No music for this one. I couldn't find something that had personal meaning for this chapter, but if you take just about any symphony, it'll work just fine.
“Royal Riff, what took you so long?” inquires Concerto curiously, interrupted from his intent to continue tuning his violin.
Royal Riff, framed in the stage doorway, stares incredulously at you and Octavia. He had just arrived, out of breath and sweating, when you confronted him.
“But . . . what? How did you . . . get here?” the violinist pants, his eyes darting between you and the cellist.
You wink widely at Octavia, who shakes her head exasperatedly at your ridiculous gesture. “We took a shortcut,” you answer, simply and mysteriously. After you had recovered from the paralysis Octavia had forced you into by kissing you, you had performed a double teleportation, so elated that you mustered up the power to effortlessly transport both you and the cellist to the concert hall, well ahead of Royal Riff. Actually, the teleportation had been mostly inadvertent—as soon as Octavia had released you and turned to leave, your horn sparked, engulfing the both of you in the alabaster light that normally accompanies your fast-traveling. Without your mental consent, your inner reservoir of magic pulled you and the cellist out of Octavia’s apartment and spat you out next to the stage door.
“That was some . . . shortcut.” Royal Riff takes a pair of extraordinarily deep breaths to steady himself. “I’ll have to get the details later. How’s the audience doing?”
“They are fine,” Harpo assures him from across the room. “The new conductor is keeping them well-entertained.” As if anticipating it, the harpist points in the direction of the auditorium, perfectly timing a particularly loud shout of laughter from the concert hall’s patrons. “She’s doing better than Lyrica already.”
“Okay . . . good.” Royal Riff, a slightly manic look on his face, looks imperceptibly disappointed that there is nothing for him to attend to. You and Octavia, ever-observant, share an amused look at Royal Riff’s overexcitement. “What are we waiting on?”
“Well . . . you,” says the tuba player, Beauty Brass. Her instrument is already wrapped around her form in anticipation of mounting the stage, and you notice Royal Riff go slightly pink in the face. Could you finally have a bit of ammunition to use against him when he teases you about your affection for the cellist? “But now that you’re here, we can get started!”
Royal Riff swallows visibly, casting you an annoyed look. “Right, then. Shall we?” When the rest of the musicians’ attention is diverted from him, Royal Riff leans in and mutters to you. “If you hadn’t insisted on engaging Octavia in a game of chess, you could have saved me a fair bit of trouble. We could have begun by now.”
“Sorry, Riffs,” you say sincerely, catching him by surprise. He looks directly into your eyes, searching for a trace of sarcasm, and finding none. You truly are contrite that Royal Riff had to run back and forth from Octavia’s apartment, then returning to the laughter of his fellow musicians. “It was my bad. I should have just told Octavia that we needed to get going. I got distracted, and my pride was at stake.”
“Well, did anything good come out of it, at least?”
Royal Riff, seconds ago firmly annoyed at you, now sports a smugly knowing smile that you don’t appreciate. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . did you progress your relationship with her?”
You sigh heavily, watching the rest of the musicians spill onto the stage to tumultuous applause. You wait until the tip of Concerto’s tail is completely out of sight before responding. “I thought we had dropped that topic.”
“I can’t help bringing it up when it’s clearly taking the front page of your mindset. You think I’m a simpleton, that I don’t notice these things?”
“Crazy talk, Riffs. You know that a relationship like that would never work. Anyway . . . she’s way too good for me . . . and I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You might as well drop the charade now.” Royal Riff strides over to the wall where he had stashed his violin in his mad dash to Octavia’s apartment.
“Fine. Let’s go, before you make any more ridiculous assumptions.”
On the conductor’s podium, Lyra taps the baton against her hoof nervously, eyes flitting from the assembling musicians to the eager audience, the vast, multi-headed entity studying her every move. Her normally confident demeanor has shrunk in the presence of the cold judgment of what appears to be half the entire population of Equestria.
“How are you doing?” you inquire. You stand close to Lyra’s elevated platform, leaning in so she can hear you over the din of musicians tuning their instruments and general conversation. Your question is unnecessary—you know exactly how the lyrist is doing.
“A little nervous. I can handle this, though. Just go easy on me, okay?”
“I’ll try.” You smile, hoping you look reassuring. “I didn’t know you had a comedy act planned to keep the audience entertained while we argued backstage.”
“It was kind of spur-of-the-moment—the jokes just came to me. I probably couldn’t put on another show now if you asked me.”
“I know how you feel.” You can relate, since all of the spontaneous pieces you produce vanish from your memory as soon as you’ve played the last note.
“No unscripted duets this time, okay?”
“I don’t know, Lyra. I might not be able to manage that.” You smirk to let her know that you’re kidding. She confidently returns the smile, but even if the nerves don’t show up on her face, you know that they’re present behind her eyes. “It’ll be fine. You’ve got a great sense for music,” you add, trying to alleviate a bit of her anxiety. “You’re so much better than what I had to deal with last time.”
“Thanks, Keys.”
“No problem. Show ‘em what you’ve got.”
You leave the lyrist-turned-conductor and make your way to your piano, the now-familiar instrument that you consider a personal friend, as much as a chunk of wood and strings can be considered a friend.
As you cast your eyes around, you take in the confidence of the assembled musicians. Assurance behind their eyes, they grasp their instruments, fully prepared to exceed all expectations that have ever been set for them. The dismissal of Lyrica had invigorated them, prompting them to be better than ever.
You sit, warming up your magic for this musical exertion. As you begin to gain control of your instrument, your neck prickles unpleasantly. The tingling can usually mean one of two things: one, an electric current is somewhere nearby, and the shock is about to get much more painful.
Or two: somepony is watching you.
Not making an obvious show of it, you twist your neck as though to eliminate a persistent kink, and in the process, you spy a certain grey cellist with a treble clef for a cutie mark who is trying to conceal the fact that her eyes are looking you over methodically. And for a change, not analytically—more like a timid affection.
In order to allow Octavia to continue her charade, you don’t acknowledge that you’ve noticed her.
Instead, you continue to send your own vision over the musicians, focusing for a second or two on each.
Concerto, the bold violinist with no regard for his own safety. Beauty Brass, the mare who seems much too small for her instrument, and a possible object of longing for Royal Riff. Harpo Parish Nadermane, the impolite harpist you’d taken an almost instant disliking for, but have since gradually warmed up to. Several more flutists and violinists whose names you haven’t yet learned.
Symphony and Royal Riff, sitting side by side, analyzing the same set of sheet music propped up on their metal music stand, their violins already at their necks.
When your eyes alight on Royal Riff’s face, your hoof automatically flies to your forehead with a loud clop. You had fabricated an ideal counterargument if the violinist had brought up Octavia in the sense of you being a couple, and you had simply forgotten to use it. You make a mental reminder to inquire about him and Beauty Brass, and if there is anything going on between them.
You look back at Octavia, catching her off guard so she has little warning to drop her gaze in time. Surprised, her eyes lock onto yours, her lips parted in a silent gasp. You hold the stare, captivated by her purple irises; two flawless amethysts in the center of her crystal-white orbs. Forming a pair of amaranthine portals, transporting you to an alternate world.
And then she smiles.
It’s a soft smile—a simple upward flick of her lips—but it’s the most tender, genuine gesture you’ve ever seen, let alone been on the receiving end of. Your heart liquidizes, melting into your bloodstream and filling your being with warmth. Such a simple movement, but holding so much—probably unintentional—meaning to you.
And then your attention is snapped back to the present when Lyra’s baton falls, briskly tapping her music stand, invoking sudden silence across the audience. It’s also a signal for the musicians to prepare for the first notes of their symphony; in a flurry of movement, instruments are raised to faces—bows stand erect, waiting for their owners to allow them to begin producing their sweet melodies.
Lyra holds both hooves aloft, her eyes darting back and forth, making absolutely certain that the musicians are fully prepared to begin. When her gaze affixes on you, you confirm the affirmative with a short nod.
The baton falls once more, and the music begins.