Sunset squinted at the words on Rarity’s homemade, sequined sash. “’Fashion Monitor?’”
“A position I proposed myself!” said Rarity. “What better use for our budget surplus?”
Some water dripped onto Sunset’s nose. “Makes sense.”
“Knew you’d understand.” Rarity beamed. “Mark my words, once I’m instated, I’ll have CHS looking sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
“Fashionista, heal thyself.”
They turned toward the voice. Rarity gasped.
”Pinkie?!”
“Yeah, I needed an extracurricular.” Pinkie scribbled something on a piece of paper, which she thrust into Rarity’s hand.
Rarity blinked. “Qu'est-ce que?”
“I’m citing you. That sash? Gauche.” Then, whistling, Pinkie sauntered off.
Rarity clenched her fists and jaw; Sunset, nervously, backed away.
“On my honor, Pinkamena,” Rarity growled. “I’ll--”
The ceiling broke open, and a deluge of water soaked Rarity. Sequins floated at her feet like tiny, fabulous lily-pads.
Sunset winced. “Want me to grab some paper towels?”
Rarity slumped wetly. “Lots, please.”