How much parchment do I waste? Dozens of ruined, delicate skins were tossed to the side, tattooed with false laments from my vile ink and quill.
“Is everything alright, Missus?”
After brunch with Rarity, I am not sure it is anymore. There isn’t an ease to the metamorphosis that must overcome me to speak with Ivory; I feel as a changeling feels when pulling at its shape while I contort the worry and tension from my brow and yank the corners of my mouth into their correct position. It is like being a foal again, one learning to “be at ease” — that was what Mother always called it: at ease.
“This whole affair is quite stressful,” I say, perhaps a little too frankly — my voice, it appears, has yet to molt from its chrysalis. Ivory frowns and her hooves tip-tap against the marble, a nervous habit of hers, tapping her hooves. When we first hired her, she crossed her front legs like a newborn foal; the trait evolved to the more-subtle tip-tap of hooves, much like hail against a window pane in a storm, after coaching from Fancy. Both habits were unbecoming of a hoofservant to aristocracy, though I found them mundane.
No. Charming.
There is something quietly pensive about “mundane” that is untoward; it simply doesn’t fit Ivory nor her habits. The long-gone criss-crossed foal stance and new hoof tapping was charming, not mundane.
Ivory has always been charming. Quaint. Pretty. Perhaps it is what endeared her to me. Absent her lilac-colored uniform, as-so designed by Rarity, I do not believe I would recognize the dun-coated mare. I know her pink mane and tail cascade in delicate waves to the floor when not pinned into an elaborate style, though she is rarely allowed to wear her hair natural — servants have always been treated like champion hounds to show off, and unstyled hair was unbecoming, just as Ivory’s nervous habits. She’s imperfect, as all creatures, and her show of imperfection has always been endearing.
I am staring. Ivory is on the brink of tears, I can tell by her warbling lower lip; her façade has always been of rubble, should it exist at all.
“I apologize,” I say, stepping from my chair and crossing the room to my hoofmaiden. “I did not mean to be so crass, Miss Ivory. My anger is not directed at you…” I pause in speech and step near Ivory to study her expression further. Her eyelids are pinkish past her thick, black eyelashes; past them, her eyes are glassy. “Is everything alright?”
She feigns a smile and nods. Rarely does she disclose personal problems onto others, a trait that I loathe currently.
“Fancy didn’t say anything to you, did he?” I ask.
Ivory shakes her head and immediately says, “No! No, of course not, Missus!” Her eyes shift down to the side — lying. “I just heard a sad story, that’s all.” She looks back at me, smiling again, her doll-like eyes — opalescent in the evening light — are unwavering; her lie is only partial. “I cannot imagine how stressful it is to put fifteen whole years of your love into vows! And all the planning alone — I get stressed out trying to help plan birthday parties.”
Love. The word is visceral, hot like a deathly fever in my veins and my cheeks. I feel my face contorting again against my will. My earlier conversation with Rarity flashes in moments, a fluttering heartbeat of a terminal victim of something vile named much too casually. Fifteen years.
Fifteen years.
My eyes sting. Ivory’s hooves still, then, delayed, her eyes widen and her ears pin back. Her mouth opens, and she trips over words, phrases, trying to correct what she must believe is her mistake: “I didn’t…” “Missus!” “I’m sorry!” “I thought…”
I take a deep breath, trying to soothe away that confusing flame of virulent anger and brittle hope, to become, once again, at ease. I reach out a hoof and touch Ivory’s shoulder; she quiets, and I notice tears running down her face.
“It isn’t your fault,” I say; I am trying to stay calm, though my lips wish to frown and my own eyes threaten to water. “I am so very sorry to have upset you, Miss Ivory. And I can only imagine how distressing a story it is you must have heard, only to come here to see me in such a state.” I step back, removing my hoof from Ivory’s shoulder; she wipes at her eyes. “It is admittedly difficult to handle so much with grace. You are correct that it is hard to put fifteen years into words.”
She smiles, quick, dimples forming and dissipating in a fraction-second’s glance, and turns her head away, hiding her face with her hoof as she sniffles. My jaw tightens, pushing my teeth together as a tectonic force, and I, too, glance away, staring into the sky past the windows. The sun, burnished orange, shines through a hole in dark clouds it tints in warm hues; deeply opaque clouds obscuring the valley below are not so painted by the sun’s light, their tops instead angry and casting wicked shadows in their recesses. Pinprick silhouettes, fully black against the clouds, are evidence of pegasi watching over the manufactured storm.
My chest is tight — not from the storms that may or may not come — but, instead from Ivory’s reaction to me. Had I been that shrewd?
“I’m sorry,” I say as a thin cloud passes over the sun, bathing us both in a strange, half-orange shadow. My voice is soft, earnest for once. I only move my eyes to glance in her direction when I hear her hoof touch the ground; she has an eyebrow drawn down, ears forward, her head cocked, but no light glitters off her face — she’s fully wiped her tears. It is hard to know what I am apologizing for; I feel as though there are too many “sorry'”s" to be uttered, yet I do not know which ones apply to Ivory. What had my face looked like to distress her so? Was it my voice? My words?
Again, my teeth clench. I feel short-of-breath at the thought of turning back toward her, so, instead, I avert my gaze to the marble beneath my hooves. The weight of my mane guides my head downward; my scalp tingles as the hairs touch the floor. The delicate gray veins of the stone are small rivers that shimmer into golden life when the sun shines bright upon us again.
“When I was a foal,” Ivory said, steady again, though perhaps wavering in her tone, “my mother used to tell me that it was always good to eat when I started to get frustrated with something. Or, uh, step away from it, but I believe your brunch with Miss Rarity was the last time you ate today, yes?”
I did not eat, though “brunch” certainly implied the action. Against the anxiety that felt so paralyzing, I finally turned toward her and nodded.
“Right! Well, maybe Mama’s advice will help you out some? Dinner is ready; Miss Lacis and Mister Fancy are already seated.”
Dinnertime already? My eyebrows raise along with my head — I am settling back into ease. I frown, this one, purposeful, and then look back to Ivory, basked in the sunset that tints her like marigold watercolor, and say, “Your mother sounds like a very wise mare.”
“She is!” Ivory’s response is so cheerful, I feel something crawling along my spine — a wish, perhaps, to feel so cheerful of my own mother? Despite the creeping corruption that wishes to overtake my features, I smile at her.
“The time has been passing so quickly these days… Thank you for notifying me of dinner. If you would, please let Fancy and Lacis know I will be arriving momentarily; they may begin the meal without me if they would like and have not already,” they almost certainly have, as my tardiness typically leaves me dining alone, “and you may take your evening early if you wish.”
“Of course, Missus,” Ivory says with a curtsy, seeing herself out quietly. As the door clicks into place, I raise my head to the sunlight, watching as my shadow — stretched across the room — waxes and wanes as clouds are carefully curated by weather workers. There is a warbling at the back of my mind, a sort of instability, a disharmonic chord at the base of my skull. I move into the lavatory to wash the faint, gray ink from the bottoms of my forehooves; they grate together under the tap, rough even with the soap. The psychic unsteadiness forces the conversation between Ivory and me to repeat itself, interspersed over reality. The water rushing over my hooves is the sound of a mother hushing its foal, washing over me as the interaction plays along that warbling back-of-the-mind line — Ivory never accepted my apology. I cannot fault her: it had been wholly inadequate.
I should not care what my hoofmaiden thinks of me. She is doing her job, and I am doing mine — it’s a business transaction. We are not friends, nor are we even necessarily well-acquainted, but Ivory is deserving of much better treatment. I will be sure to ask her what I did that offended her so in order to properly apologize. Perhaps it was that simple display of emotion that was upsetting. If that is the case, I am glad she will not be present for supper.
I wipe my hooves on a towel and make my way to the dining hall. The vaulted hallways of the de-Lis manor echo my hoofsteps like raindrops, and portraits of ancestors are watchful as I walk. All of the matriarchs are tall, slender unicorns with pink or purple manes, bred to uphold the family name and traditional unicorn values; husbands gaze past their paintings with hollow eyes, detail of their lives lost in the shadow of their de-Lis wives. Ahead, faintly, Fancy and Lacis’s voices are whispers that come into focus.
“—Princess Twilight Sparkle at the next meet?” Fancy’s voice carries up the staircase from the dining hall. I tread as lightly as my hooves allow; my ears strain toward the conversation.
“Yes!” I rarely heard Lacis so excited; it brings me pause as her youthful joy fills the air. “We think she’ll be judging, but we’re not sure. We’re all invited to a lunch with her afterward, even if we lose.” There’s a pause. “And, whoever wins will be representing Equestria internationally at Mount Metazoa!” Fancy must be clapping his hooves together. I round the corner, but stop before entering the room.
“That is awesome, Sweetie!” Fancy reaches a feathered hoof across the table to Lacis. Both are smiling. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to crush the competition.”
Lacis has the same frail frame as I do, though her father is more stout and portly. She has her light purple mane in a shaggy bun and is wearing a baggy, dark t-shirt — it looks like her sleepwear. Neither is paying attention to my doorway. Lacis tilts her whole body when she is happy, and she is currently sitting at a steep slant.
“Good evening,” I say, finally entering the room. The smiles fall from Fancy and Lacis’s faces, and they both straighten. Lacis’s happy slouch suddenly rights into rigid, proper posture. “I apologize for being late. How was your day, Lacis?”
Any warmth that still remained seems to be drained from the room at the question. Fancy and Lacis share a look — cryptic; their eyes just meet, and Fancy’s mouth twitches — as I settle into my seat at the head of the table. Fancy narrows his eyes at me. Lacis is stoic. Did I miss something?
“It was good,” she finally says. She doesn’t make eye contact with me.
“That is lovely to hear,” I say.
“I missed you at Lacis’s debate meet today, Fleur,” Fancy says. “She won.”
So, I did miss something. Cold creeps into my limbs — I’ve always been absentee. I turn to Lacis with one of her grandmother’s at ease smiles, “I am so happy to hear that. I am sorry I was not able to make it to your meet; I have been working tirelessly on mine and your father’s vow renewal ceremony.” Silence. They do not look at me. I take a polite bite of bread and sip at my wine. “It is a lot of work—” Lacis places her hooves on the table, and I stop.
“Your hoofmaidens take care of the hard work for you,” she says, finally making eye contact; the intensity of her gaze holds me in place, “but I didn’t expect you to show up anyway, Mom.” Lacis stands from the table. “I’m going to my room.” As she walks out, one of the hoofservants along the back wall follows her.
The outburst is not unexpected, though I am surprised that the dull chill – hollow in my chest – does not stir nor change: I am unaffected by my daughter's outrage. It is an integral thread in the cloth of my life; I am not sure when Lacis's anger toward me stopped being as effective as it was when she was a foal.
“You really should be more careful with her,” Fancy says once her hoofsteps are distant. His voice is laced with the actual malice toward me that he felt, dark and rumbling, though the polite words were carefully chosen per our audience of hoofservants.
“I know. Admittedly,” I say, head down, “I forgot about the whole thing.” Truthfully, I never held the knowledge that Lacis had an extracurricular activity to attend – matters involving our daughter have always been delegated to Fancy. My presence has never been called upon nor necessary.
“She really is an accomplished young mare.” He swirls a wine glass in his magic before very pointedly looking at me. “You must be proud to be her mother.”
“Of course." My answer is swift, for our audience, though I am sure to give Fancy as sharp of a glance as he dealt me. "I need to be more mindful of her schedule. High school seems so far away these days; I often forget what it was like.”
Fancy makes an affirmative sound, then we lapse back into silence as I pick away at the morsels on my plate. It is no surprise that Lacis knows about the inner workings of my “labor” — she has, after all, been taught the role of a de-Lis matriarch and its inner workings since her youth — and, though her words should sting, I feel naught a pinprick. Something else is weighing far heavier on my mind.
“Can we talk in the garden after supper?” I ask. The garden is a place where we can speak candidly between ourselves. Some conversations are meant only for our ears.
He finishes off his glass of wine before replying, “Of course, my love.”
We sit in silence for the rest of our meal, and walk, together, to the glass doors to the garden. He opens one side with his magic and gestures for me to go inside. Humidity settles into my nose and lungs as I step into the dark room, flanked on either side by lush plants. Fancy closes the door behind us as we walk to the fountain in the center of the garden; above us, the glass ceiling stares only up at the dark gray undersides of stratus clouds plucked by pegasi from altitudes below. The fountain is both simple and ornate; it showcases the de-Lis lily — like the ones on my flank — spouting water from three points. It trickles down the stone, dark under these dusk clouds, and the water disappears somewhere into the garden.
“I know you called this,” Fancy says as he comes to stand on the side of the fountain opposite me, “but would it kill you to pretend like you care about Lacis?”
“What?” I shake my head, my eyebrows wrinkling together. “I do care about her.”
“You don’t show it, Fleur. When I came to get you to come to her debate meet, Ivory told me you weren’t to be disturbed. Is it really that hard to be an active parent?”
This was a conversation we had many times before. I need to care more for Lacis, as if the agony she endured as a foal with an absentee mother can be undone in her adolescence. I say, “I try, Fancy. I do not know what else can be done.”
“Do you need an instruction manual?” He looks up to the glass, to the clouds, and sighs as the first rain falls onto the panes above us. “Is it so hard to have your extramarital affairs outside of our daughter’s school events?”
“Are you—? Ivory and me?” He does not answer. The trickling fountain and tip-tap of rain fills the heavy air. Frustration leeches into my voice: “By Celestia, Fancy! She is a simple hoofmaiden! Your lifestyle is not mine.”
“My lifestyle?” Fancy enunciated his words like knives. He steps around the fountain to me, then glares up and directly into my eyes. “You know there is nothing you can do for me, and I keep my — Celestia, what would you say? Concubines? — to my time.”
“Need I remind you that you only have a home here due to our parents’ arrangement?” I don’t lower my head to his level, but keep eyes locked with him nonetheless. “You have bits to spend on your mares —” the lowering of my language caught his attention; his eyes narrowed with renewed anger “— because of me. Everything you have is due to your allegiance to the de-Lis family. It is best not to forget your place in this.”
“My place—?” He trails off, mouth open, and rolls his eyes in the way he had at the dinner table — so overdramatic, overacted. He turns and walks into a corner of the garden, but not toward the entrance. When he needs space during our talks, he does this, ambling into the poisonous flowers and, eventually, back to me.
The rain turned to a deluge upon the glass, clear ribbons of water passing over the glass, highlighted by our outdoor lighting. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He returns as a spark of lightning lights up the room; the panes rattle with the thunder. He steps up to me, then places a hoof on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
The simple phrase unbarred a part of my mind I had kept so carefully dammed. The tears are spontaneous. My head bows as I feel the weight of my mane for what feels like the first time, pulling me harshly toward the ground. My neck feels like it might snap under all the weight.
“No,” I say. “I—” I breathe, pulling against the weight of my hair, forcing myself back upright. “I am sorry I insinuated I am the only factor to your success.”
“That isn’t what you want to say,” he says.
The words are in my throat, slimy on my tongue, caught like mucus in my larynx. All at once, they come:
“I want a divorce.”