ribbon; he had lost his aunt recently. He wore a matching tweed jacket with thick lapels and a weathered wool messenger bag that held the official estate account books. I glanced at his his cutie mark, a loaf of bread with a pencil stuck in it. "Good Sir." I dipped my head. My property manager lead the way through town with its white and brown rock-sided homes and masonry, most with dark roofs and moss growing. I spotted the town clock and assured myself that my timing was good. We trotted through the the gates and thence along Clover Road to inspect the tenant farms. I'd intentionally nixed the lordly carriage. I could. Even though I was a minor, I was still the Earl of Grin Having. If Proper Step didn't stick his prim muzzle in it, I often got my way on the little things. Mid-spring signaled the time to renew the tenant leases, thus this journey was intended to progress my internship. Winter Wrap-up had occurred a month ago. Tenants had since sown their seed and repaired their out buildings and fences. We needed to inspect their work and check their accounts. "Accounts are very important," was Waddles Worth's favorite saying, and he often made me repeat it, but I understood it was true. As an Earl, my estate collected the third bit of any taxed, in this case, the rent on each tenant's lease. In practice, there were costs. If the costs were due to negligence, laziness, or lack of ability, I was supposed to call off the lease. In practice, I attended today to learn my duty. I'd never be able to boot a poor farmer from his livelihood, no matter what Waddles Worth said, and if my luck held, I'd soon never have to deal with that possibility again. Predictably, as we crested the eponymous Mulberry Hill, we trotted on past the cutoff to the Pleasant Tone farm. I smiled. Waddles Worth was the type of pony to ensure you got your work done by making it hard to be lazy when you became tired late in the day. He would start with the furthest client and work back to the nearest. Ten minutes later, I made my move. "Um... Mister Waddles Worth..." He looked back. I did my little uncomfortable filly dance, trying to look like my eyes were beginning to turn yellow. From where we stood—surrounded by on one side by tawny-barked trees that hadn't fully leafed out and on the other by tailored fields that had sprouted spring crops of lettuces and radish and borage—I could see clearly to the stone farmhouses of two farmsteads, one of which had an active chimney sending up smoke that might account for a faint scent of bread. "Um..." I knew very well how to manage my water budget, but he didn't know that. He got a faintly exasperated look. He turned forward, but failed to hide his eye roll. He didn't slow as he said, "You wouldn't want me to treat a filly any differently than I would a colt would ya?" "Um..." My skin cooled at his tone. "Milady rejected the carriage ride?" "Um... I did." He wouldn't think of sending me into the trees, would he? There might be poison ivy. Worse, I had been managing my water and really didn't need to go, and then he would complain about girls and their bladders. In his continued silence, I realized the carriage ride was a perk to a stallion as unathletic as he. Regardless, I had to see if I could make my plan work. "I could run back to town—" "No, Milady. The Root family farm has a perfectly acceptable privy." The furthest tenant. A relief not to be sent into the tree, but a scheduling roadblock nonetheless. The clock was ticking, literally. I tried, "Um, Mister W—" "A colt would—" "Enough said!" I growled, then resolved to be less unintentionally transparent. If I complained further, he'd doubtlessly turn around and accompany me home to regale Proper Step that I was too young, too rebellious, too unsuitable, or too female for the job. That would merit me more tutors and less free time. Today, I needed to be unsupervised, or my plan would fail. I felt completely oppressed! I trotted obediently behind. He picked up his speed, but not for nearly long enough. I spent time watching his bread cutie mark distort as the flesh on his rump jostled. I formulated plan B. I didn't have a map with me, but I believed I understood where the roads and farms of Grin Having were in relation to Sire's Hollow. I looked for landmarks. I saw roads in the distance, cataloged the odd trees and the location of the gravel quarry. I couldn't just run back to Seaborne Road because Clover wound around and went north-south like Seaborne did. The dirt road eventually ended in the Root family farm. True to his name and the greenish kohlrabi cutie mark that graced his mud-brown flank, Root Crop farmed only vegetables dug from the ground. The two stallions chatted while I looked around. Outbuildings with cellars were scattered across the near farm. A chimney loomed over the larger building that he used for pickling or sugar extraction. Dozens of growing frames and a single greenhouse filled the remaining space around the farmhouse we started walking toward. Scattered rocks grubbed from the soil made just walking an obstacle course. The main house was the typical mortared-together black, brown, and grey stone found in the soil. "Those shakes look rotted," I noted, pointing at the wet mossy roof. Root Crop's brow furled. I may have exaggerated. The pair went inside before me, still talking, any thoughts of my eyes turning yellow lost from Waddles Worth's mind. Root Crop's wife, Root Cellar, dressed in plain white and tan dress with a green apron, swiftly provided tea and tinned sugar beet biscuits. She even curtseyed to me and said, "MiLady." Embarrassed by my criticism about the roof, I smiled and sipped from the generations-old earthenware cup. The ceramic sported a crazed brown-stained daisy. As I nibbled a hard biscuit with my front teeth, she took a cue from the arguing. The back door made a creaky sound as it closed behind her. I waited until they were deep into it over an account book and stood up suddenly. "Um..." The unicorn and earth pony pointed vaguely outside. "This might take a little while..." I tried. "Inspect the outbuildings while you're at it," Waddles Worth added. Yes! More time. I fled through out back, the spring door striking my rump hard enough to make me sprint away. I found Root Cellar by the well, pinning damp clothes to a line beside a heap of soiled linens waiting for her pedal tub and wringer. The pink mare smiled with a clothespin in her lips, pointed, and returned to work. It was the near universal recognition of what a mare probably needed if she were looking about. Maybe my eyes looked a bit yellow? As I found the privy, I wondered how an earth pony attaching clothespins with the help of hooves kept the wash from being muddied. One whiff when I pulled open the privy door stopped me from wondering anything. I decided to wait for the trees. I looked around, caught my bearings, and set off across a field of green and purple vines. Probably potatoes. I even spotted a lean-to shed at one end. I wasn't concerned about Root Cellar; she likely thought nobles inscrutable, something I knew for a fact! The fancy bronze shoes I'd been made to wear bogged me down in the muddy spots. I debated whether to discard them later, when I changed, instead of cleaning them, but was certain I'd need to sell them. I reached the near woods in a couple minutes and took care of business. It had taken over an hour to get to the farm. At 10:30 AM, the wagon train would leave going north on Seaborne. I wanted to get there just as they departed. It might seem counter-intuitive, but big teams of eight or ten husky stallions could move quite fast, especially on the downhill toward Horseshoe Bay. I could get winded trying to catch up, or worse, noticed. I wanted to hitch a ride. I had no choice but to follow the deer paths through the still bare woods wandering toward the quarry. Deer could be dangerous, but ponies never saw them, just their cloven-hoofed spoor. What I followed wasn't a road in any sense. I had to shrug by prickly bushes and jump over roots the diameter of my chest. Spring blue bells made pools the color of the evening sky fallen to the nooks between tree roots. Golden amaryllis waved in the breeze with happy white faced daffodils playing at their side, but shiny fuzzy bramble ferns and raspberries ran across the ground also, and, like a teacher with a ruler, each harshly taught me how to identify them and their chosen habitat with a choice deep scratch on a knee, fetlock, and flank. A crown of a browned and winter-bleached thistle, which would have been tasty in season, hid beside bushy foliage. Brushed by my magic, it leapt at my face. I jumped back with a scratch that ran from chin to ear. My shriek might have been heard back at the farm. At least I knew to identify three and five-leaf poison ivy, some with angry red-tinged leaves. I pushed them away magically. Again, and again. At least I hoped I did, anyway. It wasted precious time, but I eventually stepped out of the trees onto bare, scarred rocky ground around the quarry. I spotted the heap of grey and white boulders I'd used as a landmark. It marked the edge of the gravel pit. But it wasn't the pit. And the boulders were a mining debris talus. I blinked at a valley that gently sloped downhill, and the wood reinforced archway into the ground about three pony length wide and high. Rails ran from the darkness within. I saw an ore wagon and a red earth stallion with a brown Mohawk mane. He used a hoof and his teeth to wield a shovel. He scooped from a pile of black bitumen at the end of the rails. I heard the scrape, then a muffled thunk into the hauler. I had been faintly aware of the sounds, but had ignored them as not in the context of the gravel pit I approached. I collapsed on the cold ground, still blinking, searching in my head the map I'd though I memorized. The estate leased out a gravel concession, but coals weren't part of the Grin Having royal grant. I remembered black marks on the map... "Ugh!" I'd mixed up north and south! Worse, there were a dozen country roads through woods and dales. If I had gotten lost already. Phooey! I studied a scratch that ran from my fetlock to my right knee. I'd never be able to hide the wounds from Proper Step, not when it weeped blood. I couldn't just return to the manor, pretending a prank or misunderstanding. There'd be a lot of explaining to do. "I have to make this work!" I said, but keeping it down. A second stallion, a beefy black-smudged straw-color fellow with a blond mane—a Clydesdale for sure—trotted over to buddy, then laid out tack before the wagon traces. A third miner, a minty green mare with a light green mane and tail, both bound up in a bun, joined her fellow with the tack. The black smudges that covered her accentuated her musculature. She, like her fellow miners, looked very strong. With a quick smile, I unwound my pigtails and whipped my mane and tail into mature-looking buns, taking care to tuck in the green streaks to make me less recognizable. I spent some moments cracking dry mud from my fancy horseshoes, then swapped with the blacked steel ones, then put on the work-blues that hid my cutie mark, or rather my lack thereof. Coals were weighed, sold, and taxed in Sire's Hollow. "Sirs! Ma'am!" I called, hobbling up, handing my head. I worked to look exhausted, and it wasn't entirely feigned. The area smelled faintly of tar and pony perspiration. As they looked silently at me, I cast full Levitation and moved coal to the wagon without a by-your-leave. It proved heavy enough that I could move only a book box amount at a time, about two pony weights. That amount was especially good for my age. That earned me smiles and nods. I thought about the red stallion's neck and jaw strength. He'd shoveled twice as much with each scoop! With the last squared-off dark brown coal lain atop, I said, "I kind of got lost heading toward Havenport—" the next major town beyond the village of Sire's Hollow. The Clydesdale said, "I'm Chisel Hoof. This is Stratum and Deep Digger." "I'm Starlight." It was the name I'd insisted to use with Sunburst, short for "Starlight Starbright," after the song. It sounded friendly, not noble or related to celebrity. Maybe not friendly enough, though. Sunburst had left me when he'd earned his cutie mark, so maybe my affectation hadn't helped. "You weigh a trifle, little missus." Compared to the Celestial tons they hauled. "Hop on top. We can take you as far as Sire's." "Uh-huh!" the others agreed. In minutes, the three had hitched themselves up. Downhill, the jostling ride didn't take long, but I spent the trip wondering about the "little missus" remark. I got smudged like the adults. It added to my disguise and hopefully my apparent age. I knew it had become very late.