From up this high, Ponyville looked like a basket full of gold. The sun shone on the straw rooftops, birds darted from trees, to lampposts, then back again, and the joyful and prim ponies milled about in clumps of bright color.
They looked like they could use a good fleecing.
Gallus sailed high overhead in large, easy circles. He cast a look behind him towards the School of Friendship to make sure Grandpa Gruff wasn’t following him. But the sky was clear of everyone but him. The old vulture probably hadn’t noticed him slip away. Whatever. Let him stand around like an idiot with the rest of the parents and guardians, him and his rusty beak, him and his moldy-feather-smelling satchel. Gallus had money to make, and it wasn’t like he had to be physically at the school to get registered. Probably.
Gallus peered down at Ponyville with eagle eyes. The sun was hot on his back, the breeze cool on his face. Already, he had some ideas. Many ponies had loose saddlebags, some of them not even clipped shut. Slipping a talon inside and snatching some bits would be easy. And it wasn’t just their bags, it was their little windows in their little houses: Unbroken, unlocked, some of them just left open. At first, Gallus considered sneaking in and taking something worth taking, but then he had a better idea. Gallus the Griffon: Security Consultant. All he had to do was knock on their doors, shake their hooves, lock their windows, say “You’re welcome!” and charge them through their noses. If only he had time to make business cards.
The wind suddenly carried a scent. It was heated and soft, sharp but floaty, there and then gone in a second. Gallus stopped and hovered and scanned, and right there, sitting unprotected on a windowsill on the edge of town, was a pie.
“Score.”
It was lunchtime anyways. And you can’t scam ponies on an empty stomach.
He tucked in his wings and dove, the town and wind rushing up to meet him, birds scattering smartly out of his way. The pie smelled stronger as he fell. Apples and cinnamon. Gallus’s beak watered.
He lighted next to the window quietly, carefully, never making a sound. He peered over the steaming pie into the kitchen. Nopony home. Just green floral wallpaper, a gaudy cat-clock ticking on the wall, and an open book on the table. The breeze floating in through the window was trying to turn the page.
Gallus took a big whiff of the pie and thanked the pony who baked it for being such a fool. And then she walked in the room.
She froze. So did Gallus.
“Hi there,” she said. There was no sign of shock in her voice, or in her face. She had off-white fur and two shades of red in her hair. Faint green eyes.
Gallus closed his beak when he realized it was slack.
“Hey,” he answered.
Something beeped in the kitchen. Gallus was sure it was a security alarm. Then the pony did the most unbelievably stupid thing Gallus had ever seen in his life. She took her eyes off him. As if nothing was wrong, she pranced over to the oven, tapped it until the beeping stopped, placed some strange plastic mold in her mouth, opened the hatch, and pulled out a tray of cookies with her teeth. The smell of the pie was gone right away, replaced by chocolate and batter. The pony placed the cookies on the table, tapped one of them with her hoof, then smiled.
She turned back to Gallus. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“Okay.” The pony looked left, then right, then back at Gallus. She rolled her eyes conversationally. “So… What’s your name?”
“Gallus.”
“Gallus.” The pony nodded. “Cool name.”
“Thanks,” said Gallus. “It’s a type of chicken.”
The pony laughed. “Are you new in town, Gallus?”
“No. I mean, yes. But not for a couple weeks.”
The pony frowned, but it only lasted a second. “Oh!” she said. “You’re going to Twilight’s friendship School, right? I heard registration’s today.”
Gallus nodded. “Yep.”
“That is so cool.” Then her eyes pincered a little evilly. “Say… Do you know what they teach you on your first day?”
“No.”
“Want me to tell you? You’ll be one step ahead of the class.”
Gallus thought about it. As weird as this all was, that sounded like an okay idea.
“Alright.”
The pony sat back on her haunches and lifted her chin dramatically. “The first thing you must always do when making a new friend,” she lectured, “is to ask their name.”
“Okay.”
The pony’s chin dropped to Gallus’s level. She smirked.
“Oh!” Gallus winced. “Crap. Uh… What’s…?”
“Roseluck.”
“Roseluck.” Gallus pointed a talon at her and returned the smirk. “Cool name.”
“Thanks,” said Roseluck. “It’s a type of flower.”
Roseluck glanced at the pie between them. It was the first sign of suspicion Gallus had seen on her. But, as if upset with herself, she frowned and went back to poking her cookies. It seemed to make her happy.
“Why both…?” Gallus croaked.
“I’m sorry?”
He cleared his throat. “Why are you making pie and cookies? Baking’s already kind of a waste of time anyways, so, like…” Gallus gestured. “Why make it harder on yourself?”
“I’m having friends over tonight. Some of them prefer cookies.” She started pushing the cookies around the tray, like a sculptor chiseling at her slab. “The girls can never agree on anything.”
A joke formed in Gallus’s head, and he thought, what the hell?
“Ponies not liking pie?” he said. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
Roseluck smiled. “It’s not that they don’t like pie. I just want each of them to have their favorites. Would you like a slice?”
“What? For real?”
“Sure! I mean,” and here she looked bashful, “you’d probably find tastier stuff down at Sweet Apple Acres. Applejack’s a better baker than me. But hey! I guess she’ll be one of your teachers, huh?”
Before Gallus could answer, Roseluck plucked the pie off the windowsill and took it inside. One quick rummage through the kitchen later, and there was a glass plate on the sill, complete with a fork, napkin, and about an eighth of the pie. The sugary apple slices oozed out of the pastry.
“It might be hot,” she said. “Maybe let it cool a bit first.”
“Okay.”
Gallus picked up the plate, struggling to understand why he was okay with having just one slice when he’d almost made off with the whole thing. No, not just okay. This felt better.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Roseluck turned back to her kitchen. Back to her life. Gallus kept his eyes on her. He brought the pie up to his face and blew on it once, then twice, then grabbed the fork.
About three years ago, Gallus had stolen an apple blossom from somepony in Griffonstone. Some tourist, with loose saddlebags like the rest of them, visiting Griffonstone just so they could say they’d been there, and not to actually be there. Gallus had swiped the treat from his plate without detection, ducked into an alley and munched on it without shame. It had tasted like heaven. Fresh out of the oven yet cool enough not to burn, sugar crystals that dissolved on his tongue, a sweet and salty balance striking for perfect harmony.
It had nothing on Roseluck’s apple pie.
Gallus’s body crumpled forwards, and he mumbled something like “uh-muh-guh.” Within moments he was scarfing the rest of it down.
“Oh, and Gallus?”
“Y—” Gallus swallowed. “Yeah?”
Roseluck appeared in her window, smiling in the sun, leaning over the sill and holding a hoof against her face. She winked.
“Welcome to Ponyville.”