//------------------------------// // Opus 1, Revised // Story: In the Small Moments // by Pascoite //------------------------------// Adagio shovels in another roll filled with salmon roe, and can she even taste it when she does that? But between courses, she fluffs her hair a bit, sits taller, and squares her shoulders as if bracing to carry a heavy load. Then she hums a little, and the sprigs of flowers in the bud vases on the counter perk up, intensify their perfume, and somehow… sparkle. After each time, the shadows deepen on her face, and she seems like the pianist gasping for breath at the end of a demanding concerto. There’s not even anyone arguing in here to charge her magic, not that I’d want that, for my sake, anyway. For hers… I like her now. I do. And it scares me. Early for lunch, but I have a couple at a table near the entrance, so I excuse myself for a minute to carry over a platter of tempura. “Enjoy, folks!” I say as I set it down. They smile back and immediately dig in. Semi-regulars, and if I remember right, they came in a month or so ago to celebrate an anniversary. Thirty-sixth, maybe? When I take my place behind the counter again, Adagio waves a hand at the logo on the menu card standing at the empty seat next to hers. “So where’d you come up with the name for this place?” she asks. “Sa-Shimmy,” she adds with a snicker. I shrug. “Not sure if I ever caught his name. Some wanderer who used to hang around here.” Then I gesture at her plate. “So, what did you think of that?” “Great! Loved it!” she spouts, a trumpet’s fanfare, before she licks a finger and dabs up a stray grain of rice. And my shoulders slump. “You’ve said that about everything.” “Because I’ve loved everything.” “Fine, but…” She’s staring now. She rests her cheek in her palm and gives me an easy grin, peering at my eyes. My own cheeks get warm. “You’re missing the point of omakase. I’m supposed to use your feedback to fine-tune the next course.” “I trust you.” Without so much as a flinch, she keeps that disarming stare directed at me. “That’s new,” I mutter more to myself. “Huh?” “Oh, just…” I take a moment to put a sprinkling of salt down, pat my fingers over it before working on the rice. “Omakase’s one thing, but it sounded like you meant more. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it.” She smirks a little too big and taps her pinky finger against her cup. “No, you got it.” “Nobody’s ever been that quick to trust me. It only took years at Canterlot High.” “Well, that doesn’t matter to me.” She pours herself a refill from the small steaming teapot by her left hand, then holds the ceramic cup just under her nose and breathes in the aroma. “I’ve seen how you are around your real friends. And what put everyone off anyway?” She doesn’t even wait for a reply. “I knew that wasn’t a relapse at the Battle of the Bands.” True, she would. Since she’d caused it. So I sigh. “Alright,” I say, “let me whip something up with abalone.” FInally, a twitch. “What’s that?” “Wait, former creature of the ocean, and you don’t know what abalone is?” A few chops of my knife, with a percussionist’s rhythm, and I have a small pile of it ready for a quick sear on the grill. “Didn’t have those in Equestria. As you said, I guess, there’s not a double of everything.” “Still, it’s nice to have someone believe in you.” “Yeah, it is.” The teacup returns to the counter, and her posture returns to that soft gaze. It reminds me of the look someone would give a puppy: not sure what’ll happen next, but certain that it’s worth seeing. But how would she know that feeling? “What do you mean?” “You trust in me.” I pause at rolling the hot abalone in with the rice. Do I? Is she wrong? She does seem to be acting honorably these days. And ever since I encountered her at that cafe, she hasn’t done anything to make me mistrust her. But why? “I just…” I start. I can’t figure out what about her gets me talking. Now, anyway. It never did before. For a second, I hold my breath, listening for the subtle cues that she might be singing, that she might be making me do this. Except it’d only help her if that caused negative emotions, and this has me feeling… airy, I guess. And if she only wanted to prove to herself that she could control me, she already did, in the park. Why try any more than the illusions here? Why do it at all? Adagio squints at my silence. “When I had to live without magic. It was a long time. I kept sneaking back to Equestria to steal bits of it, but I never got anything substantial, so not much better than nothing.” With my knife point waving in the air, I gather up the minute tingles in my back, as if waiting for the one chord in the whole symphony that brings everything together. “It gave me a new appreciation for people who treated me with kindness and respect. Not until afterward, of course, since I still had to get that massive chip off my shoulder.” Adagio starts to smile, but then her mouth twitches, and she blinks, looking kind of… worried? “You could, if you want to,” she says softly. She sets her chopsticks down and flips the back of a hand toward my chest. “You could use your geode on me. I won’t stop you.” “No, I…” A sigh rushes out. “You said I trust you, right? It wouldn’t show much trust if I did that.” Then I pat a palm against my collar. “I don’t keep it with me all the time anyway.” How’d she even know about the geode? That was after she left school, but—oh, right, I read her thoughts at the PostCrush concert. Another misstep in my life that haunts me. She halfway slumps over her plate and averts her eyes sideways. “I do think you trust me, but I also have to admit there’s a limit. You could make sure.” “Not necessary,” I say, and her lips just barely curl up at the corners. I go back to my rice and get the abalone all finished and pretty, then scoop it up with the flat of my knife and slide it onto her plate. Something about the tune she’d hummed—familiar, a little, like a different version of one I’ve heard before. I pick up what little I remember and get through most of the melody before I catch myself staring at the spray of flowers beside her. But naturally they don’t flourish any. That’s her magic. She flashes me a curious little grin. “I forgot,” she says. “You’re all about music, too. No surprise you have a nice voice. And down in the lower register, with me.” Why does that have my cheeks burning? “Good singer, good guitar player. Why don’t you ever do open mic night?” My knife tip flicks again, and I have got to quit doing that before I slash something. “The Rainbooms wouldn’t fit up there, and good luck getting them all together these days. Especially at such an everyday venue. Without them, I really don’t like being a solo act.” The curl at the corner of her mouth practically calls checkmate. “Then play with me.” At least I hold my knife well back this time, but I do poke it in her direction. “You remember how hard it was to find time to meet in the park? And you think I can squeeze some group rehearsal in?” “Still, I think it’d be fun.” Wearing that same smirk, she returns to resting her chin in her palm. I half shrug and tilt my head, but she continues: “If you don’t like going it alone, then maybe we can do it together? It’d be a lot of fun. I bet you’re the type where we can go by ear and come up with some great improv.” She retrieves her chopsticks and bites off half the abalone roll, and as she chews, she’s staring at my neckline, but it’s cut low enough she should be able to see my geode isn’t there, and I already told her I didn’t have it with me. Well, I didn’t say it outright, but I sure implied— “What’d be even more fun,” she mumbles through her mouthful, her stare intensifying, “is playing with those boobs.” What the f— If I thought my cheeks felt hot before... Yeah, looking at my geode, huh? I slap my knife down, the metal singing out across the room, and a chef should know better than to treat her knives that way, but I glance over to see if that couple is listening. They haven’t reacted any. “Way to kill the mood,” I growl at her. Then I stalk over to my other customers, taking a moment as I near the table to do the stress-relief arm move Twilight—pony Twilight—taught me. “Anything else, ma’am? Sir?” I say with a broad smile. “No,” the man replies, “delicious as always.” After a generic thank-you, I slip back behind the counter to run his credit card, and I can feel her eyes on me. Where are they roving? Dammit, now I’ve got it in my head, and I’m very aware of how far I bend over in this skirt to return his card and receipt. Not since those early days in the cafe have I seen her flip so quickly from self-assured to looking like she wants to hide under a table. “Sorry,” she mumbles, gazing down at the counter. “I’m bad at this.” “No shit.” “Look, I’m sorry.” She raises a hand gingerly, then sets it down. “I’m a siren. You ever… y’know…” The hand raises again, then comes down, hard. “You can’t help being what you are.” I’ll give her a little leeway. “I told you about trying grass once.” “Yeah, like that.” She takes a deep breath. “But it’s different, in a way. It’s like a compulsion, same as getting hungry. It’s the difference between—” Her hand slaps the counter once more. “I can’t explain it!” she shouts, and I glance around again, but the restaurant is empty. Still another twenty minutes or so until all the nearby businesses go on their lunch hour. “Take your time,” I say, and I stand there with my arms folded, trying my hardest not to glare at her as if she’d completely missed the cue the maestro kept yelling at her about in rehearsal. “Lots of times, you eat because you have to, right? You shovel in whatever, just to make your stomach quit grumbling, and as long as it doesn’t taste like shit, you don’t care much. You gotta do it, it gets done.” I nod. “I think… well, the food’s great, and I like it, and sorry if you thought I was talking about that.” I would keep staring, but my eyes are getting dry, so I blink once. “I think this is the first time in my life I ever wanted to eat.” For an instant, she looks up at me. But the instant ends, and she studies the menu, omakase gone from her mind. “I’m trying not to eat, though, because it’s not the same if it’s completely me causing it, and—fuck, it just doesn’t sound right that way.” One more slap of the counter, but gentler this time. “I understand.” I pick up the knife again and jut my chin at the menu that seems to have her so engrossed. “Still hungry?” She almost laughs, though I have to admit to myself, I did mean it in both senses. More for the food, but she takes the napkin out of her lap and folds it up over her plate, then shakes her head. “Besides, I usually like guys,” I add. She nods quickly, looking every direction but mine. “That… was his name Flash Sentry?” “Yeah. At one time. I thought he was such a steed.” And a snort erupts from her. “Pony much?” Finally, I relax my posture and set my knife in the sink behind me. I’ll use a fresh one for the lunch crowd. “I told you about trying grass once,” I repeat. “Usually guys?” she asks, her eyebrows raised. “Yeah.” For a long minute, she holds back something in her throat, and finally she speaks. “Look, can we start over? I already explained how I feel and why, so no resetting that, I guess, but…” My mind drifts back over the last few months. Her, confiding in me repeatedly, sharing, thinking we were kindred spirits, opening up more than she ever has to anyone else. This really does mean a lot to her. I haven’t caught her in a lie once, and I’ve never confirmed my suspicions that she was controlling me. I wouldn’t have expected it, but she’s right: I do trust her. Maybe… maybe I could even consider her a friend. She’s gotten warm, personable. She earnestly shows interest in me and the things I care about, inspires me to do the same for her. We have the same passions, including the bad ones. She’s right: we are the same. I have to chuckle about it, and fortunately she doesn’t notice it in the silence. “But what?” I ask. “I’m trying hard, to do this the right way.” It weighs on my shoulders. I suppose I had a niggling itch in the back of my head telling me I should have read the music, but… it’s not like I actually object. Not that much, so as she picks up her earlier theme, but more gently this time— “I think it’d be nice,” she says. “Can I?” I look around the empty restaurant once more. And I nod, my jaw firm. I don’t know about this, but I don’t think it’ll hurt anything. She stands, leans over the counter, and kisses me. Given her personality, I was expecting something forceful, that she’d grab the back of my neck and pull me in hard, that I’d shove her away and tell her she’d had her fill, and don’t ever dare think she could do it again. But it’s soft and gentle, nothing like I’d ever seen from her before, nothing like I would have thought her capable of. A simple, light touch, briefly caressing my bottom lip, and it reminds me of how her magic has changed: domination and violence, turned to tranquility, inviting, engrossing, and I’d… I’d do anything to feel it again. It was a nice kiss. It was perfect, and when had I closed my eyes? I swear it only lasted a couple of seconds, but now I’m not so sure. What I am sure of is that she didn’t make me do any of it. “You knew just how,” I breathe out. “Why?” She grins as if she’s gotten the birthday present she didn’t have the slightest hope anyone could find. “Seemed to me that’s what you’d like,” she answers. In her eyes, I can tell: not ‘what I’d like’ because it gets her what she wants. No, ‘what I’d like’ because it’s what I’d like. She’s really changed. She really has changed. She genuinely cares about someone other than herself. And I don’t know what to do about it. Adagio hasn’t mentioned a single thing about last time. No apologies, no come-ons, no omakase. She’s quietly eating a plate of tempura shrimp and vegetables. But then she gives me a curious glance, braces her cheek across her wrist with her chopsticks jutting past her mouth. “I was thinking about what you said.” Given all the things we’ve talked about lately, that does little to narrow it down. “About doubles.” She takes a breath and nimbly picks up a piece of carrot like a harpist plucking her string. “I didn’t think about it a lot until you said so. I had to do some digging in the library, since I showed up here around a thousand years after I got thrown out of Equestria.” “What did you find?” With her ordering off the menu today, I’m not keeping up a steady stream of food, so just the usual lunch specials for the staff from the veterinary clinic over at table five and some semi-regulars at the tables along the far wall. As often as she comes here now, good thing she’s a paying customer. “Star Swirl did exist as a human, and a handful of other ponies I remember.” She shrugs. “But more than half of them don’t seem to have doubles here.” I’m not feeling especially charitable today, so I stay quiet. If she wants to make a point, she can do it on her own. But what’s got me so grumpy? She doesn’t deserve it. If I could just feel her magic again… I glance over at my gecko Ray’s terrarium on its sideboard along the wall. I spend so little time at home that it’s not fair leaving him there alone, and I keep a second home here for days I bring him in. He’s still asleep. A small frown steals across her face. “It gets kinda complicated, but there are some patterns you can follow,” she finally says, not even finished with her chewing yet. “Of the few I know about these days, take Celestia. Ageless princess of a nation there, but just a small high school here? And from how you always talk up Twilight, she’s not even Celestia’s protegée in this world.” Something about that image makes my mind drift. Fortunately, it lightens my mood a tad, and I chuckle. “Hm?” she says, flaring out her fingers from her chopsticks. “Just remembered something.” I gaze out into space, past the far wall. “No surprise I had more than one rebellious phase. One of them was wearing very tight clothing, which, really, what does that matter on a pony when they don’t usually wear clothes at all?” Adagio gives half a shrug. “I dunno. It’s different for humans, I guess.” “Yeah. But somehow it mattered then, and maybe I’ve been human so long I forgot why, but here comes Princess Celestia into my room one afternoon, and she says, she actually says, ‘If that was any tighter, it’d be behind you!’” I can barely finish, for all the laughter that wants out—I wrestle it under control, but I hear a giggle from her. Still, I keep my eyes on my work, yet her little piccolo solo of a smile returns. “Now bear with me. Sometimes it gets bent even further. Star Swirl the pony never had any kids, but Star Swirl the human had a son. The son existed as a pony, but one not related to him at all.” That makes me pause in my slicing, and her smile only grows at the attention. “Really? Seems almost random.” “Yeah, but it can make a bit of sense in a strange way. I won’t bore you with the logic of it. I’ll leave it that if someone only exists in one world, you can sometimes figure out who they would have been in the other, and what that might have changed some others into.” “Sounds like as much guesswork as anything else,” I say as I grab another slab of tuna from where it sits on ice. I need to order some more tomorrow. “You know those modern classical pieces that just give you some random direction? Play this measure as many times as you want, move on to the next, and so on. Just make sure you’ve gotten to the end by the time it’s over, and since everyone’s part is like that, it never goes the same way twice. Out of that chaos comes something that can sound cool. But for whoever wrote it, did they really see a pattern?” I give a little chuckle, and there’s a spark to her eyes I haven’t seen in weeks. “For that matter, how much credit do you give them for the performers’ decisions and what might just be chance?” She nods. “That’s fair,” she says. “I’ve just been following a thread through some of the genealogy stuff I found, and it’s been interesting to see what turns up. Like if there’d been a human Princess Platinum, there wouldn’t have been a Dante Allegory. She would have written The Divine Comedy instead of him. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.” “Mmhmm.” I need to order more nori, too. Adagio wilts as if a blossom with the relentless sun cooking her. Then she speaks, her voice so tiny: “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Can we get together in the park?” I start to open my mouth, but— “I know that means you couldn’t hang out at the cafe tonight, so you can get up early. But I want to sing for you again.” Whenever one of Fluttershy’s dogs has gotten into the trash, it won’t meet her eyes. It tries, but it can’t make its gaze stay on her for more than a second. It also looks so adorable that she can’t help forgiving it right away. But there’s nothing to forgive her for, not lately anyway, and if I could experience her magic welling up around me, I’d lose this stupid malaise in a second. Adagio keeps trying to make eye contact. “Would you play theorbo for me, too?” I hold up a finger, finish slicing the last roll, and deliver a nice bento box to the lady at the end of the counter. Then I return to my lost puppy, and she basks in the attention. “I don’t have a theorbo.” “I could get you one.” “Adagio, they’re crazy expensive! How would you even come up with the money for that—?” “I—” “And before you even say it, no, it’d be ridiculous for you to do that, and I wouldn’t let you.” Her mouth forms a grim line. “The museum has one. Other old instruments, too, in working order. They loan ’em out to the students of ancient music at the college for performances sometimes. I’m sure I could… convince the curator to let me borrow it.” A red gleam just on the edge of her neckline catches my eye. “I thought you’d changed.” She takes a clump of her hair and pulls it over her shoulder, a widow’s veil across her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s all new to me, and I’m trying…” I’m trying, too. It’s not her fault, and I’ve been quick to accuse. I let out a heavy sigh. And a few more customers walk in. The avuncular mechanic from down the road and a few of his employees, super nice guys. I don’t want to make them wait, but it’ll take them a couple minutes to look at the menu. “You made me think of an old pony fairy tale,” I say, and she brightens a tad. “Which one?” “A young stallion’s fiancée took ill—” She snorts. “‘Took ill’? What is this, Ye Olde Speake Theatre?” It’s nice to see some life out of her right now. It’s… strange. I feel like she’d take a lot of work. I also feel like she’d be well worth it. She’s come so far already. “A young stallion’s fiancée took ill, and she remained confined to the house. The stallion lamented—” another snort “—thank you for the commentary—that she’d never be able to see the world with him, so he spent a year traveling by himself. He collected keepsakes, photographs, anything he could, so that when he returned, he could show her all the wonders he’d seen and let her experience them, too. But from looking at what he’d brought home, she only wept bitterly about what she could never have.” Adagio rolls her eyes, but without any mirth in her grin. “Wow, pony stories are dark.” “Try the human version, where he returns home to find she’s already died of her illness.” She raises an eyebrow. “Or instead of crying, she kills herself.” “Okay, makes sense ponies would have the least screwed-up version.” I take another breath, lean forward on my elbows, and give the downbeat. “I don’t have a theorbo, but I do have a classical guitar. I’ll bring it.” And she’s a dewdrop-covered blossom again, straining toward the faint moonlight, as I go to wait on my customers. I pluck out the final chord and let my guitar’s strings resonate until the sound dies on its own. I take a breath and open my eyes—she’s absolutely beaming at me! I’ve never seen her smile that big before without a scheme behind it. “That was a chaconne by a composer I’m sure you’ve never heard of,” I say, “from about five hundred years ago. It sounds a little different without the bass line.” And now her smile has a scheme behind it. “Chaconne? That’s a love song, right?” I clear my throat and avert my eyes to my instrument’s tuning pegs. “I… was hoping you wouldn’t know that.” “C’mon, siren? We’re practically made of music.” “Yeah, I should have known you were pretty much an expert. Anyway, don’t read too much into my choice of song.” Who am I trying to convince? I really don’t like the way she winks at me. “I could tell it wasn’t Past Crash, anyway,” she says. She gets a nice glare for that. I’d have thought the joggers would react to Renaissance-era music in the park at daybreak as unusual, but they don’t spare us a glance. Go figure. But as I take my neck strap off and set my guitar back in its case, her eyes spawn a queer glint: falling at my time on stage ending, but lighting up at her own turn. She lets out a short hum, and the air resonates again, a sort of gray wall drawing a curtain between our world and everyone else’s. I can feel the silence, a storm building, or… no, something I needed, something more pleasant, more portentous, a percussionist winding up to smash her cymbals together. Birds hang in the air, and I swear if I stood and walked up to one, I could touch it. Just for a moment, the flowers and fresh scents and dewdrops, like an orchestra warming up, before it all flashes back to reality again, her note tapering to silence. I’d forgotten to breathe, only for a few seconds, but I gasp anyway. The buzzing returns, but… not harsh this time. Not the horrible draining feeling her magic had long ago. This is uplifting, wonderful. I love it—and when can I feel it again?—but it tires her out so much, and I can’t impose on her. Adagio smiles. And with blooms and petals and nectar fragrance burgeoning up as a fanfare, she adds words for the first time: “Hush, my darling, and don’t you fret—” She recoils from me as I grab her shoulders, the pleasant euphoria all but gone. “That song!” Her eyes wildly flick back and forth between my own, not knowing which one might betray if I mean her any harm. She even holds up a forearm, ready to ward off an attack. “I’m sorry,” I say. I loosen my grip, let go, wring my hands. “It’s just… I’ve known that song all my life, but I don’t know where it came from. I’ve never met anyone else who knew it.” She takes a second to gulp, then relaxes back into the bench again, though I can tell she’s forcing it. I’ve seen that enough before: musicians make mistakes all the time, more often than the audience realizes. They’re just well hidden. “Ponies used to sing that a lot back when I lived there. Really, nobody does anymore?” “No. I don’t know where I learned it, but it’s been special to me all my life. Who used to sing it?” Now I’m the one playing it off, acting casual. She rolls her eyes up, then shrugs. “Hard to remember. One family, had a lot of apple cutie marks. Maybe they’re related to Applejack?” I’ve never heard AJ sing that, but it doesn’t rule it out either. I should ask her later. But for now, I close my eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Would you sing it again? For me?” I can imagine the angelic face she must have on, maybe even relishing it in the absence of my sight. But she does sing it. I’m probably sitting in the midst of a starburst of flowers, and I’m being terribly unfair to her by not seeing that, but the song, the song… For the first time in a couple decades, I’m curled up in a fancy bedroom, all kinds of lace and feather comforters and brass fittings around. Not to my taste, but to hers, the princess, and I’d gladly live among it all if it meant being close to her. A cheery blaze in the hearth, and of course a young filly shouldn’t have to tend a fire, so the castle staff would come in regularly to manage it. I could count the hours by their punctual appearances, know when to douse my hornlight and stash whatever spellbook I wasn’t supposed to be learning under the covers, until they slipped out quietly again. A soft touch on my shoulder, one of the stewards waking me up for class and pretending not to see the corner of a book concealed beneath the sheets— No, Adagio’s hand. I finally crack an eye open, and she peers at me. “You okay?” “Yeah.” I rip my stare away from the grass growing around my feet and give her a weak smile. “It’s just… that really sent me back.” That lovely weightless feeling already begins to subside from my body. “Good,” she says, her face alight. Then she scoots closer, the certainty gone from her eyes and a weariness about her body as the last hints of scales dissipate from her cheek. She emptied the tank again. “Can I?” I scowl at her. “Now you’re making it sound like we’ve agreed to an exchange.” “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. Really. I don’t expect anything.” Her grin hangs on desperately. “It just seemed like you might let me.” That phrasing. Not that she might want it or that I might want it. That I’d let her. I know that’s not what she means, but it does cheapen things. “If you think you deserve it.” She falters a half second, but does close the rest of the distance and lightly presses her lips to mine. As before, it’s… it’s so beautifully gentle, unlike anything she used to be. And it doesn’t feel right to sit here just… enduring it, I guess, as though I’m forking over her payment. It’s not as if I don’t appreciate what she’s doing, or that I don’t enjoy this, so… I lean in, only a little, and angle my head, even pucker a bit. I misjudged her again. Same as last time, I figured she’d take any sort of compliance as meaning she could grab my head and kiss me hard, but she doesn’t try to take control. I do like her. She’s become nice, enthralling—her music’s beautiful, she’s beautiful. A tingle runs down my neck. And I probably would have lingered on the feeling for a while, but one of her curly tresses brushes my nose precisely the wrong way, so I break off, scratch my nose, but too late—I turn away from her and sneeze. “Sorry,” I say, rubbing my nose. When I look back, she’s gazing at me so intensely. As if she has a super-important question buried in her throat, but she keeps it inside, along with a grin that’s trying to erupt. Too many words piled up, and if she doesn’t say something, she might pop. So I ask her. I want to know anyway. “Why me? We were never friends. And even years later, at the PostCrush concert, you still didn’t like me. What changed?” She licks her lips for a second, does let a small smile out to play, then says, “Once I got over that rebellious schoolgirl phase—” I begin to chuckle, but she holds up a hand “—yeah, I know, I was already way too old to call it that, but still. I saw the kind of friends you had, that you were able to win everyone over. I really admired that. I wanted to be like you.” A brief glint of red flashes through her eyes, but when I glance at her amulet, it doesn’t seem to glow any. “Even after I got caught breaking into your van while wrongly suspecting you?” Adagio shrugs. “Everyone trips and falls sometimes.” “Sounds like my line,” I mutter. “If I’m supposed to take life lessons from you, it helps when you’re less than perfect. Makes it a reachable goal.” “Fair point.” It’s encouraging that she wants to work toward something, though I really don’t feel as though I should be a role model. Better to shift gears. “I like what you’re doing with your magic. How long did it take to learn that you could do that, and then get that good at it?” “Three months, maybe four—” She drops her gaze. Some more of what she wanted to say starts trickling out, the countermelody I have to strain to hear. “You remember what I said about doubles? That there aren’t always copies in both worlds, but you could figure out what might have been?” I chuckle once more. “You mean that you could figure out. That’s all over my head.” “Well…” She huffs a breath out her nose and still won’t look at me. “I think I’ve worked out that there was never a version of you in this world.” That’s not something to be timid about. It’s not even that surprising. So what’s still got her—? “And I’ve been over it a bunch of times to make sure.” Her voice has gotten so quiet I can scarcely hear her, with our own little world dissolved and the birds singing again and laughter and conversation floating around as more people intrude on our refuge. “I know, if there had been a Sunset Shimmer here, who your mother would be.” How could she have…? I don’t get it. She offered to walk me through it before, how she does that. Every time she comes to my restaurant, she drops some tidbit about who would have done this or that, mostly here, since she’s way behind on Equestrian history. My mother. I never knew who she was. And according to Adagio, just because it’s someone here doesn’t mean it’d be the same person there. Two lines that may never connect, if they were even meant to. Celestia didn’t know, at least I assumed not, or else she would have told me. Unless she thought I was better off ignorant. No, no, that’s not Celestia. Truth over everything. My mother. Adagio looks so much like a small child herself right now. “Do you…” she says, barely above the sound of crunching gravel from the pathway. “Do you wanna meet her?”