Once upon a time, in the city of Cloudsdale, there were two pegasi. She was a sculptress of vapor and wind, specializing in the kind of artwork that would sell for a great deal of money even though they might disappear in a strong breeze. He was an investment broker (or at least called himself one), which meant he was very good at spending other ponies' bits. And they loved themselves very much.
They got married, and those who knew them well - which was not many - couldn't understand exactly why. Both were as self-centered as a gyroscope, and the thought of one of them noticing the other long enough to propose seemed highly unlikely. But it had happened, and their union was even more unbelievably blessed with a child, a lovely filly with pink fur and a platinum mane. Those few that knew of her existence considered her an unusually quiet and polite child for her age, and with one exception never had cause or inclination to wonder why.
They lived in a manor on the outskirts of Cloudsdale, nestled in a cluster of other grand homes. The term 'gated community' means little when dealing with pegasi, but there were regular patrols of very serious ponies in sunglasses so that the commoners couldn't wander too close and get the money all grubby.
In fact, it often seemed to the filly that they didn't live in the manor, but merely occupied it. Oh, they slept there (sparingly; the time spent sleeping was time not spent making money) and ate their meals there (simple, inexpensive fare, usually oatmeal with a homeopathic amount of honey and what might be called a hint of fruit if it weren't better described as a vague suggestion), but there were over two dozen rooms and only a select few were actually used. Nevertheless, it was a stately and impressive edifice, and those rooms which other ponies might be expected to see were lavishly appointed. The rest, including her parent's bedrooms (a definite plural there) and her own room in the attic, weren't quite bare, but decidedly landed on the 'stark' side of the spectrum.
Ponies didn't go in much for hunting, and so didn't know what a duck blind was. But if they knew nothing else, her parents knew the value of appearances.
The Day It All Ended started in a completely ordinary way, which the filly later considered to be deeply unfair. There should have been some indication of how things would turn out: dark clouds, a flock of crows, something. But no, the weather service had scheduled a pleasant sunny day, and corvids rarely ascended as high as Cloudsdale. Some days just didn't understand how narrative foreshadowing worked.
She woke with the sun's rays, a longstanding parental requirement that had turned into habit. No sleeping in, in this household; her parents begrudged the evil that is Sleep every minute it stole from them, time that could be more practically put to use. They would have awoken at least an hour earlier, prepared to make gainful use of every second of daylight Celestia brought them, and more. But they at least understood that foals needed their rest, as distasteful as that may seem.
Flapping her tiny wings, the filly lifted herself out of bed and drew back the curtains on her window. The view beyond was expansive, made even more so by the fact that her room was on the third floor of the grand manor house, which itself was positioned on a swell in the cloud it shared with its neighbors. The entire city of Cloudsdale was laid out before her, though most of it was some distance away.
Closer to home, as it were, lay a park filled with lush greenery, which in and of itself was a sign of prestige. In a city made of clouds, an area with soil enough to support plant life required a great deal of planning, maintenance, and expense (including the employment of an earth pony possessed of exceptional skill and a complete lack of acrophobia). At the far end of the park there was a library, though the term wasn't entirely accurate in its normal usage. This was no building custom made for the purpose, but rather the home of the late Doctor Brightquill Fetlock, who'd had two passions in life: medicine, and the collection of stories and novels from across the world. His will had decreed that his home remain open to any who might choose to browse his vast trove of books, and while his neighbors greatly disapproved of such a plebeian gesture, his bequest paid for a great majority of the park's upkeep, so they took what comfort they could in the fact that very few outside their community knew about it. For her part, the filly was a voracious reader and spent what time she could there, though this wasn't much and her free time was too sporadic to check any books out, else risk late fees. And wasting money was a cardinal sin.
She sleepily went to her vanity to prepare for the day. Something was off about her reflection, but she didn't remember what it was until she opened a drawer and noticed the thing that wasn't there. Her hoof lifted to her mane. ...oh. Right.
But never mind that. There was so much to do and little time to do it. It was a Party Day, after all.
Parties were a regular occurrence at the manor, or at least events that her parents called parties. They didn't quite match the ones she'd read about. All of the guests were very serious types, and while not old were certainly not young or at all inclined toward frivolity; she'd never seen any singing or dancing or balloons, and the cakes were of the type which had had cuisine committed against them. A sliver of chocolate sponge with a mere hint of frosting and an artistic drizzle of coconut extract did not, to her, seem very festive. She often wondered if she'd ever get to go to one of the other kind.
The parties weren't for her benefit, of course. They were to display her mother's most recent line of cloud sculptures to prospective buyers, or to promote her father's latest investment opportunity. Often both at once, whenever the situation allowed, as a cost-saving measure. Tonight would be once such party, which meant that both the display room and the study would need to be thoroughly tidied and prepared with every surface cleaned and polished, as well as the foyer, dining room, and grand hall, and generally anywhere that guests were likely to wander. A professional maid service would take care of this in no time at all, but those were unnecessarily expensive.
There was a cost-saving measure in place for that, too.
Two hours later, her eyes stinging from polish fumes and her hooves wrinkled and aching from scrubbing, the filly prepared the day's breakfast. It was oatmeal again; she longed for more variety, but her parents had little interest in creature comforts (with two particular exceptions, one per parent), and as long as it filled the belly, what difference did it make? Food was expensive, especially these days with all the troubles; they all had to make sacrifices.
Her first delivery would be to her father. And it would be a delivery, not a visit, or at least not an extended one; she didn't know if the family had ever eaten a meal together. Surely somepony had fed her before she was old enough to hold a spoon, but she had no memory of it.
She loaded the oatmeal onto a wheeled cart, added a freshly brewed cup of particular exception, and pushed the whole thing toward her father's personal office. Carrying a tray would be faster, but her flight muscles had only developed the previous year (not to mention her wings were definitely on the small side), and her carrying capacity was as yet limited.
As she traveled down the gleaming hallway - the building materials were of course not stone, but clouds carefully shaped and treated to make them solid and give them a sheen similar to marble - she passed a few of the smaller examples of her mother's craft, one of the few additions she had reluctantly made to her husband's side of the manor. Each sat on a pedestal in its own small alcove, and beneath each one was a plaque showing the title of the piece, such as "Generosity" or "Opportunity" or "Trust".
There was this about her mother's art: though each was a twisting and mostly formless mass of cloudstuff, once somepony saw the plaque, they immediately realized that the sculpture was a perfect representation of that subject. The vague, interlocking circles of Opportunity became a series of coins spilling into an upturned hoof, that could be gained or lost based on the owner's choices. Trust's depiction of two mismatched beings were interpreted as a wise leader giving advice to a seeker of fortune and knowledge. It wasn't magic, as far as she could tell, and the effect faded after a little while. Her mother said it was just that most ponies couldn't see things properly unless you explained it to them. She was good at that. All the filly knew was that they were a pain in the flank to dust.
Finally she reached the door at the end of the hall, pushed it open, and entered as silently as possible.
At the time, the filly didn't have any basis to compare the office with, but her experiences later in life would reveal that there was a certain 'pre-bought' quality to the room. There were bookshelves, but the tomes therein were never touched (something she knew for a fact, being the one who had to clean them), quite unlike the well-used volumes in a certain alicorn's office. There were no pictures of the family on the desk, or in fact any personal touches whatsoever. The decor seemed specifically chosen to convey a message: 'This is a serious businesspony. You can trust him with your money.'
Her father sat at a magnificent and trustworthy desk, quill in wing. She'd gotten her mane's hue from his hide, and his own gleaming gold mane always gave the impression that it had just been professionally styled. His cutie mark was of a golden coin, upon which was a representations of a pair of hooves clasped to seal an agreement. It was notable, she felt, that the hoof matching his own coloration was in a sort of dominant state, reaching down to the other's weaker position.
"Finally, in regards to your question," he said aloud as he wrote on a sheet of paper, "the project has been somewhat delayed due to the current troubles, as I'm sure you will understand, but I can assure you that your share of the proceeds will be deposited into your account as soon as possible. I appreciate your patience, and I look forward to our next meeting. Yours truly, et cetera, et cetera."
He signed the letter with a flourish and set it aside to go out with the afternoon mail; possibly to a recipient in Cloudsdale, but more likely to a pony further afield. He never did business with those living in the other manors in the community; though they were sufficiently wealthy, they mainly got that way by holding on to their fortunes with an iron mouthgrip. He preferred the nouveau riche, the eager go-getters, the ones desperate for that extra edge. Those, in other words, not overly burdened by experience.
"That should do for now," he murmured. "That red oaf really is doing half of my work for me these days." Then the smell from the cart reached him, and he looked up with a broad smile. He was very good at smiling, and she didn't yet know how a smile could be a lie all on its own. "Perfect timing! Good morning, pumpkin." Then he blinked as he got a good look at her. "What happened to...?"
A hoof lifted to her mane unbidden. "Good morning, father. And... I prefer it this way." She placed a cup and bowl before him.
"Oh. All right, then." He reached for the cup first, as he always did, and took a long sip of high-grade gourmet Burrolumbian coffee. "Mmm. Just what I needed. So!" He pulled the bowl toward him and lifted the spoon. "What's in the morning posts?"
The filly took up a small collection of envelopes and leafed through them, though she'd already given them a quick look while the oatmeal was cooking. "Well, let's see. Miss Silver Lining would like an update on her investment..."
"Lining, Lining." He lifted his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Ah, yes. Send her a note that despite the recent troubles, the crops have been planted and we should see a good harvest within a few weeks."
She nodded, then peered at the letter again. "Is this right, though? She says it's a donut farm. I thought those were baked, or fried or something."
Her father smiled at her. "These are special donuts. Magical, and very tasty."
"Wow. Equestria sure has a lot of weird stuff, doesn't it?"
"It sure does. pumpkin."
She made a note on the envelope and looked at the next one. "Mr. Cloudleaper is asking when his dividend check is coming."
He checked his mental filing cabinet again. "Mmm, it has been a while... send him a check for three thousand bits."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, and... don't bother with the account number at the bottom. The banks know who I am."
She nodded, duly impressed at his financial fame. "Mr. Downpour says he wants to invest in the evaporated cloud project."
"Hah!" He grinned broadly. "One born every minute!"
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Copy out the standard contract, fill in the right information, and send it over."
"Yes, sir." That would take a bit of time, but she'd gotten better at it over the years and now it would only take her an hour or so. It would have been nice to get one of those new mimeograph machines she'd read about, but he'd vetoed the idea as an unnecessary expense. "And last one... oh. Mrs. Peaceful Morn has written again. She's asking for her money." The filly turned the page over. "She's being very insistent." She glanced over three more sheets, the letters small with condensed anger. "...I don't think I'm supposed to know some of these words," she said finally.
"How strange. I'm sure I've fulfilled my end of our agreement. Well, put it on the Pending pile; I'll take care of it later."
She nodded and delivered it to a tray half-full of similarly urgent-sounding messages. She knew he would indeed handle the issue in due time, usually on some cold morning, though she always found it a bit concerning that the tray was so close to the room's fireplace.
Her father finished off his breakfast, and she moved the dishes back to the cart. However, before she cloud wheel them back to the kitchen, he raised a hoof. "Hold on a minute, pumpkin. Stay for a little while. I've been thinking we should have a chat."
The filly stopped and spun around, hope rising. "Really? You want to spend some time with me?"
"Well, sure. We mostly just talk about my work, but we should talk about you sometimes, too, shouldn't we?"
"Sure! Oh," she added reluctantly, "but I still haven't brought mother her-"
He waved this away. "She's busy with her Art. She won't notice."
His daughter nodded, though with some doubt. This was probably true, though the mare could be unpredictable that way. "O-okay, then!" He gestured at one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, and she flew over to it. "It's been so long since we talked about... anything!" Her thoughts began to overflow with possible subjects. The books she read recently, a funny dream she'd had, that one chess game she'd gotten really close to winning...
"Yes, indeed!" He pulled a slim volume from a desk drawer and opened it before him. Her heart immediately began to sink. "It's been simply ages since you've gotten a performance review!"
The filly tried to hide her disappointment even as she deflated. "Oh," she said softly. "Of course that's what you meant." But she rallied bravely. For the chance to spend time with her father, even this was better than nothing. Her father's time was extremely valuable, she knew, and valuable things should not be wasted.
He produced a second quill from the desk, as well as a flask of red ink. She watched it dourly; the red flask was the enemy. "Now, then... let's go over your chore productivity numbers..."
The process took several minutes, and the filly became more confident as each item was evaluated and discussed. The list of chores she'd been given had been daunting at first, but over the years she'd learned to be efficient and precise, completing her work ever more quickly yet with painstaking thoroughness, and her performance review reflected that. By the end of it, the red flask had hardly been used at all.
"...and the tidiness of the bathrooms, I might add, has been exemplary!" He closed the thin book and beamed at here. "Very well done!"
She returned his smile proudly. "Thank you, father!"
"You've done such a good job that I think I can raise your allowance to six... no seven bits a month! To be held in an annuity, of course, until you move out."
The filly just nodded. She knew money was important, given how much of her parent's attention it commanded, but she never had much chance to spend it anyway. Her father's approval was far more valuable to her, fleeting though it sometimes seemed.
"Still, quite exceptional work," he continued. Then he paused and his features shifted slightly. It was too subtle for the filly (as she was at the time) to understand, but her older self would recognize the expression as something she'd practiced in the mirror to perfection. "Golly! And to think you can do all that when you're only nine years old!"
"I'm actually ten now, remember!" she corrected him, even more proudly. Her birthday had been the previous week, a fact that she'd recalled only from a coincidental glance at the calendar, and all children saw that milestone as a major personal accomplishment.
"Oh, that's right, isn't it?" he said, apparently surprised. "You're a big girl now, aren't you? And," he added, muzzle dipping back into the desk drawer, "you know what a big girl gets, right?"
"No, what?" she asked eagerly.
He laid another book, much the same as the first but rather more... substantial. "A big girl's responsibilities! Take this with you and look it over. You'll need to do these starting tomorrow."
Her expression was one of mounting dismay as she leafed through the book. It was full of new chores to do, most of them involving maintaining the manor's grounds. Its quite extensive grounds. She could feel her already limited spare time slipping away with every page she read. "I have to do all this? Every day?" she asked mournfully.
"Oh, no, pumpkin." Her father laid the thinner volume on top of its newer companion. "You'll need to do both of these every day."
"But... it's going to take me forever!"
He gave her a sympathetic look. "Oh, I know, and I'm sorry. But times are tough these days, and we all have to make sacrifices for the family. All right?"
The filly sighed. "...okay."
"That's my girl. Now run along and take your mother her breakfast. Oh, and make sure to take your medicine. We want to make sure you're full of energy."
"You're late."
She paused at the doorway. There was, she knew, no scheduled time for breakfast to arrive, but it would do no good to point that out. "I'm sorry, mother. Father wanted to talk to me."
The mare scoffed. "Whyever would he do that? Useless stallion." Then she let out a tch sort of noise, which served as her favorite punctuation. "Very well."
She pushed the cart into her mother's studio, which was always a little colder than the rest of the house. This was due to the medium of the mare's art; clouds needed to be kept cool, lest they evaporate (though not too cold, lest they snow). Two large doors led to an adjacent storage room by way of a sort of airlock, to minimize the movement of air within. Raw materials were kept there, rare and precious chunks of vapor collected by skilled cloud miners, or at least that's what her mother told the buyers. The filly had noticed the cloudscape surrounding the manor seemed to get more and more bare with every passing moon, large yet manageable chunks just mysteriously vanishing, but that was surely a coincidence.
Her mother stood at the far end of the room, dressed in a smock and lumps of cumulus piled around her hooves. The mare was quite pretty, in her daughter's opinion; with an azure hide and a short-cut mane of pink and orange, she stood out against the grayish-white slab before her like a particularly fanciful sunset, though this was not reflected in her usually stern demeanor. Her cutie mark, a candle in an old-fashioned holder surrounded by a spiral of cloudy vapor, was mostly hidden by the smock, only occasionally becoming visible as she worked.
And work she did, her attention fully returned to her Art. With pingle held in one wingtip and riddleknife in the other (the essential tools of cloudshaping), she made careful adjustments in the half-finished project, slivers of cloud gently falling to join the others. Normally the fragments would simply float away, as clouds do, but the spray chemical that made the substance possible to work also made it just a little more dense than the air. The filly was quite familiar with the process, given that she was in charge of the pre-Art preparations, the final sealant that would make the finished product stable enough to transport (with care), and, of course, the clean up.
She quietly moved a bowl to a small side table. No mug for her mother; instead the bowl rested on a serving dish, around which was laid three small rectangles, wrapped in gold. Delivery completed, she turned to exit.
She hadn't made a sound, she was sure. The little cart's wheels had been well oiled for this specific reason. Nevertheless, she hadn't gone a hooflength before her mother snapped, "Where do you think you're going?"
Every day, always the same... "I still have to-"
"It can wait. Come here."
She very carefully didn't sigh, and hovered over to her mother's side. The mare looked down at her, and specifically her flanks, with disapproval. "Tch. Still nothing?"
"I haven't done any since yesterday, mother," the filly pointed out, quite reasonably she thought.
"They could have appeared in response to a dream. You never know. I feel that you're simply not trying hard enough."
"I am, I promise!" She looked back at the undersized appendages on her back. "Maybe I can't get them until I can hold the tools properly?" Her mother had large, even majestic wings, well-toned from plying her craft. She hoped it wouldn't be long until hers developed to even a fraction of their size and beauty. "I'm trying, but it's just so hard..."
"No excuses. We must all make sacrifices for the sake of the family." Then the mare peered past her daughter. "Oh, and just look at that. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand time; I only want one with my breakfast. I must keep in shape, after all."
"I'm sorry, mother. I forgot." That was easier than pointing out that the filly tended to get unofficially punished, by word if not deed, if she neglected the full complement of rare Stirrupzerland chocolates. When she followed her mother's stated instructions, she found herself burdened with extra chores or smaller meal portions, completely without explanation. The entire situation had confused her, until her father had suggested she just add the extra chocolates anyway, and let her mother's snide comments just roll off. After their conversation earlier, however, she was feeling uncharacteristically rebellious. "I'll just put the extras back, then. Since you don't want them."
Her mother blinked, and for a moment was gloriously off-balance. She sputtered for a moment, then: "That... won't be necessary. I'll take care of them myself. Just be more careful next time."
"Yes, mother." The mare's tone had turned sharp, and there was no point in pressing further.
"Now, come along." Her mother nodded at a smaller workstation in the corner of the room. A fresh block of cloudstuff was in position. "You won't get your mark unless you keep at it."
"But I haven't even eaten yet," the filly protested, knowing she would be kept there for at least another hour once she started, and also that complaining about it would do no good. "If I leave it much longer, it'll start to burn..."
"Tch. You really should have thought of that before you..." Then the mare paused. "...have you had your medicine?"
"No, mother. I have to take it with breakfast, remember?"
Two emotions warred on the mare's face. One was the impatience the filly was well acquainted with, but the other... she wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it won. "...oh, very well. Go eat, then. But I expect you back within twenty minutes."
The filly brightened at this unexpected largesse. "Yes, ma'am!" She buzzed away, leaving the cart behind and returning to the kitchen as quickly as he wings could carry her. The oatmeal was only a little burned, and she ladled the remainder into a bowl, then with some difficulty set the pot in the sink and filled it to soak. She added the allowed amount of condiments to the bowl, set it on the small table where she ate all her meals... and then, with some reluctance, turned toward a specific cupboard and opened it.
Three large bottles awaited her within, each glowing slightly with its own faint light. The liquid they contained was not a uniform color, but rather consisted of bands alternating between electric blue and pale lavender. This coloration persisted even when she tilted the nearest one and poured a carefully measured amount into a small spoon. One, two, three spoonfuls, each swallowed with a grimace, before the bottle was corked once more and returned to the cupboard.
The entire ritual wouldn't be so bad, except she wasn't sure what the medicine was for. It wasn't as though she'd ever been to a doctor. About two weeks before, her parents had brought in the bottles and instructed her on this new regimen. Of course, they must have had a good reason, so she had dutifully taken the required dose every morning. The taste wasn't... bad, as such, but it was an unappealing mixture of flavors that she could never quite nail down. And it made her feel just a little bit odd for the next few hours after her daily dosage. But at least that meant it was doing something, right? Besides, she just couldn't disappoint her parents. And to look on the bright side, following the medicine up with oatmeal quickly washed the taste away, though admittedly this usually wasn't a huge improvement.
She returned to her mother's workspace - or, as the mare put it, her atelier - at the nineteen minute mark. Her mother tched but said nothing, instead gesturing with one wing toward a fresh block of cloud set up in the corner. The filly regarded it sourly, as it was the one part of her day she actively disliked. All the cooking and cleaning and paperwork and so on were tiring and repetitive and dull, but she knew she could finish them if she kept at it, and that brought a certain comfort that she would at some point she would be done and everything would be right. This, however...
Her mother cleared her throat meaningfully, and the filly very carefully did not sigh. Instead, she advanced toward the cloud block, picking up a pingle from the nearby table. The tool, looking to the uninitiated like an oddly hooked mallet, was designed to be held in the wing, but even her mother acknowledged that the filly's undersized limbs weren't up to the task; this, of course, was not her fault, though the mare nevertheless quietly blamed her anyway. Instead she gripped it awkwardly between her forehooves, swapping it with the complex curves of a riddleknife as needed.
They worked in silence, carefully clipping and shaving bits out of their respective materials, though where the filly was concerned the word 'worked' was more correctly replaced by 'struggled'. Whenever she tried to pry out a piece of cloud, the result was always either too little or worse, too much. And the riddleknife never seemed to go where she wanted it. It was torture.
And it was her own fault. Obviously.
It couldn't be that she simply lacked talent for the craft. She'd never heard the word 'genetics', but after several of her mother's little talks, she knew more about heredity than any pony her age (although most of it was wrong). It just wasn't possible that the child of a pony so gifted could lack any of her parent's innate genius. It could only be that she wasn't applying herself sufficiently. That's what the mare told her, and she trusted her mother implicitly. So she suffered through the daily training sessions, hoping beyond hope that someday her efforts would bear fruit. She hated feeling like a disappointment, as she so often did.
Finally the mare stepped away from her own work, stepped back and regarded it for a moment, then made one final adjustment and nodded to herself. "There. Just in time for tonight."
Her daughter increased her speed as much as she dared, trying to get as close to her intended result as possible in the few seconds she had left. All too soon, however, her mother's shadow fell over her, and she lowered her pingle, not daring to look up. Long seconds passed, and then the mare said, "I have spent the last hour finishing up a Tribute to the Ingenuity of Necessity." The filly snuck a glance and, yes, that was just what it looked like. It had been just a series of triangles and twists a moment before, but her mother's art tended to be exactly what you were told it was. "I expect it will fetch at least fifty thousand bits at this evening's function. I'm quite proud of it. Meanwhile, you have created... this." If her voice did not actually drip with scorn, it was because her tone was so cold as to freeze on contact. "What is it?"
The filly stared at the ground. She couldn't blame her mother for the question. Her project barely had more shape than it had begun with. "It's a duck."
Another pause. "A duck."
"I... I just thought it kind of looked like a duck so I tried to make it more, um... duckish." She felt like she was becoming even smaller under her mother's gaze. "...it didn't work as well as I wanted."
"And no mark, I see. Tch." More seconds passed, then her mother turned away. "Dispose of it. Then move my Tribute into the curing room and prepare it for display."
"Yes, mother," she mumbled.
"Oh, and only use half of the usual amount. No... make that a third."
The filly looked up at her quizzically. "A third of the recommended dose, or a third of the half you already have me use?"
"A third of the half, obviously. They've raised their prices again, and my Art will not be held hostage to the whims of capitalism."
Preparation of cloud sculptures involved an aerosol spray can of a chemical that fixed the cloudstuff in place, making it denser and more cohesive without affecting its size or shape. A can of the fixative cost five bits. "Are you sure, mother? The half-dose leaves them kind of wobbly. A third of that would hardly do much at all, wouldn't it? It could fall apart from breathing too hard on it."
Her mother snorted. "As long as that happens after they give me the money, I couldn't care less."
"...if you say so," she said doubtfully. Her mother knew best, she supposed, and at least it would be easier to move the sculpture to the display area when she was done; a full dose gave sculptures a certain weight and inertia, and it was a tiring job moving them around all by herself.
"Flap to it, then."
"Yes, mother." She hesitated, then said, "Once I'm done with all my chores, may I go to the park for a little while?" After all, she thought gloomily, remembering her new list of responsibilities, it may be the last chance I ever get.
Her mother stared down at her coldly, as if weighing the filly's soul in balance with a brief trip under the sun. "...very well," she said finally. "Won't do to have you underhoof while the caterers set up. But make sure the Prism is safely in place first, and you may only be out for fifteen minutes."
That wasn't much at all, but as always, she was happy to take what she was given. "Thank you, mother."
"Fifteen minutes, and not a moment more," the mare reiterated, and then continued with what was likely the most truthful thing she'd ever said to the filly, even if neither of them realized it at the time. "This is going to be a very special evening, possibly the most important one in our lives."
The rest of the morning and afternoon went by quickly, at least in comparison to her cloudsculpting practice. And at least curing her mother's Art took less time than usual. After that, she finished her cleaning chores, worked on her father's paperwork, prepared and delivered lunch (oatmeal again, of course), and double checked the display room and study; you had to be careful in case there was a draft disrupting the sculptures, or if her father's folding screen had...
The folding screen had unfolded itself again. She didn't know why he didn't just replace the faulty thing, or rather she did (money) but wished he would see sense on this one point at least. It was a four-panel affair, splitting the screen vertically in half twice so it could more easily be moved or placed into storage. You could draw a presentation on it with special erasable pens and then take it with you, though this one generally stayed where it was. Her father was very proud of it and used it at each of his seminars.
The filly had a different opinion. Maybe they were normally very modern and impressive. This particular one, though... if you didn't open it the right way, or if it just felt like it apparently, the latches holding closed the panel on either end would pop open with surprising force. This had happened to her father once before wrangling the thing was added to the filly's list of chores. She'd learned how to handle it safely out of sheer necessity. and hadn't gotten too bruised in the process.
Her father had already prepared the screen for his presentation - a simple message this time, nothing too complicated - and had left it closed so that party guests couldn't peek at what he had planned to talk about and possibly leave before they could give him money. Now the two end panels were visible, the message written there squished together, and looking at the image this produced made her giggle, mostly because she was ten. Then she closed it properly, and reminded herself to open it carefully when the time came. The party guests likely wouldn't appreciate a comic masterpiece like that.
The caterers arrived two hours before sunset, at the mansion's service entrance. She gave them their instructions on where and how to set up, and they immediately began to ferry in trays of dainties and baked delights, designed to tease the taste buds without providing the slightest nutritional content. This was not the first function they'd catered at the mansion. In fact, she suspected they had been here so many times that...
Yes, sure enough, a bespectacled mare advanced upon her, with an expression severe enough to rival her mother's. The filly had seen her once or twice before, but had only exchanged a few words. Now she seemed to have something on her mind. "You. Child. Where are..." The mare paused and stared at her, a bit uncertainly. "...you are the child of our customers, correct? I thought you looked... different."
Her hoof ascended briefly. "Uh, yes, ma'am. It's just my... I prefer it this-"
The mare's hoof also went up, but in a command for silence. "Stop. I do not care. Where are your parents?"
"I'm afraid they aren't available right now," she said, repeating the memorized phrase automatically.
"Hm. Well, tell them to contact our office, if you would. There is a certain matter of unpaid invoices to discuss."
"Yes, ma'am." It was likely she would never see the mare again. Oh, she'd tell her parents, as requested, but usually it was at that point that her father would loudly point out issues with the catering service that the filly had never noticed, and claim he wouldn't pay for such shoddy work. Then he'd have a word with the community's roaming security ponies, and that would be the last she'd ever hear from that catering service, apart from letters that went in the Pending stack.
She didn't say any of this, though. Instead she simply said, "I'll be sure to let them know. Oh, and mother wanted to be sure that you moved the Prism out."
"Yes, of course, as always." The mare nodded at a trio of pegasi who were - very, very carefully - moving a heavy object covered by a cloth toward a tall pedestal in the center of the foyer. The pedestal itself was highly reinforced, almost to the point of being too dense to be supported by the clouds beneath it. "We'll be back to return it to storage this evening. Though with how expensive and fragile that thing is, I don't see why you don't just leave it in place. It's a risk every time we move it"
"Father says it's far too valuable to leave out," the filly said, a bit doubtfully. She'd had much the same thought herself.
"Hm. Well, I hope you at least have it insured."
"Oh, we do." That was definite. It was one of the family's major expenses, and one that she never received any complaint letters over. She was only just starting to realize what those letters actually indicated, but she still had faith that her father knew what he was doing.
"Just be sure to pass that message on, then, please." The mare moved off, immediately dismissing the filly from mind and memory.
The filly conscientiously stayed to watch the caterers work as long as she could, but eventually one single factor drove her away: the smell. Not that it was a bad smell; the exact opposite, in fact. The foyer and dining hall swiftly filled with the scent of sweets, baked goods, and finely crafted tidbits of all sorts and varieties. And the filly was not, under any circumstances, allowed to even sample any of it. Even after the party, the caterers would clear out any leftovers, which seemed especially unfair. It would save money, she had argued more than once, to keep some of it to at least supplement their meals. But no, this was considered too low-class for the family. What would their clients think if they found out? They would think the family couldn't afford fancy entrees at every meal. The fact that they didn't actually have such meals, ever, made no difference whatsoever.
No. They didn't need such frivolities (particular exceptions notwithstanding). If she was hungry, it was clear, she could have oatmeal. But only within the allowed amount, of course. Her parents weren't running a charity, after all.
So she fled, before the smell caused her stomach to climb up her esophagus and swallow an entire tray of tiny, tiny cupcakes.
Freedom! Or at least fifteen minutes of it.
It took most of a minute to reach the edge of the property, which she knew her mother would count against the filly, even though she wasn’t actually at the park yet. (She hadn’t even told her mother before leaving, but the mare somehow always knew exactly when she left and came back. Call it motherly instincts, a trait otherwise almost completely absent.)
She paused at the edge of the park, weighing her options. She would love to cut straight through to the old house on the other side of it and check the library’s new arrivals. Fetlock’s estate not only maintained the collection he’d amassed in life, but also brought in fresh works of fiction as they became available, a fact that the filly took advantage of whenever she was the allowed the time to browse.
She’d become particularly fond of a series of scrolls from Neighpon, concerning a particular and peculiar family. For complicated reasons, a changeling on a mission had to go into deep cover and enter into a fake marriage with an awkward but attractive wife (who secretly happened to be a bat-pony), and adopt a precocious and willful daughter (who secretly happened to be an alicorn; she wore a lot of large hats). It was a ridiculous concept, of course, but she loved reading about the unlikely circumstances they found themselves in and the growing familial bonds between them. It made her long for the same kind of closeness, absent as it was from her own life. But of course such things were deemed frivolous and unnecessary in her home. Even her timid suggestion that she might call her parents, as the alicorn child had called hers, “Papa” and “Mama” was immediately stomped into the cloud. Such familiarity, her mother explained sharply, was entirely inappropriate. She was careful never to breach the subject again.
In any case, there wasn’t nearly enough time to roam the stacks. She could easily lose an hour or two if she wasn’t careful. But she spotted a dash of somewhat faded orange amongst the greenery, and smiled, darting forward almost without realizing it.
As she flitted along the path, the color resolved itself into an elderly pegasus seated at one of the park’s fixtures: a table-sized chessboard, forged of cloudstuff. These weren’t part of the original plan for the park, and were scarcely used, but she knew he had donated them himself and didn’t mind; they were mostly for his own benefit regardless, to sit and play among the pleasant surroundings. A series of pieces had been set up on the board and he was staring at them with an expression of concentration.
She refrained from calling out and instead hovered nearby, joining him in contemplation of the chessboard. Though she was fully aware of the seconds ticking by, she gave the pieces her full attention. Finally he said, “What do you think?”
The filly thought about it a moment longer. “White mates in… twelve.”
He responded without looking up. “You sure?”
She suddenly wasn’t, and looked again. “No, wait…” There! “…nine.”
The stallion chuckled. “Close.” He reached out with a wingtip and touched a bishop made of solidified storm cloud.
Duh! How could she have missed that? “Seven!”
He nodded with a smile. “That’s my take, too. My buddy in Van Hoover swears it’s six, but I think he’s pullin’ my bridle. How’s it going, G.T.?”
She curated her smile. Needless to say, the filly had a name, one that her parents had given her as a hope and expectation for her future, but she didn’t like it very much. (It wouldn’t survive the day.) “I’m doing fine, sir.”
“Fine but tired, from your tone. Sounds like they’ve still got you flying around taking care of everything your-“ He stopped, having looked at her for the first time. “Sweet Celestia, child, what happened to your mane?”
Her hoof raised to where long curls had recently been hacked short. “…I…”
(“Stop bawling! Long hair is too much trouble to maintain! And we can throw out those ridiculous ribbons cluttering up your dresser! You prefer it this way!”)
“…I prefer it this way,” she finally managed, never losing the smile.
He stared at her for a long moment, clearly not believing a word of it, and glanced past her to the fancy house on the hill. “Uh-huh.” Then he shook his head and with swift motions reset the board, sixteen pieces on either side. “Got time for a game?”
“A quick one,” she said, landing on the bench opposite him. The pieces were white; he was giving her the first move. That might be his downfall. While she’d been working, her mind had stayed active and had concocted some new stratagems she wanted to try out. With a brief pause to select one, the game begun.
Their legs moved in a blur as they played, the filly occasionally taking to the air briefly as her pieces advanced into enemy territory. The table had a stop clock for each player, but they didn’t use them; it would only slow them down. The game progressed quickly, and while she took a few pieces early on, the tide swiftly turned against her, and before long the stallion moved a rook, which had been innocuously sitting in the back row, across the table to capture her queen. “Mate in five,” he said confidently.
She stared at the board for a long moment, then let out a groan. “I can’t believe I flew right into that.”
He chuckled. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, filly. You’ve come a long way since we started. I bet you’ll be getting a cutie mark for the game any day now.” He nodded back at the eight-by-eight board emblazoned on his own flank.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she demurred. “Mother would never allow it.”
With a snort, the stallion began clearing the board. “Your mother’s got no say in the matter. The world’s got a plan for all of us, child. It knows what our talents are.” He paused, then tapped the rook that had secured his victory. “It might be hiding inside you somewhere, you might not even realize it’s there… but when the time comes, it’ll be there waiting for you.” He glanced at the manor on the hill again. “Whatever it is, though, I hope it takes you somewhere you can be happy.”
She blinked at him. “But… I am happy.” Wasn't she? Her mother told her she was.
The stallion just looked at her, his eyes glancing up at the mane that wasn’t there anymore, then sighed. “Sure. Sure.”
“Anyway, I’d better get going. Thanks for the game!”
“Any time.” He hesitated, then seem to come to a decision. “Will, uh… will your parents be home tomorrow? I’m sure they’re busy today; I saw the catering carts come in.”
She frowned slighty. “They should be. They usually are.”
“Hmm. Let ‘em know I might be stoppin’ by, would you? I think I want a word with them.”
She had no idea why; nobody ever came to the manor except during parties or to buy things from her parents, and he wasn’t their usual type of customer. But she’d be glad to see him there regardless. “Sure thing!”
He nodded at her with a smile. “You take care, filly.”
“You too!” And she left, buzzing at top speed…
…to the last party the manor on the hill would ever see.