Chapter Two: Home Is Where Your Hat Hangs
There are legends of creatures that move through shadows as a fish would water. Some say they are winged demons, the stuff of nightmares, that came to torment the wicked. Others believe them to be ponies who have spent their entire lives studying the arts of subterfuge and mastering the arcane to bend nature itself in their favor. It is said that they could cross a forest in autumn without ever touching a single leaf. Trixie was not one-such creature, but she figured that if they really existed it was only a matter of time before they arrived to welcome her into their fold, so impressed by her talent for subtle movement.
Just moments ago she had escaped the legal offices, and for the second time in one night she found herself attempting to access a second-floor window. Trixie had been imprisoned by the guard with little besides her own thoughts and mud-flavored coffee as they tediously reviewed her credentials. It had all been going well, at least until they realized that her pyrotechnics license was out of date - really, she’d been meaning to renew it when she had the time. That was the first signal that she ought to make a hasty retreat, facilitated by a cleverly timed trip to the little fillies room. Unfortunately, leaving behind her wagon and the majority of her possessions left her a penniless magician in a city ruled by wealth. At some point she would find a way to get them back, once the city guard had cooled off, but in the meantime no hotel would take her in on her word alone, and she still needed a place to stay. Luckily, one doesn’t often become famous without having made a few friends first.
So there she was, perched atop a narrow ledge beside a fire-escape and clinging dearly to the wall behind her. The moon was particularly dim that night, making the alleyway below seem more like a chasm, despite the glinting silver rims of a trash can or two. Trixie took a deep breath, shaking the thought out of her head and focusing on her task. The window she meant to access was just beside her now. Easy as cake, naturally. Trixie simply reached one hoof towards the pane and gently pushed upwards. It didn't budge. Trixie tried again, applying more force while still clinging to the wall. Still, the window didn’t open. The mare gave a sneer and pounded against the glass, a moment later the recoil from the blow shook back up her foreleg and threw off her balance. Trixie flailed momentarily, her hair standing on end as everything from her tail to her ears attempted to glue the mare back to the wall and gradually succeeding.
“Who in Equestria locks a second floor window?” Trixie snapped at no one in particular. The window seemed unsympathetic. “Oh, you think Trixie would surrender to you? You're nothing. Trixie's magic would blow you clean off your hinges!”
An appropriate spell came to mind. The edges of the window glowed an ominous purple as Trixie wove a modicum of her energy into it. The glass swelled outward like a balloon inflating and creaked with progressively higher volume. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. It occured to Trixie that causing a small explosion while clinging to a building wasn’t the best plan of attack. That griffon would've come in handy, in case Trixie falls, she mused. Thinking more clearly, Trixie reconfigured the spell in her mind for a much quieter approach. If she could just undo the lock, there’d be no need for theatrics. The window began to glow again, much more faintly until... nothing. The magic fizzled out abruptly, smothered by some counterspell.
“What?” Trixie spat. She could almost imagine the window chortling at her. It would’ve been easy to just slide out of her way, but shut it stayed, leaving her to freeze on the side of a building all night. It was mocking her.
Boom! The window shattered outwards. Glass rained down into the alleyway, temporarily illuminated by purple light. The wooden frame was blasted apart, creating a sizable hole through which a cloud of grey smoke trickled up over the rooftops. Trixie gave a yelp, swishing her hooves through the air as the building rumbled and tried to throw her from its side. In a fear of gymnastic prowess the mare threw herself, sideways, through the gap. Trixie skidded on her chin across the carpeted interior of the room beyond, a graceless yet effective landing. The mare lay still for a moment, catching her breath and enjoying the sensation of solid ground.
“Behold!” she declared in a harsh whisper, “The Great, and Powerful, Trixie!”
As she looked back at the carnage Trixie’s heart fell. A stallion sat upright in his bed, gawking at the azure creature that had just flown through his window. It was a unicorn with a barrel-thick build and a horn of impressive length for a normal pony. The stallion’s faded beige coat, along with a long silvery mane, gave him an aged appearance that was only amplified by the wrinkles his raised brow was inflicting on his forehead. Having lived on the road it had been a very long time since Trixie felt any sense of recognition when faced with another pony, but it was hard to forget Topstitch. The stallion had put on a little weight, but Trixie knew him in an instant, and realized that she had just blown up his apartment right in front of him.
Topstitch blinked at last. “Hello... Trixie.”
Trixie’s ear twitched, the mare growing uncomfortable under his weighted stare. “Why... are you sleeping in the guest room?” Trixie asked.
Topstitch cast a look around the room, prompting Trixie to do the same. The dresser was covered in photographs of Topstitch and other ponies he’d known. In the corner was a desk, littered with clumps of fabric and a mess of cloth patterns. The wardrobe beside her was half open and filled to bursting with a stallion’s clothing. Although Trixie found it hard to doubt her own memory, the room she’d destroyed undoubtedly belonged to the bedraggled stallion before her. Trixie scratched the back of her head, not willing to admit her error, it was still possible that Topstitch had merely changed rooms since her last visit.
The unicorn on the bed replied with a question of his own, “Why didn't you use the door?”
Aha! An easy one. Trixie recovered her usual gusto and replied, “Trixie didn't wish to disturb you by knocking so late at night, so she devised a plan to let herself in.”
“Ah,” Topstitch exhaled. “That was thoughtful of Trixie.”
“Trixie thanks you for noticing.”
Another long silence.
“Trixie is going to sleep now... goodnight.”
“I have spare blankets in the hall-closet,” Topstitch replied, tilting his head towards the door and fighting back a smile. “It's good to see you,” he said, finally.
On her way out Trixie paused, looking over her shoulder to reply, “It’s been a long time, Trixie can’t imagine how you coped without her.” With that the mare left, her hoofsteps retreating down the hallway. About halfway down it he heard a loud thump, followed by swearing. The closet door creaked open loudly, prompting a hushed insult followed by an abrupt slamming noise. The floorboards groaned in protest for a few seconds longer, and finally silence.
Topstitch sat in his bed a moment longer, his expression falling as he rolled his eyes. A chilling breeze was now filling his bedroom, thanks to Trixie’s modifications to the wall. If he could have ignored it he would have, but the stallion got out of bed with a sigh. Somewhere in her over-inflated head he knew that Trixie meant well, but he had hoped that the next time they saw each other would've been under less destructive circumstances. Shivering in the breeze, he found a swathe of thick wool on his desk and pinned it up over the hole. Using magic, Topstitch drove a few tacks into the wall to hold it in place. Satisfied with the patch job, he turned and flopped down onto his bed. It didn't matter, there was no way he'd be able to get back to sleep. It would be nightmares about burglars for a week.
* * *
“You want a new costume?” asked Topstitch, incredulously. Seeing the showmare without her distinctive hat and cape had been a surprise, but not unduly strange. When Trixie had explained her misfortunes he’d assumed her costume to be among the possessions confiscated.
It was late morning. Both unicorns had suffered sleepless nights, and neither had been in the mood to scrounge for a legitimate breakfast. The end result was eating out, Topstitch’s treat. Following the meal they had been meandering amongst the early risers of Canterlot’s elite. Topstitch played the part much better, dressed in a pin-striped green vest and a white shirt, complete with cravat. The stallion's wavy mane was now properly combed back. Each of them levitated a cup of coffee as they went, Trixie soaking in the sights of Equestria’s great capital. It still wasn’t enough to stifle the yawn that came to her lips.
“Of course,” Trixie replied, sloshing her coffee nonchalantly. “Trixie's act is constantly evolving. If I'm supposed to remain the premiere event in all of Equestria then Trixie must look the part. Trixie was thinking something with more gold this time.”
Topstitch resisted the urge to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’. “What happened to your old hat and cape?” he pressed, growing stern.
Trixie attempted an evasive laugh at the same time that she swallowed, resulting in spluttering and choking. It had the same effect, which was to stall for time. Recovering, she shook her head furiously as if she’d just remembered the entire ordeal, “I... I mean, Trixie... was attacked.”
“Oh?” Topstitch wasn’t buying it..
“Of course, on the way here Trixie encountered a roving highwaypony, a cunning thief but still no match for me, obviously. There was no choice but to do battle,” the mare shrugged, emphasizing the inevitability, “the rogue damaged my cape and hat, with no chance for repair, but ultimately I was victorious.” Busy as she was, glowing with pride, Trixie didn’t notice Topstitch’s exasperation.
“A mare of your caliber deserves better.” Topstitch agreed complacently. The stallion took a sip of his drink as she ignored him and went on.
“A new costume is just the thing to welcome another glorious era of... Trixie!” mid-step, Trixie posed, flashing her pearly white teeth at the sky and batting her eyelashes. Before Topstitch could leave her behind her stance lapsed fluidly back into a walking motion.
Topstitch smiled, but his features were still rigid, “You know, it took me a long time to put those together for you. Is Trixie planning on compensating Topstitch in any way?”
The showmare balked, “Topstitch! For shame. Do you not boast of being Trixie's number-one fan? What sort of fan extorts bits from his hero?”
A roundabout way of saying it, but definitely a no. It wasn’t like he’d expected any different, Topstitch knew that Trixie wasn’t much for sentimental value. The seamster bowed his head, but allowed his face to relax and maintained his happy expression.
Trixie smiled as well. It was good to be in friendly company, and now that they were spedning time together she did feel slightly guilty that her visits were so seldom. Both of them had come to Canterlot to make names for themselves, Topstitch all on his own – Trixie had garnered the assistance of her great, though not particularly powerful, aunt. The life of an entertainer went hand-in-hand with jeers and naysayers, but here was a pony who had supported her from the very start. Years later, it seemed like they’d almost accomplished their goals, the seamster and the magician. Perhaps there were a few ponies who hadn’t heard of them yet, but they’d each come a long way. Topstitch had sewn her costume and advertised her shows, and Trixie had helped him get fabric and tools to begin his career. It was a partnership born of necessity, but it served to turn them into good friends.
Perhaps Trixie could compensate him a little bit, the showmare thought, after she gets her wagon back, of course... and her new costume.
Topstitch heaved a mock sigh, “I suppose I’d be liable to suffer a sudden lightning bolt if I refused, but I could see myself stitching up another costume for ‘the most magically talented unicorn in all of Equestria.’”
Trixie could practically taste sarcasm. “Do not mock Trixie!” she snapped.
Topstitch shrugged, “I'm only saying. I'm a fearful mortal pony, too lowly to compare with your marvelously groomed fetlocks alone.” The seamster paused to check his watch, causing Trixie to stop as well.
The showmare blocked Topstitch’s path and rounded on him, “Trixie will not be treated like a doe-eyed filly, Trixie demands respect!” She stamped at the ground.
“I guess you've earned it,” he said, patting her head before walking around her. “If I’m making you a costume I’ll need to visit someone first.”
Although Trixie hadn’t noticed it, they’d wandered into the residential strip. Many of Canterlot’s elite lived further up the boulevard, though they were currently in the middle-class neighborhood. Most of the homes here were small townhouses, most two-stories tall, smashed on top of each other, they were cute uniform buildings but nothing to stop and stare at. The showmare feigned disinterest as she trudged silently behind her friend, but she was genuinely curious what Topstitch was playing at. The stallion led her to the only single-story home on the block, a small baby blue abode, and mounted the first of the steps. The showmare made her disdain obvious as she quirked a brow.
“Trixie was under the impression we were making purchases, not house calls.”
“Yes and no,” Topstitch replied, weighing how much he should tell her. “he's a friend of mine, and an ally in the fight for an adequately fancy Equestria.”
The azure unicorn tilted her head, her tone sardonic, “What is that supposed to mean? Trixie won't be inducted into some sort of cult.”
Closer to the truth than you know, Topstitch thought, repelling a chuckle. “It's an old saying amongst the clothiers here. Those of us who'd profit if the majority of Equestrians began wearing clothes on a daily basis.”
Trixie waved a hoof dismissively, “Some ponies may need itchy clothes to look good, but Trixie is naturally perfect.” Realizing what she’d said Trixie hastened to add, “she would still like a new costume though!”
Unphased, Topstitch went on, “Knee Socks is your best bet. Accessories are sort of his... specialty, he can design a costume far beyond my ability. Plus, you may enjoy him, you have a lot in common.” Topstitch gave his best attempt to be convincing. It was Trixie’s turn to remain doubtful.
The words 'a lot in common' sent up several red flags. Trixie had heard that line before, and typically they were used to describe ponies she couldn’t stand. Vile narcissists, slandering dregs of society, dishonest troublemakers. There weren’t many ponies that Trixie got along with to begin with, but ponies like that made it too easy to hate them. It was never clear to the showmare exactly what similarities she shared with those ponies, but they weren’t readily visible ones. Still, anything that got her closer to her new costume was an ordeal she was prepared to tolerate. The mare finished off the last of her coffee, crushed the cup with a short burst of magic, and tossed it to the side. She nodded, giving Topstitch the all-clear to knock.
The seamster shot Trixie a miffed look before he picked up the trash and stowed the polystyrene ball within his own empty cup. She ignored his matronly stare. Rolling his eyes, Topstitch approached the front door and rapped on it a few times. Silence followed. The two ponies idly scanned the street while they waited. Topstitch began to wonder if it was too early to have paid a visit. The morning was mostly passed, but it wasn’t absurd that Socks could have chosen to sleep in. Soon, however, they heard the grind of a metal slide and the latch on the door popped up as the boards swung inward.
Trixie faltered. She would have rathered die than admit it, but the pony before her had stricken Trixie speechless. The earth pony stallion was squat, though not portly. his coat was a light periwinkle and what was visible of it had a healthy sheen. Knee Socks had covered himself from nose to tail in drapings. He wore a brown vest and a cream shirt, with a blue tie hanging lazily from his neck. White cuffs adorned his fetlocks and a plaid golf cap sat atop his curly orange mane, which matched the ginger fuzz around his muzzle. He even wore glasses, circular spectacles that were so far down his nose that it was obvious he didn’t need them to see. Worst of all, however, were the tall navy blue socks that covered the entirety of both of his hind legs, each one embroidered with a black inky blotch behind a crescent moon. Socks’ own cutie mark was barely visible, but appeared to be some sort of black cloak.
“Socks!” Topstitch greeted him loudly, drawing attention away from the dumbstruck mare, “would you mind humoring us for a while?”
The thin line of Socks' sleepy frown immediately changed into a big gleaming smile. Trixie could only gawk critically, her eyebrow arched at a ridiculous height. A few quick calculations led to one snap decision: she hated him. No one dressed like that without a motive. From his socks to his hat, everything about the stallion was like a great red blip on Trixie’s presence-detecting radar. Socks was the kind of pony to walk into a room wearing a fruitcake on his head, then delight as everypony stared in his direction. An attention-grubbing, self-important, pretentious jerk. Just another in a long line of insufferable ponies trying to snag the spotlight from deserving prodigies.
The offender just stood there, oblivious of his crimes. His accent was pure Canterlot, his tone slathered in a barrel’s worth of ecstasy, “Of course, sure! Anything for a fellow brother of cloth.” Socks smirked, gently brushed his tie, and adjusted his hat before continuing, “Who could this be with you, though?”
This was her chance. Trixie nudged Topstitch aside and put a hoof to her breast. Proudly, she declared, “The Great and Powerful Trixie, of course.”
Topstitch rolled his eyes and clarified, “She's a client, and an old friend.”
“The very oldest!” Trixie corrected, jabbing sharply at Socks' eyes.
“Well, well,” Socks said, his stare appraising. “I'm Knee Socks, haberdasher extraordinaire, but I'm sure Topstitch has raved all about me.”
“Never heard of you.” Trixie scoffed, admiring her hoof pointedly.
Knee Socks did what she hadn't expected, he laughed. The stallion laughed heartily and when he recovered he regarded her with a grin. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Trixie. Come inside and I'll see what I can do to help you.”
Topstitch took the lead. “We're looking to provide Trixie with a new hat and cape for her act,” he said.
“Aah,” Socks cooed in a knowing manner. “So you'll be wanting my other half,” he muttered diabolically. Trixie was now positive that she didn’t want to follow him inside.
Nonetheless, they accompanied Socks into the foyer. There was a dead plant at one end of the hall, morosely clinging to the cream-colored walls around it. A set of hooks hung on the wall by the door, jam-packed with more types of hat than Trixie had known to exist. The mare poked at one wooly abomination as if it might leap off the wall at any moment. Topstitch chastised her as she looked at the hat with undisguised disgust. Socks hadn’t noticed, he was already gone, leading them off a side passage into the living room. Trixie hurried to catch up, still skeptical of the lunatic's den, which Topstitch had lured her into.
“Hope no one minds clutter,” Socks called back to them, “I've yet to find a way to contain genius.”
The living room was piled high on one end with cardboard boxes that ranged in all sizes, a thin layer of packing materials coated the ground around the mountain. Upon closer inspection there were scarves, caps, cuffs, and other assorted accessories poking out of each box. A variety of sewing supplies also littered the ground nearby. Trixie stepped hesitantly into the mess, trying her best not to be swallowed by it. The room was almost empty of decorations or furniture, save the two small beat-up couches in the center of the room, which were also laden with gloves, socks, and hundreds of half-drawn designs. It felt like Socks’ living room had literally been devoured by clothing apparel.
“Explain to Trixie why you need the aid of a mad hatter?” Trixie hissed, shaking a scarf off her leg.
Topstitch made himself at home, neatly moving aside a box so he could sit. Socks plopped into the far one, provoking a puff of papers and dust to take flight. Trixie gawked at the two of them as if she were the only one who could see their surroundings. The haberdasher was clearly insane, and she had been unwittingly yanked into his overdressed lair. Trixie shook her head roughly, it’s for Trixie’s costume, she thought. That reasoning was enough, she forced back her disgust long enough to knock a top-hat carelessly to the floor and take its place on the sofa, beside Topstitch.
Socks grunted loudly. “Haberdasher,” he corrected, “that's not all though, I picked up a side-hobby too. Low-key, very exclusive.”
Trixie glared, “Trixie assumes you have a point?”
“Costumes!” Socks exclaimed, pleased to have drawn out a reaction. The haberdasher's excitement was equivalent only to Trixie's trepidation. “I design and produce costumes for fantasy endeavors. Role-playing events, cosplay, the occasional Nightmare Night celebration.”
“Role-playing?” Trixie asked.
“Live-action, mostly. Some people like to have costumes for tabletop games as well, although I guess you've got no idea what I'm on about.” Socks chuckled, looking wistfully towards the far side of the room.
Trixie stared blankly, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Socks went on, explaining the fundamentals of role-playing games, but she had stopped listening. How could she have been so blind? Had Topstitch planned for this? Across the room, buried beneath colorful capes, was a shelving unit Trixie hadn’t spotted before, each square partition held a different plethora of items. One held a handful of small figurine, ponies clad in armor, skeletons wielding swords, a large brass dragon that towered above the rest. Another compartment was packed with large hardcover books that all bore the same seal and the letters 'AoN' on the spine. Trixie remembered them, because she’d owned most of them as a filly.
“... one of the big ones was Age of Nightmare, my personal favorite,” Socks went on, “it was based on the myths of Nightmare Moon, set in a universe where she took over the land and wrought misery on all of Equestria. As you can imagine, it's lost some of its fame in recent years, and there was a bit of worry that it might be outlawed due to its theme. It's all in good fun though.”
The showmare rolled her entire head back before glaring at Socks. “Trixie knows Nightmare, of course Trixie knows Nightmare! Trixie knows everything about Age of Nightmare, you insufferable hatter!”
“Oh, you used to play?” Socks asked, not at all affected by her outburst.
“'Used to play',” Trixie mimicked, flourishing her hoof as a grin overpowered her features. “Age of Nightmare runs in Trixie's veins thicker than her very blood. You would be astounded at the vast compendium of game knowledge Trixie has memorized. Trixie has seen to the completion of hundreds of epic campaigns at the hoof of brutal game masters, and perfected the skill-point allotment to create a character as incredible as Trixie herself. Trixie cast her own dice out of plastic molten by dragonfire!” by the time she’d finished the showmare was shouting, breathing heavily and stamping her hoof with each sentence.
The stallions both blinked. Another silence unfolded, Trixie was perched on the edge of her seat, jabbing a hoof at Socks, daring him to be unimpressed. Maybe the last bit was a small lie, but she had pretended she was a dragon when she learned the heating spell she’d used to make the dice. The Cute and Childishly Inaccurate dragon roars of filly Trixie still echoed through her adult mind. Besides that, it was all true. Trixie had spent years honing her skills at that stupid game before she became a magician. It made her wonder just where her dice had gotten to, or whether her great aunt still had her Nightmare source books. It was hard to keep up with hobbies like that when she was constantly traveling.
Topstitch was still stunned to silence, having been unable to foresee her reaction. Knee Socks, however, could hardly keep his mouth shut. The haberdasher was overjoyed as much as he was bewildered. Socks was absolutely shaking from his attempts to stifle the laughter broiling in his throat. It was almost too much to believe. Socks had spent months moaning about Age of Nightmare, and trying to round up a suitable group of players to join his game. Trixie was an answer to his prayers. It had been a long time since he’d seen anyone as excited about the game as she was. Well, he’d never seen anyone that excited, but the point remained the same.
“This is... marvelous,” Socks said, clapping his hooves softly as he regained control of himself, “I trust you have all the source material then? You could borrow mine, if you need a refresher.”
Trixie bristled, “Perhaps you misheard, Trixie's memory verges on photographic!”
Topstitch was beginning to think he was the one who’d walked into a lunatic’s trap. The seamster stood, forcing Trixie back into her seat before attempting to likewise sedate a bouncing Knee Socks. They both looked completely insane. He rounded on Trixie first, “We came to talk about your costume, business first. I didn’t even know you still cared that much about Nightmare...”
“Nay,” Trixie snapped, worming out of Topstitch's grip and rearing up in protest, “Trixie wants to discuss Nightmare!”
Knee Socks was clapping again, “We can count on her for our fourth!”
“I'm... beginning to think that's a bad idea.” Topstitch replied, smiling crookedly as he gave up and fell back onto the sofa.
With much effort, Socks managed to compose himself enough to have a serious discussion. “Well, I could draw a concept... you know though, I've developed a terrible artist’s block lately. It... could take a few days.”
Topstitch smacked his face with his hoof. “Socks...”
“I'm just saying, Stitchy! I'm hosting a game in a couple of days, if Trixie's waiting on her design anyways she might as well join us, right?”
“A game? Of Nightmare?” Trixie interjected, suddenly snapped free of her tirade. The idea bounced around in her head, a subconscious game of four-square. Trixie had no intentions of staying in Canterlot that long, but until she could steal her wagon back she was stuck there anyways. Trixie wasn’t necessarily opposed to having Topstitch foot the bill for her meals during her stay either. Not to mention it gave her a chance to beat Socks in his own game, in the literal sense if he was playing the game master, and such opportunities didn’t come up every day.
“Come on, Stitchy,” Socks pleaded, “If the two of you attend, we've got a full group. I'll even do you a favor, I'll stitch her costume myself, no extra charges!”
Somehow Topstitch had been caught in this trap. He’d only hoped to coax Trixie into working with Socks based on their common interest, saving him a significant amount of time coming up with a design to meet Trixie’s bloated standards. Now he was wedged between two hardcore fanatics, who both happened to be his best friends. There was no doubt in his mind that Socks was prepared to hold the designs as ransom for as long as the haberdasher deemed necessary. The gleam Socks had in his eyes was borderline obsession. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm emanating off the two of them was getting to Topstitch too.
The seamster sighed, “She won’t be able to play on a regular basis. Trixie works on the road.”
Socks deflated noticeably, he'd been hoping to make the boastful unicorn a permanent addition to his group. Those types always made a group more lively. “It's fine,” he assured, “we'll find a substitute if she has to leave. We can have a marathon session, and she can be on her way.”
“Trixie gladly accepts your challenge,” the showmare retorted, “and when she destroys your campaign, you’ll design Trixie’s costume for free!”
Socks paused, almost dumbstruck, and then burst out laughing again, “This is too glorious. Somepony get me a pillow, I just may faint.” The haberdasher shivered with anticipation, nearly unsettling his hat. Trixie was not amused.
Topstitch rubbed his eyes in a vexed manner. It didn’t look like there was any going back. The seamster gave in, “I suppose we’re in,” he said. “BUT! We need to talk about her costume now, I want you to take this seriously if we’re going to play along with you.”
“Right, right,” Knee Socks recovered, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “I hope you have a challenge for me, Stitchy, I'm feeling particularly genius today.”
“Trixie?” Topstitch prodded, glad that he’d gotten his way.
“Eh?” She regarded him with confusion, then disinterest. The mare's mind was still elsewhere, somewhere buried in pages written about orcs, stat modifies, and deadly traps. “Does Trixie look like a designer to you?” she asked, “Make it magnificent, just look at Trixie and be inspired.”
Topstitch's reprieve had been short lived. On to the next challenge, it seemed. The seamster reluctantly took over again, “It needs to be something especially flashy, she has a traveling act-”
“Trixie is the premiere stage-act in all of Equestria!” Trixie corrected with a growl, she refused to be sold short. The mare fell silent again, nudging Topstitch to continue.
“Right... she works as a magician, so-”
“THE magician. Trixie's magic is beyond compare.”
“I'm guessing she wants a little more than a used top-hat and some hidden pockets.” Socks replied, smirking.
The seamster nodded and cast a sidelong glance at Trixie. “Definitely. Pointy hat, gemstones, shiny moons... I trust nothing is too amazing for Trixie.”
Trixie flipped her mane, nodding in agreement. “The length of the cape has to be perfect,” she added, distrustfully, “Trixie won't be seen stumbling around the stage because of somepony's neglect.”
Socks maintained his confident stare, “Please, Trix, I'm a professional. I design costumes made for running around in the woods fighting invisible trolls. It'll be maneuverable, and it'll blow your audience's minds. You'll have to step up your magic just to compete.”
The idea of being shown up by her own clothes was something Trixie had never even considered. It sounded ridiculous. The mare scoffed, “Trixie assures you, that won't be a problem. Why should Trixie choose to trust you over Topstitch?”
The haberdasher cast a disbelieving look towards the other stallion. When he looked back at the showmare he beamed. “No offense, but Topstitch is amateur when it comes to this stuff. That unicorn's got his own toy factory, sure, but he's got no clue how to make anything but wooden soldiers and building blocks,” Socks glanced apologetically at Topstitch before continuing, “I'm the store across the street! I’ve got bells and whistles, my toys have karate-chop action. Topstitch can sew you the best party-wear in Canterlot, but he's got nothing on me in the realm of 'spectacular'. Stitchy might do a good job, but I’ll have a design to knock your socks off.”
The showmare crossed her forelegs, disgruntled, “Trixie doesn't want any socks... they itch and make her hooves too hot.”
Knee Socks' lip quivered for a moment. One idea down the drain already. Socks procured a clipboard, jotting down a few notes. “What colors did you want?” he asked, not looking up.
Trixie held up a hoof to silence Topstitch and thought for a moment. “Gold... no, silver. Actually, Trixie would look like she was made of tin... red, maybe? In any case, it had to stand out in the nighttime. Make no mistake, however, Trixie will not be clothed in some neon disaster.”
“I don't know, bright orange would certainly draw the eye.” Socks quipped. Not meeting Trixie's imperious gaze, the mare only seethed more as her stare was wasted on the brim of the haberdasher’s hat. Socks went on, “What color was the old costume? In the showbiz it's good to keep your costume recognizable.”
“What do you think you know about 'showbiz' that Trixie does not?”
“I know performers don't get costumes any faster by questioning the designer.” Socks mumbled.
Trixie huffed and sank back into the plush cushions of the sofa. Although the mare glared at Socks with all the rancor she could muster he remained pointedly unaware as he doodled on a sheet of paper. Trixie leaned, first to one side and then to the other, trying to get a glimpse of what he was drawing but it was no use due to the angle Socks faced her at. They sat in an awkward stalemate as the haberdasher tapped his pen rhythmically at his clipboard. Each crack of the instrument felt like it was reverberating in Trixie's skull, mocking and goading her. Each tap was a wave of scalding water rushing through her brain, erasing her attempts to think up a design that would both amaze an audience and stump the haughty haberdasher.
“Perhaps we should come back later,” Topstitch said irritably. “When Trixie has a clearer idea of what she wants to do.”
Trixie stuck her tongue out at him. “Trixie knows exactly what she wants to do,” she retorted, “she is merely concerned that this... dubitable merchant will fail to meet Trixie's vision. Not just anypony can hold a meeting of the minds with the likes of Trixie.”
Socks frowned in the background. “Guess I should've called to make an appointment,” he muttered.
Topstitch rolled his eyes at the both of them. “I’m sure you’d like to do more while you’re in Canterlot than just peer over Socks’ shoulder all day.”
The seamster had no idea just how much Trixie wanted to do just that. Socks was hunched protectively over his paper, scribbling furiously. Although she couldn’t see it, the shape he was drawing didn’t resemble a costume of any sort. Instead the doodle depicted a pony riding a unicycle, and juggling swords. The pony in question did, however, bear a strong resemblance to The Great and Powerful Trixie. Everypony just assumed he only drew what his work demanded, never considered that he drew things for fun too. Socks had a gallery full of doodles he'd made whilst chatting with clients. This one, he thought, was going to be his favorite. Trixie, however, couldn’t see the slightest bit of it.
“Fine!” Trixie snapped, flicking her tail sharply as she got up. “Trixie has to devise a plan to get her wagon back anyways.” The showmare inched perilously through the sea of clothing, still trying to sneak a glance at Socks’ sketch. The haberdasher paid them no heed, barely offering a farewell as Topstitch fell in line behind Trixie on the way to the exit.
Outside the house Trixie stuck out her tongue and groaned as if she were about to be sick. “Why would you take Trixie to such an insufferable pony? Does your desire to torment Trixie know no boundaries? His impudence was suffocating, Trixie's never met a pony so full of himself.”
The seamster sighed, “Socks wasn’t lying about his block, he’s had a lot of trouble designing lately. He works better with ponies who are out of the ordinary.”
Trixie snorted, “Dazzlingly generous as she is, Trixie will play along with your half-baked hatter, if only so she can squish him in Age of Nightmare.”
Not to mention extort another free costume. Topstitch smiled, deciding that was the best he was going to get from her. “That's all I ask of you,” he replied.
“Oh,” Trixie said, stopping in the street ahead of Topstitch. “Trixie will require a hat to wear until her ensemble is completed.”
The stallion cocked his head curiously. “Your ears too cold?” he jested.
The showmare didn’t reply. She loathed it, but the lack of a hat on her head was beginning to bother her.
“I think we can find something,” Topstitch chuckled.