//------------------------------// // Chapter Three // Story: My Fair Pony // by 2K Chrome //------------------------------// After this, there was no more Professor Jet to be seen in Market Square, with his long tweed coat and quirky eyebrows and his eyes that saw a joke where no one else did guessing, “Neigh Zealand” and “Hoofton,” as easy as kiss your hoof. Applestia did not expect to see him again. He had finished with them and done, like a flower split open to see how the seeds formed, and then thrown in the gutter. Hearth’s Warming had come and gone, with nothing to mark it but the memory, grown dimmer each year, of her mother decorating a puny tree, and making a cloth animal for her, one each year. Applestia kept them all, but when they moved to Hoofton Road, Mrs. Highcastle had burned them in the kitchen stove, in case they carried bugs from Little Apple Acres. And then on Saturday night when they had been performing the opera Hooferdammerung, Applestia saw him again. “Buy a treat fer yer lady, sir?” She was just shoving her basket of apple goods under the nose of one of those pink-cheeked young simpletons with a bored filly on his leg wondering why she had gone to all that trouble with her dress and mane to spend an evening with this, when she saw him. Jet came out of the Opera House with the chattering crowd, elegant in evening dress, with a black cape and a silk top hat which he clapped at a dashing slant onto the side of his head. “How much are the fr-fr-fr-fritters?” Before the pink-cheeked young colt could stutter it out, Applestia had turned her back on him, and slipped through the crowd. “Apple fer a snack, Professor?” Jet was with a friend, a white stallion with a blue mane and bright blue eyes. He wore a monocle in front of his eye and had a very dignified expression. “And so I tried to show her, my dear Fancypants…” As Applestia bumped her basket into the diamond studs on his coat, the professor said, “Speak of the devil! Here she is. Miss Little Apple Acres right here. I never thought I’d see you still street peddling.” Jet asked her to repeat the words he had told her to say the night before. She repeated what she had said, and Jet, rot and blast his soul, laughed at her too, standing there outside the Opera House, with all the socialites looking in sideways surprise at him, and the duchesses raising their lorgnettes. “Don’t laugh at the poor mare, Jet.” The white stallion caught his leg. “Come on, or we’ll never get a taxi.” “I just want you to hear her talk. She’s so deliciously, hopelessly, incurably the crude voice of Canterlot.” Fancypants tried to pull him toward the street, but Jet drew him back against the poster of a huge Stalliongradian mare on the wall, pushing Applestia in front of them. “Wait, Fancypants. Just listen to her a minute. Part of your education. This is Fancypants, my dear. He’s an entrepreneur of Canterlot,” he said seriously, as if she could understand what he was talking about. “He’s come all the way from the most prestigious areas to work with me on a book about nineteenth-century international vowel sounds. Isn’t that exciting?” “Yer making fun of me again.” “Agyne. You see, Fancypants, how they murder the language?” “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault. After all, she’s never had anypony like you to teach her.” Although Fancypants seemed a kinder stallion than Jet, he was a bit toady, as if he were trying to flatter the professor. Perhaps Jet was somepony famous after all, though Applestia doubted it, after the way the duchesses had looked at him. “That’s true,” said Jet, accepting the flattery. “I’ll bet you I could take a filly like this… any filly right out if the gutter… and in six months I could teach her to talk like a proper mare. Pass her off anywhere in society.” “Ha ha ha!” The monocle of Fancypants fell to the ground as he threw back his head and laughed. “You’re quite a comedian, aren’t you, my dear chap?” He replaced his monocle. “Now that you’ve had your joke let’s get on home. There was some talk of brandy, if I….” “No carriages about…. fine night…. trot it….” Applestia hardly heard what they said as they moved away. There was an excited ringing in her ears, and an idea charging about in her mind like a dog trying to get out of a cage. Keeping close to walls and railings, slipping across open spaces like a phantom, Applestia followed them, their long shadows thrown ahead as they passed a lamppost, thrown behind by the next lamp, and then forward as they passed it. It was a long trot. Up Charing Cross Road, then cutting though the hushed impressive squares where only one family lived in each pillared mansion. Applestia had never been this way before. She marked the name on a corner sign, Whinnypole Street, and hung back as the professor, trotting jauntily, and Fancypants, slightly puffed, turned up a set of black-and-white marble steps and went inside. When the heavy double door shut behind them, she nipped forward and saw the number on the arched fanlight above the door. 27a Whinnypole Street. A light came on in an upstairs window, and she caught a glimpse of Fancypants, rubbing his hooves as he went toward the fireplace, before a thin white pony drew the velvet curtains across and shut Applestia out. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mrs. Highcastle always went to Pegasus races on Sundays, sitting bolt upright in a stiff guardsman’s coat buttoned high on the neck and a black tricorn hat, with eyes aimed like rifles at the leading Pegasi. So the next morning, with the landpony at races, and Apple Cider asleep on his back and snoring, Applestia went down to Mrs. Highcastle’s ground-floor rooms and borrowed her spring hat with the roses and her ostrich feather boa. The hat was too big. It spun round on her head if turned too quickly. The feather boa, which was shedding a bit, like the old dog it was, tickled her nose and made her eyes water. But she felt quite posh enough for any Jet Set as she retraced her steps along the quiet Sunday pavements to 27a Whinnypole Street. She had rehearsed what she would say. When a butler opened the door… a butler! She hadn’t reckoned with a butler! She said: “Ah want to see Professor Jet. Ah have some property of his.” “I’ll take it.” The butler, who looked like a worried monkey with gray side whiskers, not all that alarming, reached out, but Applestia held on to the leather glove which had once clothed the left hoof of the late Mr. Highcastle. “Ah’ll give it to him meself.” “I’m sorry, miss, I really can’t allow…” “And ah’m sorry, but ah can’t allow none either. That makes two of us.” Although the butler was dressed in a black jacket and striped trousers, and spoke in accents most refined, she recognized, underneath the clothes and the accent and the silvery whiskers, a fellow country pony like herself, come up in the world. “I’ll thank you to remove yourself, my dear foal.” He wasn’t as tall as she. “And ah’ll thank ya to git out of my way before ah…” “What’s all the shouting? Shut that door Nutterville, there’s an infernal draft.” From the top of the stairs in a Paisley silk dressing gown with a tasseled sash, Professor Jet frowned down at them. “What’s going on down there?” “It’s this young filly, sir. She…” “Sweet Celestia, it’s Little Apple Acres. What the hay…” “It seems she picked up your glove, sir.” “Bring her up, bring her up. I say, Fancypants, this is extraordinary,” he called over his shoulder. “Here’s your education again, paying us a formal call. What a joke.” No joke thought Applestia, as the trotted up the red carpet. She was shown into a large warm room full of deep chairs and rugs and desks and lamps and strange machinery, and books and books and books. All the books in the world on these walls. Where did he put the wallpaper? She stood in the middle of a deep carpet. “Hello! What are you doing here?” From the depths of a chair in the corner, Fancypants arose, like a monster from the sea. Applestia turned too fast, and had to straighten her hat. “That’s not my glove, anyway,” said Jet. “Ah know it’s not,” Applestia said pertly, as the door shut behind the butler. “It was just an excuse to git in. Ah want ter ask yer something.” “You’ve got nerve.” Jet dropped into a chair. “Go away.” He closed his eyes. “You’re bringing on a headache.” “Let’s hear her anyway.” Fancypants came forward to Applestia. “Sit down, my dear. Don’t be nervous.” “Ah ain’t.” Applestia sat down on the edge of the chintzy sofa, tossing back the end of the feather boa, which kept rising up and threatening to choke her. “Come on, come on.” Jet spoke with his eyes closed. “We haven’t got all day. I’m busy.” “Well, this is business,” Applestia said, “so ah ain’t wastin’ yer time. In fact, ah’m bringin’ ya a stroke of good fortune, though ah say it myself.” “Get on, foal. Get on with it.” “Well, ya know what ya said down the market that day when all the colts and them were there, and you were guessin’ where they were borned, and that? Beaumount, Buckington, Neigh Zealand. Ya told ‘em you give lessons, didn’t ya, in speakin’ right? Well, ya have got a new customer. Ah’ve come fer me first lesson.” “You must be mad.” Jet opened his eyes and sat upright. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” “Ah can pay, if that’s what ya mean,” Applestia said sharply. For months she had been saving for a warm coat, hiding bits in a paper bag under her pillow where Mrs. Highcastle could not claim them for rent, nor her father wheedle them out of her for beer. “How much do you think I get for giving private speech lessons?” he asked, amused. “Ah don’t know.” She looked round the room, at the comfortable furniture, the long brown velvet curtains, the cushions, the rugs, the lather-bound books, the complicated machinery. “But ah’ve got almost 70 bits saved. Now that’s a lot of money, mind.” Jet laughed, but Fancypants said, “It is a lot, to her.” “I don’t care if it’s a fortune,” Jet said irritably. “The girl is out of her mind, and I won’t listen to any more of her nonsense.” He reached behind him and pressed a bell on the wall. “Out of my mind, am ah? Well, ah’ve got ears just the same. Were you out of yer mind last night when ya said to this here gentlecolt with the glasses, ‘Ah could take a filly like that and teach her to talk like a lady’?” “You did, you know, Jet.” Fancypants nodded. “He looked across the room at Applestia. The hat with the roses was wobbling over one eye. Her mane was coming down. She had a bit of ostrich feather up her nose and was wiping it away with her hoof. “And yet, you know,” he said thoughtfully, “it would be a bit of a lark. This hopeless guttersnipe… what a test of my skill.” “Look here, I’ll lay you a bet! If you can make this poor filly into a proper mare, if you can pass her off in society at some grand affair like the Gala, I’ll pay all the expenses of it. Your fees for lessons, dance instruction, deportment, clothes, furs, jewels whatever she’d need.” “It is tempting…” “You rang, sir?” The butler opened the door. “A mistake.” He waved a hoof without looking at him, and the butler went out, with a critical glance at Applestia on the sofa, as if he were thinking the cover would have to be washed after she left. “If you can do it, you’ll be the greatest teacher in the world, and I’ll shout it from the rooftops!” “Could it be done?” “By you, it could.” As they talked excitedly across her, Applestia turned her head from one to the other, the hat rocking like a boat in a rough sea. “I’ll do it! I’ll take your bet!” “Done!” They stood up and clasped hoofs. Applestia jumped up too. “Wait just a second,” she said. “You’ve fergot one little detail, gents.” They turned in surprise, as if a grub had come out of the rose on her hat and spoken up. “You’ve fergot to ask me.” “It’s all settled.” “Mot by me, it ain’t.” Ooh, he was a conceited devil. “Ah’ve got ideas of me own and feelins too, much as it may surprise you. Well…” She smiled from one to the other of them, making them wait, feeling her power. “Maybe ah will, and maybe ah won’t.” “Oh, quiet.” Jet pricked the bubble of her power. “Don’t try to be coy with me. I don’t like mares. I learned that years ago to stay clear of them, so don’t expect me to treat you like a filly, or to notice how you look, or flirt with you or any rot like that.” “How dare you!” Applestia tossed back the boa with an air. “If you were the last stallion in Equestria…” “Though she isn’t as bad looking as all that, actually,” Fancypants said, screwing in his monocle, “under all the dirt.” “Thanks fer nothing” Applestia growled, but Professor Jet said cheerfully, “Soon get that off!!” He went to the fireplace and picked up a tube like a snake that hung from the wall. “What's that?” Applestia asked suspiciously. “Speaking tube.” He put his lips to it and blew. In a moment, a hollow cackle could be faintly heard, as if there were a prisoner in a dungeon miles below. “Ask Mrs. Crust to come up here, would you?” Jet said, and put the stopper back in the end of the tube. “She’ll fix you,” he told Applestia. “Ah’m off.” She got up and went toward the door. “No, no, you foal.” The professor was a man of many faces, depending on whether he was getting his own way. He pouted now, like a spoiled foal. “You’re not going to ruin everything, and make me lose the bet, and spoil all my fun.” He got between her and the door. “Listen, you ungrateful creature. I’m offering you far more than you’ve ever had in the whole of your miserable life. I’m offering you clothes, jewels, carriages, ball gowns, champagne and chocolates, rich young colts who will swoon at your hooves…” “Get out!” Now she knew he was insane. “Me?” “Yes, you, filly. You want to be a lady. You said so.” “Ah never…” “Yes, you did. You want to talk right, so you can go anywhere and they won’t laugh at you, don’t you?” “Ah might get a job in upper Canterlot?” She looked up at him, and saw that his pout had changed to the eager smile that was so catching you had to smile back, however uncertain you felt. “You might. You might indeed. You shall!” He grabbed her grubby hooves as if he were going to swing her off the ground. The door opened, and a canary-yellow pony with a lavender and white mane stood there regarding him severely. He dropped Applestia's hooves, and rubbed his own together. “Take her away, Upper Crust, and clean her up. Give her a bath. Wash her mane. Throw away those clothes, or burn them. Find her something she can wear until we get her some decent things.” “You’ll pardon me,” said Upper crust, “but I’ve been your housekeeper for ten years, Jet, and given satisfaction, I hope, and I think I’m entitled to ask for an explanation.” “It’s like this Upper Crust,” Fancypants said soothingly. It was obviously his part in life to step in and smooth down the rough spots raised by the ruthlessness of ponies like Jet. “The professor and I have a new project. We’re going to… help this nice young filly to make something out of herself.” Upper Crust stared at Applestia without comment. “In short, we’re going to make a lady of her. Won’t that be fun?” “You’ll never do it,” and “Fun for who?” said Upper Crust and Applestia at the same time, and glared at each other. “Oh, yes, we will. With your help.” He was a great flatterer, Fancypants was. “Six months, that’s all it’s going to take, and then we’ll pass her off in the highest society.” “And then what, may I ask?” “Oh…” said Jet vaguely, “that’s her affair. Don’t be such a wet blanket, Upper Crust.” “If it’s not too dampening to your spirit, Professor, may I enquire what is her name?” “Oh, I don’t know. Call her anything you like.” “My name’s Little Applestia, and don’t you ferget it.” “Applestia.” The professor dropped his chin into his hoof in thought. “Yes, well, I daresay we can do something about that.” “I still don’t quite understand, sir.” She understood all right, but didn’t want to. “You mean you’re actually going to take this young person into the house, and, as it were, remold her?” :Precisely. Like a sculptor.” Jet made shaping movements with his hooves. “Now take her along, there’s a good Upper Crust, and find her a room and fix her up. I don’t want to see her again until she’s clean.” “I don’t like to speak out of turn,” said Upper Curst, although she was obviously in the habit of saying what she liked when she liked in the household, “but you can’t just pick ponies up like pebbles, Professor. This young Miss…. miss….” “Applestia,” muttered Applestia, who was beginning to feel depressed by all the talk. “She must belong to somepony. What about your father, little filly?” “Oh, he won’t care. Ah’m in his way really, and he’s in mine. Sometimes ah wish it was him and not my mum who died. Does that sound wicked?” She turned to the professor, because Upper Crust would be sure to say yes. “Not at all. There have been times when I’ve whished I’d been born an orphan,” Jet said, unsmiling. You never quite knew whether he was joking or not. Even Fancypants did not always know. That was why he said, “Ha ha ha” nervously, and dropped his monocle. Upper Crust heaved a great sigh. “Come along then, Applestia.” She jerked her head toward the door. “We’ll have to see what we can do.” “Oh no.” Applestia clutched the feather boa, as if she were going to be stripped right there on the carpet. “Ah’m goin home, Ah’ve got to… got to miss my dad good-bye.” She had not kissed Apple Cider for years, but she was not going to move in here without her bird Azure, that was one thing sure. “How do we know you’ll come back?” Jet narrowed his eyes at her. “Ah’ll leave you my valuable furs. Here ya are.” She unwound Mrs. Highcastle’s molting feather boa and handed it haughtily to Upper Crust, who looked as if she had been handed a bad fish. Nutterville, the butler, was summoned to show Applestia out. At the front door, he said, “Shall I call my lady’s carriage?” and made a rude noise with his lips. “Ah’ll be comin’ to live here, my good stallion,” Applestia said. “So watch yer manners.” Out on the pavement, walking in a kind of a dream toward Hoofton Road, she suddenly realized that although the professor and Fancypants had got the whole thing fixed up, she had never actually told them “Yes.” Fancypants