Princess Twilight visored her eyes as she stepped into the hall at the beckoning of Ms. Winsome, not knowing what business that lady might have had with her at such a late hour. She hoped, in any case, it wouldn’t take too long to settle; for she hated to be seen with her hair in wraps, and was—though she wouldn’t admit to it before her close friends—eager to resume her rest before an early departure in the morning.
She supposed whatever it was had to do with a staff inquiry that she was now obliged to handle in person, given the insistence she had made to the confidentiality of the hearing she just presided over in the Sunrise Suite, and under which directive Winsome had now enlisted herself as ensign in her army. That lady now stopped her by the linen room, and asked as though she had just returned from the front line, “Did you hear, Ma’am, that there was something running around by the Everfree Forest, not more than an hour ago?”
Twilight gawked at her. “Oh, no! This isn’t good. Hmm… What did you—”
“I heard it from Second Chances,” Ms. Winsome proceeded, “who offers carriage services to ponies who stay with us, and so who gets about town more often than a scarlet mare—well, he said there was talk amongst the market ponies of a ghastly white thing haunting the plaza and making messes, while others were laughing and arguing with those same folks, saying that they’re just trying to blame their bad luck on other things. Small town politics, you know.”
“All too well,” Twilight remarked with a hint of bitterness. “The best we can do is keep it on the streets and out of places where important decisions are made.”
“It won’t be so easy as you like it, Ma’am. Rumor is that Constable Quiet Step returned from one of his nightly walks with a quatrain on the joys of chickadees upon hearing them rustling in the brush while he took in the air. But who hears chickadees around these parts at night in the middle of summer?”
Twilight sighed. “And that, combined with all of the agitation in the Plaza—”
“You know that we have a lot of history here in Ponyville, living next to the Everfree Forest. You can’t be cross with us for getting worked up when things happen there.”
“I’m not taking sides on this,” Twilight said.
“You can’t make ponies forget those sorts of things, Ma’am,” replied Ms. Winsome, who was, along with everyone else in Ponyville, well-acquainted with her stance on reformation; and who, like others who took too great a comfort staying in the bounds of their native village, projected authority to be a process of forming strategies to advance her own interests. “I hear the police are getting ready to burn the whole thing down to solve it.”
Twilight spun on her. “Wait, what!? And just whose idea is that!?”
A few serving girls stopped in their work to observe the excitement. Ms. Winsome took pleasure in the attention, and fear in the Princess’s anger, and so assumed a more casual tone to comport herself.
“Oh, sure, sure,” she said, “after everything that happened this morning at Sugar Cube Corner, it’s only natural that the mayor, and the land trust, and all of them, I s’pose, are in a conspiracy to put the whole forest to cinders.”
“Well, it’s certainly not going to happen on my watch,” said Twilight, breaking into a pace. “The Everfree Forest is a historical location and a natural habitat. If I have to stick an oversight board in this town, I will. After all, maybe we have something to do with it, if we get a creeper now and then.”
“We have nothing to do with it, Ma’am—with all due respect. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got my place and the goblins have theirs, and if they can chase us out of our homes and shops then we can chase them out, too. Don’t you say?”
“Have I been away for so long that you’ve decided it’s okay to put quaint convenience above your respect for the lives of other creatures?” Twilight replied. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to blame you, Ms. Winsome. But if you can’t live harmoniously with others—including goblins, but not being limited to warm fuzzies, butterfly strokes, afternoon breezies, and chill cats—then you can’t live harmoniously amongst your own kind.”
“You have such a pleasant way of talking,” answered Ms. Winsome, more and more nervous at the heat which her fancy had stirred in her Her Majesty’s temper. “I’m sure you could convince a magpie to purchase its tinsel. Well, anyway, the foresters say that a fire is good for ecology—"
Twilight stopped her.
“I can see where I am needed.”
It was a fact that Twilight—who was as prudent as others might have said ‘brilliant!’, if asked for a description of her—never exhibited herself as a detective, as Pinkie Pie liked to do; but for that very modesty she was superior to her in that role. For, as she listened to Ms. Winsome, the facts of Sweetie Belle’s case dined in her ears. She guessed that the spook in the market must have been the clone her young acquaintance had warned about; and, further, that the timing of its appearance vis-à-vis the grievance of Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Roseluck, explained the incident which took place at the Plumerium. What’s more, she was inflamed by the report of Mayor Lulamoon’s clumsy intervention, who—it must be made known—struck a chord of jealousy with her, ever since the latter’s election to office at her old stomping ground. Such occasions were, amongst nobler imperatives, opportunities to continue their new, bureaucratic rivalry.
“I was hoping to relax,” the Princess said as she ambled back to the Sunrise Suite, “but it seems I have another Royal Pronouncement to prepare, which shall likewise be delivered to Ms. Lulamoon for review tomorrow morning. …Ms. Winsome, will you please have room service send up some coffee—there’s no time to waste.”
“Oh, certainly, Ma’am, but where are you off to, now? We haven’t got to the matter I needed to tell you about, yet.”
Twilight spun around again. “What? That wasn’t what you pulled me out of the room for?”
“Oh, no, right over here,” said Ms. Winsome, indicating the door across the hall. “I remember quite distinctly, Ma’am, that you didn’t want me to disturb your audience, and I thought, ‘Well, what can I do with another audience’? And I remembered that the Indigo Suite is open tonight… Perfect for a separate hearing room.”
Ms. Winsome pushed open the heavy door while she spoke and walked in. Twilight entered, and was saluted by Rarity, who was busy setting coasters for tea on a polished round table in the middle of the room. Her trim waistcoat was browned with dirt, and her mane was thrown up into a bun which betrayed a small patch of scalp along the hairline. She made a smile like a debutante’s and pulled Twilight in gently by the hoof, and even took care to set Ms. Winsome down in one of the room’s upholstered chairs, inquiring of her young nephew, who had been a babe at her last visit; all the while, praising the décor of the Palfrey Inn, ‘the gem of hospitality in Ponyville’, which she had always regretted not having occasion to enjoy, herself.
“It has been so long since I’ve wandered in Ponyville,” she said, by way of apology for her cleanliness, “that I got off the train and caught myself on a root in the old bower by Stirrup Street, and took a dive. And, foolish me, I hadn’t packed for a particularly long stay, and only have one traveling coat. So here I am, addressing you here as though I have just been pushed off a swing.”
“Not a word, not a word, Little Miss,” replied Ms. Winsome. “You’ve always been a proud girl. The moment that anyone here were to take issue with your clothes, you should remind them of your place in the Friendship Council—and, I promise you, they would ask for more dirt, enough to fill all their little flower pots. Don’t trouble yourself about the ladies here.”
Rarity craned back into a laugh. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Winsome! I’m glad to have your trust, though of course I would much prefer to represent my part, rather than wield its reputation in defense of my errors.”
“Forever and always a grand representative of whatever you fix your mind to do,” said Ms. Winsome.
As they talked, Twilight noticed that the tea pot that Rarity had set in the small kitchen was steaming. She remembered, too, when she had seen her at Applejack’s picnic, that her jacket was perfectly laundered.
“You’ll be happy to know, by the way,” Ms. Winsome began, “that you’ve arrived at the perfect time—”
She was stopped by a small kick the Princess had dealt her under the table, which, though not forceful, nonetheless conveyed the terrible weight of a power passed down through the millennia, to which the little maid-mare of Ponyvlle acceded with choked silence.
“Happy to have you with us, of course,” said Twilight, picking up the thread of the conversation, “but I’m surprised to see that you’re still in town. I was sure you had said that you were going back to Manehattan this afternoon.”
Rarity wasn’t sure whether her sister’s mental health struggles or the events which had exacerbated them was the less appealing alibi. “Oh, yes, well… the best laid plans. Actually, dear, I wanted to see you again, before I went.”
“You know I’m always happy to talk. But what do you need me for?”
Rarity hugged an empty teacup to her chest and sighed. “It pains me to say all of this to you, it really does. Sweetie Belle and I had a little excursion this afternoon, which I’m afraid may entail consequences that are beyond my competence to address, try as I might. We were discussing Rolling Oats and all of the cities we might like to visit someday, when, quite casually, I remarked that she hadn’t even seen everything there is to see in Ponyville. Well, poor Sweetie Belle—my partner in crime when it comes to misadventure—she misinterpreted my observation as a slight! She insisted that I show her one thing in Ponyville that would be surprising to her, or novel, or that would instill in her that spirit of wonderment she remembered from when she heard about places like Chairicho or Timbucktu as a filly.”
“I see.”
“Now, the precise ‘wonder’ I was thinking of before our little argument was… I’m afraid, the Mirror Pool. I recounted the lure it had exercised on our dear Pinkie, its hidden recesses, its peculiar natural history, and its place in local folklore—to say nothing of its magical significance. These things, I hoped, would paint a picture for my younger sister. And indeed, she was so drawn in by my ekphrastic spell that she followed me there, quite against what—if she had been fully acquainted with its dangers as well as its charms—would surely have been her own will. At last, we arrived at what appeared at first sight to be no more than a… sconced grotto.”
“I thought the Pool was forbidden,” said Twilight. “That is quite a liberty you took for the sake of winning a bet with your sister.”
Rarity began to play with a strand of hair which she had loosened from her bun. “A bet? Well, call it what you will. I have no defense. I suppose I am just worried about her leaving home, is all. I wanted to show here that there is still magic in this place. You understand, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid to learn what you did to prove it.”
“Oh, Twilight. You know what it’s like to have an older brother. Had you grown up with a sister, you would appreciate the unique connection two mares can have—in some ways, closer than a parent and child, who must respect the distance discipline demands of their relationship. A younger sister is someone who forms a train behind you, and imitates your every hop and strut to their own peril. That sister of yours would be a scrawny thing with a highlight in her hair, just like you have, and you would do the same thing I did, were you in my situation, which was to show that I still knew where to find magic. And so I glanced at myself in the water.”
“Little Miss!” snapped Ms. Winsome. “Now what will your poor mother do, with all of your likenesses coming to dinner? She has duplicates of her own, doesn’t she? She’s always said you and Miss Sweetie Belle were twins enough.”
Rarity seized her by the wrist, saying, “How right you are! And not just about my mother, but others, too, who may be affected by this silly heart of mine, which carried out a misjudged act against my sister’s knowledge, but for her sake—and that is why, Twilight,” she continued, switching to her wrists, “you must help me put a stop to this doppelganger of mine—for any trouble it will cause, I’m sure, will come under your purview.”
“My purview?” Twilight replied. “You must have seen the clone for yourself…?”
Rarity hesitated. It had been just this point—concerning the timing of the appearance of a duplicate from the pool—which was the nut that had divided her and Sweetie Belle back in her old bedroom. But as it happened, Rarity was forced to adopt her sister’s point of view, that the Gemini must have come quickly, or not at all, in order to maintain the semblance of a short timeline.
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, “and the first thing that happened was she found a stallion patrolling along the shadowy perimeter. But before Sweetie Belle and I could intervene they ran off together, the poor fellow believing—no doubt—that he had found his soulmate in this empty-headed imitation of me. Unfortunately, I… can’t remember his face, though I reckoned that little affair wouldn’t have kept her occupied for too long.”
“Huh! Ain’t that a lucky one,” remarked Ms. Winsome.
For a moment, Twilight considered her report in silence. “And what did Sweetie Belle think? Did she maintain that there was no magic left in Ponyville?”
Rarity took a long sip of tea before noticing that there was nothing in her cup. She glanced back into the kitchen then held up a hoof to ask for pardon. “It’s funny you should mention that,” she said. “We had a short talk afterward—hugged it out a little, you know?—and it turned out that she wasn’t so impressed by the Mirror Pool, because the magic she was looking for was the bond that she and I had rediscovered on the way to go see it in the first place. And I told her that the real wonderment was she and I, coming back together after a long separation, triumphantly, to learn that nothing, in the interim of time and distance, had changed between us.”
She gave Twilight a full-toothed smile to signal the conclusion of her tale. By this time, Ms. Winsome seemed eager to dispatch the police herself, to search for the stallion-in-uniform who, at least in principle, had stolen away with her honorary niece. Twilight thanked Rarity for her account and excused herself, promising that she would return after she had a chance to make a few notes in her personal ledger.
“Of course, dear, take your time,” said Rarity. “I’ll be right here.”
Twilight followed Ms. Winsome back out into the hallway with measured, meditative steps. She let the old maid go in advance of her to the Sunrise Suite, but, as for herself, reconsidered at the door; then, poking her head into the room, where the others were still waiting, she asked if Pinkie Pie would join her for a short talk outside.
They found a place by the railing that was out of the way of the servant mares who were coming and going. There, Twilight gave Pinkie the details of the interview she had just had with Rarity, all of which had impressed her as strange—first, the vacant cup and her overall unkempt appearance, and the untruth she had given for it; next, the stallion fantasy, acted out as a drama in front of her high school-aged sister; and, additionally, the formulaic resolution to her dispute that had arisen with the same. Above all, everything contradicted the version of the story the party had heard from Sweetie Belle; and this, combined with the news which had arrived from Ponyville Square, had raised Twilight’s doubts about the identity of the creature with whom she had just spoken. Indeed, she believed that it was not Rarity herself who had come to seek her help, but the dastardly fake, setting up decoy—the same who had caused Roseluck, and in all probability the Cakes, so much grief, and set the town council afire with visions of reforestation.
Twilight brought her voice down to avoid being overheard by the night staff. “You know what would be involved in this,” she said in grave whisper. “We need to get that thing out of the Palfrey and to a secure location, where the work that needs to happen can take place without stirring the local ponies into an uproar—”
“You mean zap-a-roo?!” cried Pinkie. The servers all stopped and turned.
“Heh, please excuse us…” Twilight said. She brought Pinkie to a different corner and resumed, “Keep it down, okay? I was hoping you could help me arrange something, a ruse of some kind.”
“Twilight, are you crazy?!”
“Hmm… Maybe you could tell her there’s a soiree taking place in that old barn on the turnpike…”
“Listen to me—In-ter-fer-o-me-ter. Just point the thing at Griffonstone, they won’t notice!”
“Oh, this again...”
“Yes, this again! You can’t just go around vaporizing your friends—”
“That’s not our friend in that room,” Twilight corrected her. “We need to be smart about this. Poor Rose is already harried enough by monster management in this town that she’s withering away in front of us. Think about what would happen if there were another episode like the one—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” grumbled Pinkie. “Geez.”
“So why don’t you help?”
“Because—” she began to make invisible tally marks—"purple-headed, yes—fidgety, yes—pony-sized, no. According to Rose, the invader was the size of a buckball.”
Pinkie Pie smiled at the standstill which occasioned between her and Twilight following her burst of recollection. But such was the Princess’s sense of justice that, once she saw what was right, she would not let herself be defeated so easily, least of all in the arena of forensic reasoning; for she knew that, though Pinkie was in possession of certain facts pertaining to Rose’s case, she was equally devoted to the theory of the Interferometer—for which, she suspected, her old friend would be disposed to misremember her depositions, and be willing to distort subsequent impressions. Upon quick consideration, she decided it would be best to use Pinkie’s own imaginative power against her, and said, “Well, obviously she would appear to be smaller at the scene of the crime than if she were to visit us here in a quiet hotel. Ponies at rest are always larger than when they are measured in motion, relative to our stationary point of view. You might even say that the shortened doppelganger salvages your luminiferous nostalgia from certain empirical flaws—though of course it doesn’t prove its existence entirely.”
“Say what?” replied Pinkie.
“It’s true.”
“…Explain.”
“All right. You said that the Interferometer causes specified degrees of conflict in Ponyville on predetermined dates and occasions. When the conflict is resolved, a lesson is learned, the perpetrator is reformed, and Equestria returns to a state of equilibrium. These indices, you say, act as a gauge for ‘nostalgia’, the ubiquitous medium on which good vibrations are carried.”
“Like an invisible ocean of rainbow sherbet ice cream upon which sail the Cheshire smiles of Being, to be more precise,” said Pinkie.
“…Sure. But suppose we had a creature that wouldn’t reform.”
“Supposing I did! Then what?”
“Well, ‘nostalgia’ would not be a suitable explanation for the transference of good vibes, since Ponyville would appear to be inert, relative to that creature who doesn’t receive them.”
“…Explain.”
“Imagine a world where there was no change due to your ‘interference’. There would be unfortunate events but everything would go its course without learning or redemption. History would appear to be a series of mistakes leading to nothing. Life for individual ponies would simply run down—their joys would be fleeting. It would even be a mystery to them why they were alive and what they should do. That’s the kind of world I mean by ‘inert’. But, as you see, we don’t live in a world like that.”
Pinkie Pie picked a lash out of her eye and examined it. “Huh. Yeah, talk about weird.”
“Objectively, we could say that such a difficult villain is simply going through a longer process of rehabilitation than what we are used to. But because their progress takes so long it appears to us as though there is an error in assessing it—like if you saw someone measure a pony nose to tail, but that pony was allowed to move around between the nose and the tail measurements—and then the measurer called the result a whole pony. We’d want to measure the endpoints of that pony simultaneously—I know I would—but since we are the ones in error, we’d really be shortening it. So we can say that the do-badder changes to fit our perspective—they become ‘buckball-sized’—because the world we know is not inert.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” shouted Pinkie, scattering maids in every direction. There were now five or six, who, being dressed in similar colors, resembled a gathering of pigeons dispersing over the sidewalk where a bag of potato fries had landed. “We get knocked down, but we get up again. The hard times are never going to keep us down.”
“Right.” Twilight sensed her own agitation begin to recede, and said, “Great. Now, if you can find a way to reach out to the barn ponies, I’ll start working on the drapes and flatware—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Pinkie stopped her, “hold the phone. I never agreed that any of that necessarily proved that… whoever is in there, is a clone. But it does make a pretty good case for my Interferometer. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you just don’t want to give me credit for such a powerful hypothesis.”
Twilight saw that her ruse had failed; but maintaining her composure with the acuity of an experienced high official, she came up with another one. “Fine. Well, if you insist on science, then maybe we should do a test. Let’s ask her a few questions that only Rarity would know and see if she gives the correct answers. If she fails, we’ll send her back to the water dimension of the Mirror Pool, just as we did with your duplicates. And perhaps, in any case, it will be a step toward recommending your theory.”
“That won’t work,” said Pinkie. “Not a knowledge test. If it really is a clone, she’ll be thinking whatever Rarity was thinking when she activated the pool. We would have to tap into something more deep-seated… Hmm…”
“I don’t suppose she hates watching paint dry,” quipped Twilight.
Pinkie frowned. “Let’s be serious here for a moment.”
“…Sorry.”
They went into a slump while they pondered which way to proceed with the test. Something began to rustle behind the door next to them, and the knob turned—a young and freckled laundry pony stepped out, the last of the guard of eavesdroppers. Feeling observed, she greeted as she made her way down the stairs, smiling at another attendant as they passed each other going in opposite directions, one bright red apron for another.
“Twilight, do you think the uniforms here are ugly?” asked Pinkie.
“Not in particular,” she replied. “I would say they are rather dapper. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think Rarity would think of them?”
“Who’s to say,” said Twilight. “I feel dilettantish when I am around her. She could tell me one moment that an outfit was cute, and then silly the next, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Aha—I’m glad you said that,” Pinkie replied. “Do you think she’d be able to recognize Sweetie Belle in one of these get-ups?”
“I have no doubt she would.”
“Rarity would. But a clone wouldn’t. She would be too absorbed in judging the ensemble that she wouldn’t pay attention to who was in it—if we took a little care to disguise them.”
Twilight looked over the railing down on the landing where several attendants circled around each other like drones. “It might work,” she reflected. “We would need Sweetie Belle’s cooperation. But she’d be too self-aware if she understood the purpose of the test. Hmm… Maybe we can convince her it’s an acting exercise.”
“Where I come from, we call that a ‘prank’,” said Pinkie, as they started to walk back to the Sunrise Suite. “See if we can get her to mess with Rarity a little—ooh, this is starting to sound fun!”
“Mess with the clone, you mean.”
“We’ll see...”
Twilight felt herself at a much greater ease in observing her scheme come to fruition; she whispered some directions to Pinkie as they approached the door to the room, and the two mares shared a hoof bump. She really believed, however, that her hypothesis would not be falsified; and she staked the welfare of Ponyville, whose troubles she had been reminded of in the drama of Roseluck and Mrs. Gables, on her special acumen for troubleshooting, which she privately imagined to be one of her own best qualities.
Inside the Sunrise Suite, all of the ladies had made themselves comfortable on the furniture. Yet, there was a certain tension in the air; for, by now, Roseluck and Mrs. Gables had been given sufficient time to catch up with one another, and in the exchange Rose had made a detailed account of the invasion of her store which had impelled her to seek magisterial aid from Twilight. In turn, Sweetie Belle kept to herself on a different side of the suite, faking an interest in antique trinkets. She had become afraid that, besides shielding her sister from culpability with regard to the spawning of a clone in her likeness, she herself had confessed to a crime of a more parochial sort, involving the Plumerium. Indeed, Rose had started to make barbed glances at her; and Sweetie Belle was careful not to betray her apprehension about what might happen—a task which at present required much more tenacity, as Twilight entered back into the room and turned the attention of the company directly on her.
“Ah, Sweetie Belle, just the pony I wanted to see,” she said, in an unpleasantly familiar phraseology. “We have good news. Rarity is here. She showed up while we were outside in the hallway. I told her to wait in the Indigo Suite across the hall until I finished up with my affairs in here.”
“She did?” replied Sweetie Belle. “How is she? I mean, how does she seem?”
“Oh, just as vibrant as she always is,” answered Twilight. “Actually, I could have had her come in here, but I had an idea fly by me when I saw her coming up the stairs. We were wondering if you’d like to help us play a little joke on her—that is, if you’re up for it, Ms. Comedienne.”
Pinkie said, “We were thinking—wouldn’t it be funny if you went into that room and pretended to work, just like you were one of the employees at the Palfrey? Get her to say something silly, that she would never say to her ‘little sister’, then bring her back in here for the reveal!”
“She’ll never buy it,” said Sweetie Belle, as her heart began to beat faster. “She knows me too well.”
“Is that so?” said Twilight. She smiled and cajoled her with a long, purple leg. “I bet you could fool her. I challenge you. This will be your final performance for the weekend. Let’s see how good of an actress you’ve become.”
Twilight’s playfulness altered the mood of the room. Roseluck looked relieved, being herself in need of a little humor, and especially humor which did not place her so squarely at the center of its crosshairs. She shared a disarmed glance with Mrs. Gables, who uttered a quiet expression of surprise at what was transpiring before them; and soon giggles began to flitter amongst all the mares of the Sunrise Suite, but one.
Sweetie Belle could all but give in to the good spirits which now enlivened the group, that which included old acquaintances, a palliated ill-wisher, and a new friend whom she felt she had known for much longer than a single evening. She was stopped, however, by a strange fear. She felt like her heart was in motion, as though it had already left the little river house, to see where else the river might go; it was asking her to leave something behind. She had the ghost of Rarity’s blessing, but now saw that she would have to endure not being recognized by her, to honor that love.
Besides this, for the moment, she wanted to warn her about making an entrance in the Sunrise Suite, where she would surely cause Rose to associate her misfortune with her and Rarity’s trip to the Mirror Pool.
“All right. You’re on!” she said, giving Twilight a return nudge. “Let’s do it.”
They were interrupted by knocking at the door. It was Ms. Winsome, who stepped in and made a bow to Princess Twilight, then brandished at her a freshly loaded charcuterie. “Your cheese, Ma’am,” she said. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Luna come up if I hadn’t nearly forgotten about Mrs. Pie’s request entirely. I suppose the business with the Plumerium is done, then? Goodness, now! Shall we bring Little Miss Rarity in?”
“We’re not quite ready yet,” Twilight replied, “but I’m glad you’re here. Do you have a spare uniform that will fit Sweetie Belle?”
“Why, what for, Ma’am?”
“We’re going to pull Little Miss Rarity’s tail, and we were wondering—”
Ms. Winsome looked around her at the giddy faces in the room and, perceiving that there was intrigue at hoof, required no further solicitation from the Princess to jump in. She dashed out and returned from the linen room with a fresh uniform, which she assured would be a good size for Sweetie Belle, adding in fits, “Oh, boy! What a delight! But not a word to Mrs. Winter Bottom, now, or we’ll all be tossed out. Well, not you, Ma’am, but we modest folk have accounts to pay, you know…”
She helped Sweetie Belle get dressed, fastening buttons and tugging her collar snug against the back of her neck in the silhouette of candlelight: “Loop your tie over to the left… Your other left, lass… Brilliant, there you are… Another button you missed, up here… Let’s check your apron… Hmm… Good enough! Welcome to the Palfrey Inn, Miss Sweetie Belle,” and lead her over to a full-sized mirror.
“How do I look,” Sweetie Belle asked, receiving murmurs from the party. She peered at herself to see if she could discern the answer.
“Take this,” said Mrs. Gables, pulling something out of her shirt pocket. She had Sweetie Belle face her and unfolded a pair of glasses which she landed grinning on her young friend’s nose. Sweetie Belle smiled too, and turned back to the mirror. She felt her heart pounding again.
“Gosh, you look older,” said Fluttershy, almost laughing as she inspected her, up and down. “Would you please, when you have a moment… You see, there’s no more soap in the bathroom, they must have disappeared when the room’s previous occupant… left.”
Now all of the ladies were laughing at her. Gray chimed in, “Yes, Ms., and after you’re finished with the soap I’d like a bottle of rosé on ice, so that we may toast to the future success of the Plumerium.”
“I’ll take a soda!” Rose said, and she laughed, too.
Twilight pondered her. “Hmm. One more thing.”
She raised her horn and a wisp of magic began to hover around its tip like an electrode. A halo brightened the floor around where Sweetie Belle was standing, and she felt a coolness forming anklets around the bottoms of her legs. Twilight closed her eyes. Sweetie Belle thought she looked like she was trying to communicate with her, like she was taking a pulse; she felt a shiver in the haze. Then the eyes flipped open and a jet rose up from the floor underneath her and enveloped her in a fast-moving vapor, cradling her toward the surface of a pool of light. She thought she had seen the eyes glowing but had no wherewithal to reflect, being lifted more and more firmly. She sensed her hooves leave contact with the floor. Then her mane became undone and flew up in the air, and tumbled down the sides of her face as the magic began to fade.
Sweetie Belle took a moment to gather herself, then was prompted by the silence of her onlookers to view herself in the mirror once more. She hardly looked like an intellectual; the pink in her mane had completely yielded, leaving her with a single hair color: a big mop of amethyst that brushed against her work uniform with a sound like plump office ponies squeezing into a coach.
“Hey, no fair!” cried Pinkie, giving Twilight a dirty look.
“Luna come up,” wondered Ms. Winsome, “if she isn’t the spitting image of her sister. You can see it, now. And I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all, Miss Sweetie Belle, because I know how you get.”
Sweetie Belle offered a smile. “I guess after everything that’s happened you might say I’m a little less worried about coming off as a copy of Rarity, heh.”
Pinkie gave Twilight an elbow; to which the latter announced, calmly, “Just a hair change. But the effect is striking, indeed, Sweetie Belle.”
“Call me ‘Tuesday Hills’,” Sweetie Belle said, observing herself in the mirror. “I can already imagine how she speaks, and walks,” she continued, gesturing, “how her coffee tastes to her in the morning. What kind of potato crisps she likes. It’s… easy.”
“Excellent,” said Twilight. “I’m sure you’ll be very convincing.”
“Ma’am,” said Ms. Winsome, touching Twilight at the elbow. “I apologize for my impertinence. But, seeing that Miss Sweetie Belle has never worked in hospitality before—or shall we say, ‘Tuesday Hills’—would it not be fitting that she had a supervisor to follow her? I’m in charge of all the girls, you know, and I think Little Miss Rarity would find it so out of place, if there were a sprout working in her room without any kind of guidance from a superior. Would it not be fitting then that I should attend her in the Indigo Room?”
“Ah… You are so correct, Ms. Winsome, and as brilliant as ever,” said Twilight. “Yes, please. Would you care to accompany Sweetie Belle on her prank session? If you have time, of course.”
“I consider my duty to Equestria above all others,” Ms. Winsome answered solemnly. “Besides, the girls know what kind of worker I am, and that I would never leave them to flounder unless I was under the most critical kind of pressure. Come on then, Ms. Hills.”
Sweetie Belle was so preoccupied with the added complication of having Ms. Winsome with her that she at first did not recognize she was being called by her new name. It would be so many degrees more difficult to get Rarity out of the Palfrey with their nosey neighbor watching them over her shoulder, that she couldn’t think of what to do, and was only startled out of her rumination by the command of the charge maid.
“Girl! We’ve no time to waste, now. We don’t pay you to mingle with the guests.”
“Sorry…”
Ms. Winsome needed no additional direction to carry out her orders. She made Twilight an honorific courtesy and broke for the door with Sweetie Belle moving quickly behind in her innkeeper’s attire.
Their black rear dress shoes clicked the floor, and their sleeves swished with them into the Indigo Suite with militant uniformity. Sweetie Belle froze a little to see Rarity drooped over the table, as anxious-looking as she had left her in the plaza, with a bottle of opened wine at her elbow.
The old maid whipped her out of her stupor with another terse injunction, and Sweetie Belle followed her to the back of the suite.
“Oh good,” Rarity said, watching them pass. “Do you have an update for me, Ms. Winsome?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient, Little Miss,” the mare replied, digging out linens from an armoire. “Twilight is still in a meeting with a representative from the town, and will be busy a little while more. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”
Rarity sighed. “Oh, yes, of course.”
They continued to sort materials from the cabinet, pulling some things out and replacing others. Sweetie Belle worked mechanically, sometimes inciting a soft execration from her mistress. After a few moments Rarity met her with a look and caused Sweetie Belle to drop something on the floor.
“M-Ma’am,” Sweetie Belle answered in a deep voice.
“I have a question for you,” Ms. Winsome said, interrupting them. “Do you think you can answer it?”
Sweetie Belle nodded.
“Can you count how many front hooves you’ve got?”
Sweetie Belle held up her front legs and smiled grimly.
“Good, good,” said Ms. Winsome, “I can see you’ve gone to school. You can do other things with them too, besides counting, if you really practice. …And what are you doing now, posing for Ms. Rarity? Start taking the old sheets from the bed, before I have to retire. Heavens.”
Rarity disguised a chuckle and turned in her chair to observe as Ms. Winsome found her rhythm with the new hire.
“Take the mattress, now… That’s the box, lass… Now, hold it up so that the slip won’t go when I put it over—hoof cracks! there it goes, just as I said. Pick it up again. No, no… Listen, I’ll hold and you put the slip. You’ve got the wrong end… Oh, I guess I’ll just have to do that, too…. It’s okay, lass, there are many uses for one of your faculties, even if we haven’t thought of them yet. Get the next sheet, will you? There’s a girl. …Try not to wink at Ms. Rarity, now, while you do it.”
“First day?” Rarity said, trying to relieve the young server of a little pressure. Sweetie Belle smiled but made no definite answer. “Not to worry,” Rarity continued, “you’ll get the hang of it. Don’t take it personally if Ms. Winsome starts to get under your skin, she simply has a very direct way of getting things done.”
“Lift,” ordered Ms. Winsome.
Sweetie Belle picked up one side of the mattress while Ms. Winsome swept by her like a figure skater, making rapid adjustments to the skirt and to the cinch of the slip cover.
“Drop. Other side.”
Sweetie Belle hastened around the bed and the ceremony was repeated. When they were finished, Ms. Winsome grabbed a heavier blanket and tossed it in her direction.
“Follow me.”
She pointed up in the air and let her two front hooves come down in wafting separation. Sweetie Belle understood, and they each took a side of the blanket and threw it up over the bed like a parachute. Then Ms. Winsome pointed her snout for Sweetie Belle to meet her at the head, where they both took the hem of the blanket.
“Look.”
She held it up to show Sweetie Belle her grip. Then with ‘two, three…’ they folded it in synch, forming an attractive overlap. Finishing this, Ms. Winsome squatted and tucked the comforter under the mattress with quick chops, which Sweetie Belle attempted to imitate, but at a laggard pace, until she met the older mare at the center.
Rarity gave them applause at the sign of their completion. “Yay! Freshly made bed. And a virtuoso performance, Ms. Winsome. Both of you.”
“Aye, she’s a pretty thing, isn’t she…” grunted Ms. Winsome.
Rarity laughed. “Now that’s not nice! She’ll learn… What’s your name, honey?”
“T-Tuesday Hills, Ma’am,” Sweetie Belle replied in her deep voice.
“A pleasure. Well, I’m Rarity, as Ms. Winsome has said. How do you like it here?”
Sweetie Belle managed a smile. “Not too bad.”
“Better than ‘not too good’, eh?”
“Much better, in fact.”
They shared a laugh at their small town dialect. Then Sweetie Belle said, “Uffda! You look a little worse for the wear, stranger, if you don’t mind my commenting.”
Rarity stopped in surprise. “Well now, and perhaps I do?” She fluffed her bun and went back to sulking at the wine bottle.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
“It’s all right.”
Ms. Winsome hummed a little melody for Sweetie Belle to hear as she worked at the bed matching pillows to their cases. Somehow, the lady sensed that it had stung her more than she had expected to be introduced to her own sister—to say nothing of following that introduction with a faux pas, and becoming a source of minor aggravation to her. The little smile that Ms. Winsome kept to herself was brandished like a weapon, but Sweetie Belle resolved to hold back the tears she felt as the effect of that humiliation.
“How about some tea,” she said, glancing over at Ms. Winsome. “Something we can share together. We could use a break. And it would be nice to talk, anyway, if you don’t mind. I know a good blend for relaxation.”
“A fine idea,” said Ms. Winsome. “But perhaps you should see if your guest is interested, first, lass.”
“Really, it’s fine,” said Rarity. “I’ll take whatever company I can get.” She reflected for a moment, and added, “But I’m really not in the mood for tea. Why don’t you share some of this with me, dear? I wouldn’t mind at all. What’s wine without friends, anyhow? Please, grab some glasses.”
“You heard her,” said Miss Winsome, visiting one of the cabinets. “Have a seat, Ms. Hills.”
She took out two crystal glasses and set one of them in front of Sweetie Belle. Then she slid the wine bottle over to her like a big puck. Sweetie Belle picked it up—it felt heavy in her hooves. She filled her own cup less than halfway, gingerly, then leaned over and obliged Ms. Winsome in the same, and topped off her sister. The potation had a pungent, fruity scent which prickled Sweetie Belle’s nostrils as she sniffed it; for, despite her pretenses toward mature interests, she had never tasted alcohol in her life, as her age had prohibited that indulgence by law.
It was a moment after Rarity took a sip, when she turned to Sweetie Belle and asked, “Is it not your druthers?”
“I don’t have a favorite,” she replied. “I’m not really an aficionado.”
Rarity winked at her. “Not too much, then. We don’t want you flipping tables at work. But have a little, Ms. Hills, and do tell me a little about yourself. I rather enjoy meeting new folk, despite appearances.”
Sweetie Belle gazed down the length of one of her pressed white sleeves. “Me? There’s not much to say, really. When I got out of school I wanted to be a singer. I got to the city, did a couple small-time musicals, made friends with some ponies on the scene. It was fun.”
“—And,” Rarity interrupted with a teasing swill of her wine glass, “what did you do for money, dear? Let’s cut to the chase. I have acquaintances of my own that frequent these sorts of circles and I know you weren’t taking in much just starting out, if anything at all.”
Sweetie Belle thought for a moment. “I got by. I worked at a museum and did some gig work cleaning peoples’ apartments.”
“And now you’re here—” a confused look lingered on Rarity’s face.
“And…”
“And now, what?” Rarity asked impatiently. “What brings you to Ponyville? You’ve picked up some lingo, I see.”
Sweetie Belle raised the cup to her lips to give herself time to think of an answer. The wine was tart and full on her tongue, and left a burning sensation in her throat like a hot stone that passed into her chest. She sat with the weight of it for a moment, then replied, “Well, the reason I’m here is that I have a little boy that I have to take care of.”
Ms. Winsome lurched forward, choking back the wine she had been sipping on. “Certainly, Ms. Hills!” she roared out mirthfully, “why, how could any of us in this cramped cupboard of an inn forget it? You’re always singing his praises like a canary, until we’re ready for the fumes to take us, at last. Aye, what a doting figure of a mother you strike, anyone can see.”
“He’s my child and I’d throw myself onto train tracks for him,” replied Sweetie Belle. “If I have to endure a little ridicule from you and the ladies, Ma’am, it’s not much matter to me.”
“Of course, of course! Let’s have a toast then, to motherhood,” said Ms. Winsome, raising her glass, “and those sympathies it imparts to us, either directly or by reflecting from others like Ms. Hill, which protect and preserve the children of Equestria—to say nothing of producing them. Though I suppose you and I,” she resumed, nodding at Rarity, “will have to settle for the sympathies of a sister.”
“To motherhood,” Sweetie Belle said, holding up her glass and leering at Ms. Winsome.
“To motherhood.”
They clinked their glasses and took a sip from them; upon which note Rarity, whose portion was already a bit farther down than her companions’, proceeded with her investigation of Ms. Hills. “I want to apologize for being curt with you earlier, Ms. Hills. May I call you Tuesday? Very good. I’ve had a long day… I want to know more about you, Tuesday. Forgive me if this is too forward…”
Sweetie Belle said that it was not.
“Good, good. I’m just… I want to just talk. And I feel very comfortable with you. If I get too personal, feel free to correct… But, darling, you look not much older than my sister, who is not even done with high school… and you have a little one? What’s his name?”
Rarity’s eyes looked as dark as the wine, with something desperate in them that frightened Sweetie Belle. She turned her gaze and scanned the table for an answer. “I named him Meadow Lark,” she replied, “after the old tune. I think he’ll be a singer one day, like me—er, like I was. Just… better at it, hopefully.” She smiled.
“I love jazz,” said Rarity. “Though I didn’t know much about it until I moved to the city, to be honest. You can hear strains of jazz everywhere, on the streets there… Anyhow, I’m sure he is extraordinary, if not a lot of work for you.”
“Oh yes, one-hundred percent…” Sweetie Belle answered, already dreading the follow-up.
“Where’s dad?”
“Wait till you hear about this one,” Ms. Winsome broke in, enjoying herself so much that she had forgotten that she was on the punch clock. She rocked back in her chair and said in a scowling voice, “Oh, what a slimy bastard he is!”
“No!” said Rarity, grabbing Sweetie Belle by the hooves. “Don’t tell me…”
“He’s… out of the picture.”
“Dead?”
“No, I mean… We don’t see each other.”
“Well, then, he ought to be dead!” thundered Rarity. “Call me a cynic, but I have the stinking suspicion that he doesn’t support you and Meadow Lark at all.”
“I mean, kind of…?”
“Kind of!? What does ‘kind of’ mean?”
“He sends me money,” Sweetie Belle answered hastily. “He runs a valet business in Manehattan.”
“Oh, right. How many broke stallions I’ve known who own their own businesses.”
“As long as I get a check at the beginning of the month, I don’t care,” said Sweetie Belle.
Rarity blinked at her.
“We ended amicably,” Sweetie Belle added, immediately regretting her choice of phrase.
“Amicably…” Rarity repeated the word to herself; the effect of the alcohol on her judgment seemed to diminish. “You’re young. You have a career. Then, you have a foal with some urchin hustler. He lives in the city and sends you checks while you work as a maid in a small town. There is no way something like that ends amicably.” She let Sweetie Belle have a long, disapproving stare. “You’re protecting him, Ms. Hills. I suppose it is not my business and I should let it drop. But you’re not doing yourself, or your son, or any other mare, any favors by doing so.”
“I’ve been saying that for weeks,” Ms. Winsome interjected with a cloying smirk.
Sweetie Belle ignored her, took another drink, and leaned into a long sigh. “He just needs time. Neither of us were expecting Meadow Lark, but… You should see the way they interact, Ma’am. I almost hate to say it, but seeing that makes me remember why I fell in love with him. And I just know that he loves me, too, still… He loves us. Life is complicated for an entrepreneur, and it can be hard to settle. You have people you love at home, right? Er… Oddity, was it?”
A shriek of a laugh escaped Ms. Winsome. She flew into another performance, this time making encomium to Ms. Oddity, whose clear-headedness, she insisted, was a model for Ms. Hills’s own; and with such zest that Sweetie Belle became alarmed, lest the cover of the operation be given away by the insinuations of that lady, who had been persuaded by the grape to make them as volubly as possible. Ms. Winsome, then, was startled to hear a knock on the door; and still more to hear a voice call from the other side of it, “Is that you, Ms. Winsome? Thank goodness… We’ve been looking everywhere!”
She fell forward, and, supposing she might be caught en flagrante partaking in libations with guests during a shift, gave a hurried response to her inquisitor.
“Yes, who is there? Just allow me a moment, will you? I’m having a business conversation with a client about the catering on Wednesday—”
A ruby-colored nose poked through the opening of the door. “Miss… Miss! I’m sorry to interrupt—”
“Then don’t!” cried Ms. Winsome.
“But it’s about Mrs. Winter Bottom!”
“Well why didn’t you say so!” She got up and went to the door, leaving the wine glass on the table and looking at Rarity and Sweetie Belle over her shoulder. “Tell me what it is for heaven’s sake,” she said to the other mare.
“She was upset with you about the mop buckets on the second floor.”
“I’ve said it a thousand times that I’ll take care of them before I go to supper,” hissed Ms. Winsome.
“Why, it’s already done, Ms.!” replied the mare. “Early Bird did it before she left, and that’s what Mrs. Winter Bottom was cross about. It was supposed to be your job.”
“What business is it of mine what Early Bird does? I didn’t twist her hoof like some lazy cretin. She’s always trying to jump over her own knees, anyhow.”
“Well enough,” said the other, “but ponies like to talk, you know—not that I believe them—and incidents like these might be enough to convince Mrs. Winter Bottom of that reputation, if you’re not careful.”
“Oh, my cat’s curse upon you and your cronies!” spat Ms. Winsome, leaving Rarity and Sweetie Belle behind to settle her affairs with the other maids. Her voice trailed off—grousing in the short echo of the corridor—until silence came into the Indigo Suite like a soft rain.
They didn’t speak. Rarity looked contemplative of the cup which was now without an owner; she took her hoof off of her own. Sweetie Belle considered whether it was the best time to break the ruse and warn her sister about what was waiting for her on the other side of the hall; that is to say, a potential criminal charge—but refrained. There was something unusual in Rarity’s demeanor which instilled patience in her—a certain willingness to go to jail, if necessary, to allow what needed to be said to come out.
“It’s Rarity,” said her sister in a quiet voice, after a long wait. “Though you can call me Ms. Oddity, if you like. It’s certainly how I feel, most of the time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sweetie Belle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
They were quiet again. “It’s been a pleasure to get to know you, Tuesday.”
“Same,” replied Sweetie Belle.
Rarity fixed her seat, and the old chair creaked under her. “A little about me, then? I’m a Ponyville filly, born and raised. I, too, am an entrepreneur—I’ve been hemming clothes since I was a foal, or close. I got the habit from one of my aunts and I’ve always loved it. True fashion sense—I mean, when it’s really good—is not the opposite of nudity. It makes a pony more naked. It’s like seeing someone waving at you, or winking, or crying, or telling you to bugger off—with their whole life story. Clothes change us. Well, enough about that. Now I own three boutiques of my own—one here, one in Canterlot, and one in Manehattan.”
“Wow,” said Sweetie Belle. “I guess you really love it then, huh? You must be crazy busy.”
“I am,” Rarity said, “and I’m also friends with Princess Twilight, believe it or not. I designed the dress for her coronation—oh, it’s nonsense!”
“What’s nonsense?”
“I don’t deserve any of it,” Rarity snapped, eyeing Ms. Winsome’s empty glass.
“Who does?” said Sweetie Belle. After another pause, she resumed, “You sound so accomplished, Ma’am. Meanwhile, here I am making beds and taking licks from old ladies and just trying to… figure it out.”
“We all are, dear. It never stops. When I was young I thought that if I could make it in business then everything would be all right. The whole problem was just a lack of capital. Save money, work hard, eyes on the prize. All the love is baked in. I took it for granted.”
“That’s why you think you don’t deserve it.”
Rarity nodded.
“I know how that feels,” said Sweetie Belle.
“You do not. You have a son.”
“You will too, some day. Right?”
“I’ve always told myself that. But the art world is funny. The psychology just isn’t the same kind that you find in a place like Ponyville. It can be a very… selfish world, shall we say. I’m not sure that it can give a child what it needs. Besides, plenty of my friends have children, and I get to play ‘auntie’, which is the best thing in the world. Imagine having all the fun with Meadow Lark, then being able to say, ‘good to see you, until next time!’ and leaving the messes to someone else.”
They shared a hollow laugh.
“Well, the grass is always greener,” Sweetie Belle said. “I definitely feel that way sometimes, too. I do miss the stage. But for all the ‘mess’, at least there is a pony there that will love you forever.”
“Mmm...”
Rarity smiled and brushed a tear away. Without thinking, Sweetie Belle reached out and put her hoof on Rarity’s wrist. She held it for her, massaging, as the feeling of soft rain came back into the room and her chest became warm. Rarity closed her eyes. She turned Sweetie Belle’s hoof over and pushed it between the two of them, letting it land there with a fleshy thud. They held hooves and looked at one another without speaking or averting gazes for a long moment. Rarity squeezed a little. The wine seemed to have settled in their glasses like paint on an old doorknob.
“Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said. “That’s you. It has to be you. I recognize your eyes. And your smell. You must be nervous. Don’t lie. Tell me.”
“Uh… hi.”
“Hello.”
They laughed again, slow and long like a sunset, swinging their held hooves like children.
“You’re a good actress,” Rarity said. “You had me convinced. You still have me convinced. Bravo.”
They were quiet, still, in the wake of their ‘hello’.
“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle. “I wanted to warn you—you want to stay out of there, Rare. There have been things happening in town which you might get in trouble for, but I think it will be okay, as long as the ponies involved don’t see you and draw unwanted conclusions. I’m covering for you—” she looked at her uniform—"uh, I’ll explain later. Just get out, while you can.”
Rarity shook her head. “No need for more deception, I say. I’ll go in. I certainly don’t want you to suffer for my mistakes. We’ll face it together, how about that?”
“Are you sure?”
Rarity let go and got up. She set the wine back in its ice bucket and said, “Let what will happen, happen.”
Sweetie Belle smiled. “I feel the same way.”