The nightmares never got any easier. Just less frequent.
Flaire woke with a strangled gasp, her sweat-soaked sheets tangling around her hind hooves. Her heart pumped in time to the afterimage of departing flashes in her mind's eye. Her nerves were electrified.
One... Two... Three...
"It's all right. It's all right..." Flaire murmured, kneading her chest. Her heartbeat thundered under her hoof. Her own sleep-raspy voice was a comfort, a salve to the oppressive quiet of her bedroom.
"Listen for silence after a lightning strike," Mom would instruct to her and Clarity. "When you don't hear the thunder, that means the storm is far away — the lightning gone with it. You can look out the window again."
That was the tested method, the clever trick she had taught them. If thirty seconds passed, and those three rounds of ten were accounted for before the thunder struck, it was safe. The storm was moving away. The sky could no longer hurt you.
But Flaire knew it backwards. If a count of thirty was reached after an abrupt and blinding flash, and all one heard was an absence of sound, tragedy was on its way. In the nightmares, and in her memories, silence was to be dreaded. That's when the storm moved in.
She shook her head, her curlers yanking at her scalp. Levitating a cigarette from her bedside table, she lit up, drinking in the calming fog of nicotine. The sheets were cool on her damp coat as she rolled them back and slid from her bed, trotting to the window.
Outside, Canterlot was washed in a dim, chilly shade of gray. It was the eerie yet beautiful darkness just before dawn. Below, the broad stage was cold and empty, traceless of the festivities from two months ago. How quickly things moved; how quickly they disappeared.
There was a shiny blue and gold printed ticket on Flaire's vanity. It had been a surprise gift from General Flash, delivered without forewarning a day after the bits accounting for her commission payment had been dropped off. She'd been granted access to the V.I.P. box at their show in Whinnyapolis where she would be honored with the debut of the Wonderbolts' new uniforms.
"A V.I.P. ticket? Lady, you've got the best seat in the stadium!" Fairy had exclaimed in elation, having snatched up the envelope dropped through the boutique mail slot, tearing it open and waving the ticket high.
Flaire snorted. "Weren't you ever taught not to go through another pony's mail?" Yet she'd made no attempt to wrest the envelope from Fairy's overeager hooves, instead meeting her across the floor to look it over.
"Sorry! I saw it was from General Flash! I was hoping he'd set you up nice for our Whinnyapolis show." She laughed, holding the shiny ticket up to the light. "Looks like I was right!"
It had been more than twenty years since Flaire attended a Wonderbolts performance.
"Lady, you are not going to be disappointed." Fairy had flitted throughout the shop, chattering in the background as Flaire went about her work. "I can't wait for you to see me in action. We'll be performing the Ringlet, too! Flash's promise."
Flash's promise.
Flaire pinned the ticket under her polished hoof, her vanity creaking. She breathed hard, smoke wafting from her nostrils. If this was his idea of a handsome reward, he was sorely mistaken.
Flaire still had a favor to ask, thirty years overdue.
—
The pep band was warming up, their drums a tinny roll of thunder. Whinnyapolis was chilly in the early fall and Flaire was wrapped in a knit dress and woolen scarf that whisked in the light wind. Her gold earrings caught the midday light as she turned her eyes to the sky. A formation of Wonderbolts soared overhead, practicing their routine. Fuzzy contrails followed their path, lacing the blue-gray heavenly sphere above.
“You’ve done a bang-up job on these uniforms, Miss d’Mare.”
General Flash approached where she stood at the base of the stage. He was clad in a sharp teal-blue jacket, a design Flaire adapted from its predecessor. The base silhouette and all of its robust gold buttons had been retained, though she narrowed the epaulets, folded over the cuffs, and swapped the once bulky coattail for a neat back vent to aid in mobility.
Flaire tugged at her scarf and gave a stiff nod as Flash came up beside her. “Thank you. With all that went into crafting the fabric, I'm glad I was able to have them prepared by this performance.”
“As are we. You know, I can’t tell you how many compliments I’ve heard from each of my troop members on just how comfortable these are. I, myself, wholeheartedly agree.” He tipped his black-brimmed cap, the winged lightning bolt insignia flashing. Where it had once been embroidered, it was now a genuine piece of hardware, cast in gold. “You did excellent work preserving the lineage of our history while bringing us a step further into the future.”
The Wonderbolts’ photographer met them under the stage and held up her camera, the big silver eye of the flashbulb catching the light. Her hoof beckoned them closer to fit into the frame, the lightning bolt insignia fluttering on a wide banner behind them. Flash draped a broad wing across Flaire’s withers, pulling her near. She flinched and bared her teeth.
Pop — One… Two… Three…
Flaire hoped her eyes weren’t closed in the photo that was sure to appear in tomorrow’s Canterlot Chronicle, featuring double in both the Sports and Fashion columns.
“Miss d’Mare, I hope this isn’t the end of our business partnership.” Flash swept his wing in light obeisance. “I’m sure my wife would one day be delighted to have a d’Mare original in her wardrobe. Please, enjoy today’s performance from the grand view of the V.I.P. box. You've more than earned it!”
He was turning to leave. Grinding her teeth, Flaire crossed his path. “General Flash, before you go, a moment? There’s one last thing.”
Flash paused, angling his chin. Flaire met his eyes, blue and kind in their observation of a nation. Her knees bent, entreating their favor.
“I am deeply thankful for your business, your compensation — the ticket.” She swallowed, staring at the ground. “But I have another request that would mean so much more.”
Flash blinked. His heavy brows knitted at the sudden intensity of her voice. “Miss d’Mare?”
She grimaced, nauseous, her scarf hot and tight around her throat. She hadn’t slept well, the intermittent withdrawals making her jumpy. The rolling, thunderous warmup of the pep band was moving in. Her nerves were electrified.
And Flaire said, “Please stop performing the magical lightning that concludes your performance at the Summer Sun Celebration. It isn’t safe.”
Flash frowned. The first thing he did in response to those words was frown. Not in recognition, but confusion. He stepped back, caught in incredulity, processing.
“The magical lightning? It isn’t… it’s not real. It’s beauty; it’s wonder. It’s aesthetics, Miss d’Mare. A thing I thought you of all ponies would appreciate.”
Flaire’s knees buckled. Her haunches sunk to the cold concrete of the stadium. “Flash, please. I did everything you asked. I did everything. Please don’t make me ask this of you again.”
Flash jerked a step backward. Then, forward, extending a wing to the mare crouched before him. “Are you well, Miss d’Mare? Perhaps you ought to seek medical attention.”
“I’d know if I did! I would know better than anypony.” She swatted away his feathers. “Five years ago. You were speaking at Canterlot city square. I asked you then. I told you what happened and nothing changed. And now…” Her stormy eyes turned upward under her low brows. “We’d met before. Do you remember me?”
It was impossible to gauge his recognition — or absence thereof. There was a distance to Flash’s expression Flaire had yet to see, an aged weariness befitting the countenance of a stallion who had served in his position for over thirty-five years.
“Please enjoy the show, Miss d’Mare.”
He turned, unfurled his wings, and jetted skyward with a heavy downstroke. The snap of his departing wind blew back Flaire’s mane. She neatened it with a brusque brush of her magic, tracing Flash’s path through the sky as he came to hover beside a congregation of his troop.
Their coats were a lovely range of colors, shades of gold, fuschia, and maroon. By contrast, the deep teal of Flaire’s new jackets suited them. But from a distance, Flash looked as though he wasn’t wearing anything at all.
Pacing under that exposing sky, Flaire watched the early arrival of the V.I.P. crowd, the velvet ropes parted by the security stallion for their entrance. She recognized a pair of stark white unicorns, regular customers of her’s from a dynastic line of Canterlot nobles. A mint green pegasus passed by with a group of friends, laughing with the sweetness of a bell. This was General Flash’s wife, a gentle-mannered patissier who baked pies enjoyed with gusto by the Wonderbolts after a show.
Flaire’s ear caught the approaching tick of hooves.
“Miss d’Mare! A moment, Miss d’Mare?”
A young stallion wearing a press cap trotted toward her. He levitated a notepad and quill before his stubble-scudded chin. “I’m with the Canterlot Chronicle! Word is you’re the new designer for the Wonderbolts. A couturier of royalty designing for Equestria’s heroes — how did this momentous collaboration come about?”
Flaire teetered backward, forehoof raised to her chest. “Oh. I—”
Her equilibrium thrown, she caught the green-blue shape of General Flash arcing overhead, a trail of aviators following behind, weaving through an elaborate warmup routine. It was impossible to track the direction of his gaze from this distance, but her shaky nerves knew his eyes were on her.
“I was — I was recognized for my skills!” Flaire’s lips jerked upward. “It was so very gracious of them, of General Flash… I have no further statement at this time.”
Saying this, she turned on a sharp pivot, walking away with the discreet grace of a lady, rather than the defeat of a coward.
—
Flaire found Fairy Flight under the awning of the refreshments table. On the end of a wing, she balanced a paper plate threatening to spill over with buttered rolls and baked beans. With the other, she shoveled spoonful after spoonful into her mouth with the vigor of an excavator.
She caught Flaire’s eye between bites and lifted her head, cheeks stuffed behind her smile. Fairy waved with the wing pinching the end of her fork.
“Oh — careful not to slop any of that,” Flaire muttered through clenched teeth. With her magic, she jerked a napkin from the table, stuffing it down the front of Fairy’s jacket.
Fairy swallowed her mouthful. “Yeesh, lady! You don’t hafta fuss over me like that.”
“Sorry.” Flaire’s ears tipped back. Her lips quivered, trying to rise into a natural smile. “Getting your carbs and protein in before the show, I assume?”
“You know it!” Fairy tore a fluffy hunk out of her roll. “I always load up before a performance. Missus Flash made banana cream pie and pineapple upside down cake if you want any!”
Flaire shook her head and Fairy went on, jubilantly, “I swear I’m keeping my uniform spotless, and not just for the trouble I’d get in if I didn’t.” She extended a foreleg. “Lady, this fits like a dream! I can’t remember the last time I wore sleeves that weren’t riding up on me. You deserve a front row seat at every performance from here on out. 'Bolts' honor, I'll talk Flash into it!”
Flaire had been smiling along to her praise until Flash’s name was mentioned. Her gaze dropped, staring at the blue foil table skirt that flapped in the light wind, glinting in the sunlight.
“How do you make him listen to you?” she asked.
Fairy gulped down another bite. “Who, General Flash?”
“You said you’re good at convincing him. How?”
Fairy snorted. “In my experience? Convincing doesn’t usually enter the equation.” She lifted a conspiratorial wing to her snout, leaning in. “I don't ask for permission. I ask for forgiveness.”
Setting aside her plate, she elaborated. “The Ringlet didn't come into its glorious existence because I asked. I gathered up some of my wing-mates, we practiced together, and then we performed it unannounced during a show.” She let out an unruly laugh. “That sure got Flash's attention! But also his admiration when the crowd went wild.”
Flaire smiled, and said, “I’m sure it did.” But there was a quivering under her skin, her knit dress prickling her hide. “I wish I had that bravery. I wish I could do anything. But, I can’t. I can’t just act heedless of consequence.”
“Sure you can. I mean, you already did, the night of the Summer Sun Celebration.”
Flaire scoffed. “That’s because I was terrified.”
“Well…” Fairy tipped her head, a lock of auburn mane flicking out from under her cap. “Are you terrified now?”
“No,” Flaire said. “In fact, I’m quite angry.”
Fairy’s splayed wings rose above her head. “Not at me I hope!”
To which Flaire replied, “No. Never.”
“So you’re mad at Flash, then?” Fairy gave a funny grin, arching a brow. “I thought he loved the new uniforms. Don’t tell me he found some silly flaw after all your hard work on ‘em. Need me to go hoof-to-hoof with him to set things even?” She rocked back on her haunches with a squared jaw, swiveling her hooves with the intent to wind up and slug the unsuspecting General.
“He’s your hero. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Flaire’s ears sunk low. She chuckled. “The fact you can make those jokes… you don’t know how much power you have as a Wonderbolt.”
Fairy frowned. “I’ve got power? Lady, so do you.”
She reached a wing to Flaire’s shoulder, her dress preventing the fullness of her contact. “You run a boutique on Canterlot city square. You make dresses for nobles and fancy high class ponies. Stars, if you told me you made dresses for the Princess herself, I wouldn’t be surprised."
Flaire forced a smile. “Not yet. But, perhaps in the future.”
“That’s the attitude I like to hear.” Fairy’s embrace became a bracing whap on Flaire’s withers. She smiled, her dimple showing. “You’ve got reach, lady. If something is wrong, ponies will listen.”
As her wing slipped away, she sobered. “This is more than the uniforms, isn’t it?” Her eyes flicked, searching Flaire’s expression. “What are we talking about, really?”
Flaire licked her lips, aching for a warm breath of tobacco. Her thirty-nine years rested heavily on her eyes in front of such a young, hopeful face. “A problem that feels too old and too big for any one pony to fix.”
Fairy Flight’s brows furrowed, her expression dropping into one of bold determination. She rocked her fetlock, the joint bending in the opposite direction.
“Well, I’m just one pony, aren’t I? And despite everything, I’m a Wonderbolt.”
—
Fairy’s words rolled through Flaire’s thoughts like an unspooling skein as the velvet cord was unclipped for her at the V.I.P. box. She took her seat at the front of the stadium, trying to disentangle those mental threads. Missus Flash and her friends sat along the row beside her, the mint-faced mare offering a sweet grin. The pep band began their opening number, a drumroll crescendoing with the crowd’s cheering as General Flash made his grand entrance.
He strode out upon the stage, wings spread wide as four ‘Bolts swept into the air, trailing billowing clouds of smoke. “Altius Volantis!” Flash exclaimed. The cannons popped, raining confetti over raised, wheeling hooves.
Flaire’s eyes tipped upward, beseeching the sky for answers. The memory glided in on a sun flare through her slitted lashes. Clarity is flying in the backyard, the green spring air swept by her feathers. Looping over the grass. The smell of primrose clusters along the fence. She’s wrapped in the blue and gold flight suit Flaire designed and it holds her like an embrace. “One day, General Flash is going to see what I can do!”
Flaire cheers. "Yes! This year we have to go see the Wonderbolts perform at the Summer Sun Celebration in Canterlot. You can meet him there!"
Mom, shouting as she opens the door: “Clarity, get down! You’re going to fall!”
Clarity yelps and judders in the air. She goes limp. She tumbles into the soft, springy grass, her flight suit slicking with dew. Mom cries out, running to her. She turns Clarity onto her side as her hooves jerk.
"I'll try again!" Flaire protests. "I'll make something that will protect her!"
"No! You won't!" Mom's wings fly open, menacing like a bird of prey. "You need to stop this, Flaire. You won't be trying again and your sister will not be going to the Summer Sun Celebration."
"Why not?"
Mom blinks, tearful. "It isn't safe for her."
A rosy pink streak raced across the sky, leading a group of five pegasi. The crowd cheered as they looped with the seamlessness of a ribbon, spinning like a carriage wheel, nose to tail. This was the Ringlet, Fairy’s proudest accomplishment.
Flaire rested a hoof on her chest as the formation concluded like a firework, the five pegasi splitting off and sailing away like falling sparks. For a moment, Flaire believed in the earth pony legend of mystical portals. Fairy flew like she could open a doorway to another world.
When she came to land on the stage, Flaire caught her stumble, just slightly, her fetlocks folding backward under the drop of her lithe weight. Fairy winced, but never lost her winning smile.
—
With the conclusion of the show, the crowd bustled to reach their heroes, a thrash of bodies past the V.I.P. box. General Flash stood upon the stage with his troop fanned out behind him, posing for the flashbulb snapshots. White bursting lights in the crowd.
Flaire squeezed her eyes shut. One… Two… Three…
A filly was jumping up and down, wings fluttering to rise to the edge of the stage. She waggled a Wonderbolts poster toward Flash, shrieking when he knelt to lift it. Flash pinched a quill between his primaries, writing a swooping signature.
Fairy Flight was not among the stage-arranged ‘Bolts. It took a while for Flaire to locate her between the colorful drift of heads and hooves, until a flash of dusky pink emerged, a glimpse of gelled red mane. Fairy was below the stage, knelt on her haunches, cap held to her chest. Her mouth moved, gentle attention focused on somepony in front of her. The crowd parted, revealing a coral-coated filly, wings aflutter. Her hindquarters were supported by the shiny silver bars of a wheeled mobility aid.
“I hope you enjoyed the show, dearie.”
Flaire jumped as a hoof came down to pat her leg. She turned, and Missus Flash was smiling at her. “Your uniforms are spectacular,” she said. “You should feel very proud of the good work you did.”
Under her scarf, Flaire was burning. Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton. Behind Missus Flash’s gentle smile, she caught a glimpse of a pale tan coat in the crowd, a bobbing press cap headed toward the stadium exit.
Flaire vaulted from her chair without a reply to the kindly mare. Her hooves clicked across the stadium, following in brisk pursuit. Inhaling, she raised her voice to hail the reporter.
“You, from the Canterlot Chronicle! I have a statement.”