//------------------------------//
// Chapter 19 — Filly Playacting 
// Story: The Runaway Bodyguard 
// by scifipony 
//------------------------------//

I bounced on the sidewalk like a filly my age.

He sighed.  

The first key on the whistle key fob unlocked the front door; we climbed two sets of metal stairs to a green door on the right.  Number 3.  He operated the lock and the brass deadbolt.  Each snicked audibly and he led the way into an apartment that struck me as much finer than expected.

Golden oak covered the walls in a seamless panel that might have been cut from a single spiral of tree trunk.  It displayed prominent knots amid straight black grain and reflected the gaslight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling arched windows.  My hooves clicked on a dark plank floor.  Waxed, the surface gleamed as he enchanted the magic sconces that looked like glass kettles suspended by blackened wrought iron links.  The rainbow glass marbles that filled them cast a daylight glow.  

The green corduroy fabric of the sofa looked worn, but the dark wood turned-legs and the finials on the backs looked well-crafted. Carved griffin paws served as armrests.  The tables and chairs showed a similar patina and a consistent classy design, weren't new, weren't bought antiques either, but succinctly stated a neat stallion with masculine tastes lived here.  Even Proper Step might have grudgingly nodded acceptance.

The high ceiling vaulted over the narrow space.  Whistlebutt's horseshoes clattered as he strode into the kitchenette.  The counter caught my eye as he reached for glasses.  It looked like dark granite, but as I approached I realized it was an ice-like amalgam of crushed black obsidian and mica with shattered gems, mostly sparkling slivers and shards of emerald, with a sprinkling of rubies and sapphires.  Corundums.  Aluminum-minerals.  Was it transparent aluminum, um, oxyi, um, -nitrate, -nitride?  Shoot.  I'd paid more attention to my physics tutor than my chemistry one.  AON required magic to synthesize.  Not cheap that countertop. 

"I need a drink," he declared, loudly setting down a glass followed by a crystal decanter of ruddy brown liquid.

"Whiskey?  No ice?" I asked.

He fixed his eyes on me. "Too young for this, Gelding."

"At home, I was told to try everything at least once.  When we had guests, I drank watered-down wine.  On weekends, I was expected to finish a gobletful at dinner.  A lady has to learn to hold her cider.  I did."

He sighed, uncorked the flask, presenting the opening for a sniff.  

I caught caramel and vanilla before the spirit speared the top of my nasal passages.  I jerked my head back.  I said, "I'd prefer a cordial or aperitif."

"I have neither."

"Your loss not getting me drunk."  I grinned.  "Water will do.  No ice."

"I have none."  He poured from a glass pitcher with squeezed limes floating in it. 

I tasted it.  Limey indeed.  I nodded.  

He took a big sip, then tossed back a bit more.  I half expected his magic to ignite the volatile fumes but, as I watched, I saw no blue flames or a flinch from its strength.  I turned my flank to him to survey his flat, but got no reaction.  I swished my tail as the girlish part of my brain, the part I really had no need for, asserted her annoyance. 

He said, "I live here."

"I approve."  

As I turned rapidly to face him, he said, "I'm so happy—"  Then, "You really did get the back of your clothes dirty.  I know a cleaning spell—"

I looked back before lifting the edge of my skirt.  Both sides.  Despite being pinned and wet by slush, my cutie mark hadn't smudged.  Without missing a beat, I pulled the skirt down and kicked it off while pulling the blouse over my head, then stepped out of the sleeves.  My saddle bags hit the wood floor with a bang because, naturally, they contained books.  Loosening my mane- and tail-bun, I flicked my head to encourage the tresses to cascade down in a purple and bright-green flow.  I levitated the garments to the counter, and, taking advantage of the mare-changing-in-public psychopathy, I walked past Whistlebutt's nose, giving him a good look at my flank as I passed.  Of course, most mares wore no clothes, so it was meaningless—except contextually and by convention.  I decided not to rub my tail under his chin because, well, over-the-top.

"You are a blank flank."

Ah, he did look.  I glanced back. 

He added, "You have to be looking for it being painted on to notice it."

"You make a point of examining mare's cutie marks?"

"What of it?"  He took another sip as he also levitated my clothes.  "What is it supposed to be?"

It showed a yellow book in perspective, with white pages and a moleskin-style strap.  "A tome.  I want to make a grimoire, but haven't come up with a satisfying simplified graphic design with teeth that don't look fake when applied.  Too many stencils, besides."

His spell went ping! like a crystal goblet having been tapped.  A cloud of dirt lofted.  The sound had startled my heart into skipping, and me into starting a defensive levitation spell; guess I hadn't decided to trust him.  I turned it into a Push and blew the dirt to the floor as he started to cough.

"Maybe I don't want you to teach me that one."

"The textbook that slipped out is a giveaway of your age."

"Didn't read the title, did you?"  Published by the Mystic University.  Yeah, that one.

"Still carrying books.  You look young to somepony who's seen all types."

"Like you?"

He folded my top and then the bottom.  "I can tell you're well-educated by the way you speak.  Probably well mannered, too, judging by your studied contrarianism—"

I looked ahead and saw his high-ceilinged apartment narrowed with cabinets and closets on the right, a hallway gallery on the left, and as I got closer, a water closet at the end.  I interrupted with, "Ah ha, those must be the impressionist paintings you promised me.  Why am I not surprised: Haystacks by Mérens.  Reproductions."

His hooves clattered as he walked up.  "You think I could afford the real item?  Like you?"

I huffed.  Maybe Countess Aurora Midnight might have been able to afford an original Mérens, once she reached her majority.  This filly had had an allowance, which she had spent on books when not required to spend it on clothes to keep up her image, with the purse held by her hoof-maid so she never actually sullied her hooves with the soiled bits.  "I might have been tempted."

"Ah, ha."

I gave him a displeased glance and he snorted.  

I turned back to the pictures, all in thin understated rosewood frames with simple miters and black mats that went with his countertops and the black handles on the closets.  The Haystacks, which Mérens had painted from life, looked like small round houses with thatched roofs and thatched siding.  All Prance style, of course, not stacked bales like in Equestria.  Three showed stacks frosted with snow with the blue light of morning, and one with the gold of sunset.  The other two were spring views with green returning to the land.  At the very end I saw a different picture.  "The Irises.  Sadly, all cliché for a collection, even if I do like them."

"I bought them a few years ago when I took a student to The Maretopolitian Museum of Art in Manehatten."

Beyond The Irises, I saw six photographs of him each together with a pony wearing a gaudy gold belt encrusted with gems and spanning a fighter with red or green velvet.  Flash photography had darkened the background, but accentuated the bulk of the four earth ponies and the lithe physique of the two pegasi.  One of each tribe were mares.   At least Whistlebutt had the right stuff.  Not a wannabe.  I saw no trophy unicorn.  

Maybe he thought I'd provide the seventh photo.  

"Where do you sleep?" I asked, looking about for a clue.  "In a closet?  Oh!"  I saw a stair baluster ending in a carved fiddlehead sticking out into the doorway of the water closet and realized a stair spiraled around the loo.  I looked up.  The vaulted ceiling had given way to a loft in the back part of the apartment, supported by the cabinetry.  I immediately trotted forward.

"Hey!"

I clamored up the steps to find a converted attic space.  A dormer behind me provided light during the day, and the quarter moon supplied atmosphere now.  I saw a simple teak craftspony dresser and a matching desk spread with notepads.  A glance showed they were notes about me, including my estimated weight, reach, and pony weight lift.  A few notes stated that Trigger said this or Trigger said that.

Trigger. 

The gang member.

Another a yellow stickum note read, Tell Trigger that Mustang is a horse's rear end.

I chuckled, looking ahead toward the front and the arched windows.  In between them and me was a balcony railing where a square bed built for the space lay.  It sported forest-green satin sheets and a half-dozen pillows in pale green.  

He'd made his bed like a good colt!

I immediately jumped and rotated, landing on my back with a squeak of the springs.  I bounced and my mane flipped through the balcony pickets.

"Wow!  How nice.  I guess I missed this part more than I thought I did."  I stayed on the bedspread, and pushed the pillows aside so I didn't lay on them.  

I am not a pig.  

I did wiggle my hindquarters, digging in a little bit, luxuriating in the sensuality of real bedclothes—before sighing.  "Heaven."

I didn't hear his hooves rushing up the stairs.  Modulating my voice to make it sound like I was pouting, I said, "Aren't you going to join me?"

"That's enough!" he declared.  His voice came from the living room.

Tinkling sparkles and green magic surrounded me.  Good to know he could target "around a corner."  You'd be surprised how few unicorns could do that.  Sunburst had taught me that trick.  I felt myself lifted.  I flailed my legs and squealed, not because I was shocked but because I wanted to make a scene.  "What the hay—!"

I floated over the banister, at which point he righted me just below the rafters.  For a final touch, I thrashed my tail squirmed giving him a good view of my underside and my flank as he brought me down on my hooves with a four point clack.

My books lay on the counter, on top of the saddlebags, on top of my clothes.  I felt a spike of anger.  I looked from them to him.

He said, "Stop with the playacting.  This—"  He tapped a hoof on my Marlen's.  "—is a month's bits for most ponies!"

I shook my head.  Over the last nine months, I'd learned it was worth magnitudes more.

He pushed aside the book revealing the stained blue paper-backed journal.  "And this: The Thaumatergical Review Letters.  That's no pony's idea of light reading."

I snorted at how wrong he was.   "I dumpster-dived that one.  I visited Prancetown a few weeks ago.  You'd be surprised what moneyed ponies throw away!"

"I was saying—"

"The book is kind of like a plush bear for silly fillies.  And yes, I do sleep with it.  Give it a sniff.  It smells like me.  Wouldn't want somepony to trot away with it!"

He asked, "Did I pass your test?"

I nodded.  "Yeah.  Pretty much.   A perfect gentlecolt—though really, I wouldn't have protested had you wanted to teach me some lessons in your loft.  Not something a mare can glean from a textbook—"

"Stop it!" he hollered and I stepped back at his intensity.  "What kind of parents raised you?"

I felt my face turn to stone.  

He stepped back as I said, "At five, my world turned upside down.  I ceased to be somepony's daughter and became an orphan—an object to be molded against my will for reasons that are plainly evil.  I was forced to see my life for the fluffy illusion of security it had been, and from then on was forced to see it from the outside as somepony I did not want to become but with no choice but to endure and to play along.

"I can control what's up here."  I tapped my forehead, blinking away tears.  "And now— I can control what I do, and always be in control.  A monster taught me I had to fight, though he took something from me in exchange.  If I chose you to teach me what I missed, that's my prerogative and your choice not to.  But you— You may... not... speak ill of my parents.  Not ever!"  I was breathing hard.  

He said, "Okay.   Attitude, brains, and magical brawn.  I'm good with that.  When can we start training you?"

I swear, I felt my blood begin to boil.  One-track-mind on that stallion.  "I don't belong to you."

"I didn't say that you did."

"You don't control me either."

"I definitely get that part."

"Get this: You don't share anything you learned about me today, or ever—and I'm not confirming or denying any of those horse apples I spouted are true—and you don't share what you deduced written on those papers all over your desk, or in folders elsewhere."

"Understood."

I took a deep breath and sat down.  I magicked on my top over my head, then  stepped into the sleeves. Whistlebutt, watching me warily, sat and sipped.  He had finished half the glass.

"If the little world I've created falls apart, or I suspect anypony has learned what they shouldn't, I'll disappear."  I pulled on the bottom and put on my saddlebags.  "You will know you failed."

"I won't fail."

I got up and magicked open the door.  "I'm not feeling very trusting today."  I pressed the door closed behind me.

It opened again before I'd descended to the first landing. "Gelding!"

I looked up and saw copper bits levitate down to me.  "For the bus ride home.  Gelding, my offer's legit.  You'll be able to afford all the books you want."

I looked at the three coppers on the frog of my hoof for awhile, then dropped them into my saddlebags.  

What did I want?

"Give me space," I said finally, but the locks on Number 3 had snicked closed.