Mule frowned slightly more than normal as he looked over a white painted sign colored orange in the light of the adjacent window. The sign read Flat Note’s Inn, but Mule’s attention was on a small emblem in the corner of the sign. “Get us a room,” he directed to Quick, who was looking into the window of the building. There was little else to see of the building in the dark, only that it blocked the sky high enough to be at least three floors. What had captured Quick’s attention was the dancing orange light that bathed him and the smell of fresh bread. The smell was blended with oak wood, with wheat, with oat, and with an old hat.
He nearly gagged, but turned to Mule and asked, “Whats the hat for?” as he pointed to the decaying fabric that was placed on his head.
“For wearing,” Mule stated. “Now get us a room, no breakfast if you can.” And with that he began to walk further into town.
“Where are you going?” Quick asked in mixed annoyance and resignation, hat forgotten.
“Hmp.”
Crackling wood accented the gentle strumming of a guitar in a tall wooden lounge. The only other sound in the night were the occasional creaking of wood from floors above and the turning of pages coming from the desk. Behind the desk was an older filly perched on a stool. The young earth pony was tan like white sandstone and had a rich brown braided mane. When the regular music of Flat Note’s was disrupted by the din of the door bells she added another paper cut to her lip.
“Ouch, mmm,” she sucked her lip for a moment without looking up, then said, “Welcome to Flat Note’s, how can I help you?”
In the moment it took her to mark her page and close her book, Quick basked in the warmth from the fireplace and took a reprieve from the cool night as he looked about. He saw in the lounge to his right a wide couch that faced a fireplace and before turning to face the voice he noticed a kitchen with a wide bar table.
“Well aren’t you dressed up,” called the filly.
“Oh, uh thank you,” said Quick as he made an effort to focus. “I need a room for two, no breakfast.”
“Oh, are you sure you don’t want breakfast? I make some awesome oat cakes,” she tempted.
“Yeah, I’m sure”
“Oh? Oh,” the young mare giggled then shouted, “Maaaaaaaa! Out-of-towner all gussied up for a double. Is the hookup room open?”
The sound of a metal sheet clattering loudly on a hard floor interrupted any thought Quick was having as an older mare wearing a white apron burst through the door to the kitchen. She had a frazzled rust orange mane that bounced with her long stride to the filly. While the older mare was similarly tan like the younger, her coat was a warmer shade and the entirety of her front was powdered in white flour. “Sugar Spice,” she puffed out flour with every word, “do you know the hour? Keep your voice down.”
While Sugar Spice looked to the clock mounted above Quick, whose hands both pointed to nine, her mother looked to the stallion below. “Our most lovely room is available. I’ll have you know there is a cleaning surcharge.”
Looking to the mess of flour that made a line from the kitchen to the mare before him, Quick reassured, “We will be clean.”
“Hum, right.” The sour looking mare hooved a guest book from under the desk onto its top and pointed to the bottom of a list of names while Sugar sheepishly hooved a pen to Quick. As he wrote his name, the mare continued, “Keep it down. The walls are thick but they aren’t enchanted. And if you need anything, call for me; I’m Quiet Night.”
“Got it.” Quick said before yawning.
While Quiet Night returned to the kitchen, Sugar asked, “When can we expect her?”
Quick morphed his long yawn into a, “Huh?”
“The mare, do you need us to tell her the room number?” she clarified.
“Him, I think he’s... running some errands. Yeah, please tell him the room.” Quick did not look back to see Sugar’s embarrassed look as he made his way to the couch. He sat in the center, closest to the hearth, and warmed himself.
He listened to the sounds of the fire cracking, of a metal sheet lifted from the floor, of the gentle guitar, of a sink running, of the couch deforming as he slumped deeper into it, of hooves on tile then wood, of Quiet saying, “Give me 10 minutes and the room will be ready,” to which Quick lightly nodded and had nearly nodded off before hearing hooves approach again, much lighter this time.
“I’m sorry I assumed,” Sugar apologized as she sat at the end of the couch.
Quick didn’t open his eyes as he said, “What? Oh, it's no big deal.”
“Still it was rude.”
“Its fine.”
“But--”
“Hey,” Quick opened his eyes, “if it's really getting to you, you can apologize to him when he gets here.” His eye caught on some motion as he looked to the guitar and saw it playing itself with two levitating picks, black and brown. Though the rest of him was nearly asleep, Quick’s curiosity was awakened to ask, “Where did you get that guitar? Or is it a guests?”
Sugar Spice was quiet for a long while. When Quick turned and looked to her, her sad gaze was broken from the guitar and she looked to him and answered, “My ma was a great friend of Sweet's mom, so it was a gift from Sweet.”
“Oh, who’s Sweet?”
“Sweet Dream, she works for the Horns. She’s pretty good with magic from what I’ve heard.”
If Quick’s curiosity was awake before, it was now properly caffeinated. “So she's Sharp Baton's daughter?”
“Yeah, you knew Sharp Baton?”
“I’ve recently heard about the flood--” Quick cut himself off as he noticed Sugar’s already somber mood dropped like lead at the mention of the flood.
“We lost a lot in the flood. We try not to bring it up.” Sugar muttered, barely audible.
“I’m sorry,” Quick apologized.
“Don't be,” Sugar comforted, “you sort of already brought it up with the guitar. It was my dad's.”
Quick took a better look at the guitar, though he did not get up. It was scratched in places. It was slightly out of tune. The body was a simple agathis wood with soft flowing grains across its surface. He reached out with his magic and gently brushed against the focus of the enchantment. The picks missed a strum, but returned to their rhythm with noticeable vigor. “Wow, Sweet’s been making instruments for a while then.”
”Oh, no the enchantment was a gift from just last Hearth's Warming.”
“But...” Quick thought better than to ask, but Sugar caught the question before he could ask it.
“It's only the picks that are enchanted, the guitar was always his.”
“I see... Thank you.” Quick smiled, tiredly.
Sugar returned her own tired smile, then pulled up a book that she had placed by her side. As she began to read, Quick expended the last of his curiosity to glance at its title, Musicology and Semiotics IV. The sound of hooves on stairs turned Quick’s ears, then turned his head as Quiet Night approached and said, “Your room is ready, 210,” as she hooved him a key with a simple fob. Quiet then turned to Sugar, “How much more in that chapter, cupcake?”
Quick slowly removed himself from the couch as Sweet leafed ahead and counted pages. He was passing the desk when she replied, “Like eight.”
Just past the desk was a stairwell and as Quick ascended he heard Quiet’s voice fading as she said, “Eight pages, then bed. It’s a school night.”
At odds with his name, Quick eventually reached the second floor and walked the only hall to its farthest end to a door numbered 210. He fumbled with the key in his hoof and then in his magic before giving up and using his mouth as the fiddly key resisted his restful dexterity. When the keyway finally relented, Quick found the room to be too dark to see, but he stumbled blindly forwards with a hoof outstretched. He took four steps before he felt the corner of the bed frame. He dropped his saddle bag. Quick trudged to the side and clambered up, then rolled onto his back in the center of the bed. He took a moment to smell the delicious roses on the bed as he summoned his magic to push the door closed. Finally, he snored.
Sugar Spice was placing a red ribbon between the pages of Musicology and Semiotics IV when the door bells clattered and a tired old mule walked in. “I have a room,” he stated, though Sugar felt it was a demand.
“You do? What’s your name?” Sugar shifted in her seat and swiped the book from beneath the counter. She swiftly searched for reserved rooms and found none named.
“Mule.”
“I’m not seeing Mule here, sir,” Sugar supplied, silently sweeping her hovering hoof past the pages of patrons.
“Did he not buy a room?” Mule asked, half to himself.
“Excuse me, but who bought the room? Maybe he didn’t list your name.”
“Quick Sort. Young stallion, got a hat on--can’t miss it.”
Sugar paled and spoke, “S-sorry,” to which Mule replied with a grumble as he turned for the door. “No wait, I’m sorry for assuming. Quick was here. He's in room 210, h-heres your key.”
“Hmp.” Mule took the key by mouth and made his way up the stairs. While rounding the banister at the half-flight, he could hear the filly plant her face in her hoof, though he hardly noticed over the sound of his own steps. He passed five rooms on each side before finding the door, 210. It was slightly ajar. Mule cautiously pushed the door open, then waited a moment before entering the pitch dark. He turned to look at the wall hidden by the inward swinging door and pressed on a dimly lit oval in the dark.
The room was immediately flooded in a soft pink light and Mule looked to the bed. Spread on his back, ringed in a heart of rose petals, Quick snored.