Fiddlesticks!

by Tigerhorse

She Must Never Find Out!

        
        The invitation had gone like this:
          
 
Dear Octavia, I know I thanked you before, but you really saved us when you filled in for the band last Nightmare Night. You didn't have to dress in costume either, you know; everyone was impressed with how you went whole-hog for us. We sure loved your playing too. Now, we've got the Apple family reunion coming up, and it's shaping up to be a doozy. I know you aren't technically an Apple, but we think of you as family all the same, considering those summers you spent with us. So I figured I oughta be able to invite you as well. You're welcome to bring your fiddle too (iff'n you feel like it, that is.) We'd love it if you played a spell for us.
                                        -Applejack

 
...And now Octavia found herself crouching beneath the front window of the Ponyville Dry Goods store, peering furtively through the glass. Its faint patina of dust did little to obscure the pony strolling along the opposite side of the street. Her heart was pounding, her blood a rush of shock and panic thrumming in her ears.
Apple Bloom looked at her curiously. “Um, the clerk measured off the rope for us, and he's rung up all the groceries. I think we got everythin' Applejack sent us to get, Miss Octavia.”
Octavia's snapped her head around to stare at Apple Bloom with terrified eyes. “Shhhh!” she hissed. She hunkered down under the windowsill, and with one stealthy hoof, pointed out into the street. “What's she doing here?!”
Apple Bloom reared up and stood in the window, looking out into the street. “Who?  Miss Cheerilee? You know my teacher?”
“What? No! The other one! The White Devil!”
“White what? There's a white pony with big sunglasses, is that who you're talkin' about, Miss Octavia?”
“Shhhh! Get down! Don't say my name!”
Apple Bloom dropped back to the floor, rolling her eyes. “I don't think she can hear us, what with us bein' here inside a grocery store and her bein' out across the other side of the street.”
Octavia shook her head rapidly. “No, no, no, no, you don't understand, that's when she's most dangerous! When you think you're safe!”
The other of Octavia's two charges for the afternoon strolled up. “Wossa matter? You look all wigged out.”
“I think she's scared of that white pony with the sunglasses outside, Babs,” Apple Bloom explained.
The little orange pony raised one eyebrow and looked at Octavia. “She givin' you trouble? You want I should go out there and tell her to buzz off?”  
“No!” Octavia yelped.
Babs went to the window and looked out, resting one hoof on the sill. “You know, Miss Octavia, you said you was from Manehattan originally. You gotta stand up for yourself more. You're lettin' down the home team....”
Octavia's lip twitched up in irritation. “Yes, Manehattan, not the Broncs!” she muttered. But Babs didn't hear the comment, for she had her nose mashed up against the cool glass, two hooves beside her face, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Ohmigosh!” she said. “That's DJ-PON3! She's AWESOME!”

 
Years and years ago, Octavia's family had achieved such prosperity as warranted a move to a better class of apartment in downtown Manehattan. Their new neighbors, the Oranges, got along famously with them; so famously, in fact, that before long the two families had determined upon spending a vacation together on a cruise ship.
However, for a young pony, a cruise ship loses much of its charm after the first day or two; or so Octavia was assured. In the end she was shipped off to the Oranges' relatives for the summer, in a ghastly small town called Ponyville.  
She stepped off the train, her face a study in glowering gray, to be met with the riotous assemblage of ponies that comprised the Apple clan. There was a red colt who looked to be her own age—she noted with a pang of jealousy that he already had his cutie mark—and an orange filly a few years younger who she immediately predicted was going to chase her around the whole time and make a big sister of her. But then again, maybe she'd be sidelined taking care of the newborn foal being held by a golden coated mare with a shock of crimson mane—but no, the green granny would probably dote all over it instead—then again, of all of them, granny looked most likely to kick flank. The last of the group, a big, jolly red stallion approached her with a friendly smile. “You must be Octavia,” he said. “I'm Jonathan Apple. Let me introduce the rest of my family." He wrapped one leg around the shoulder of the mare. "This here's my better half, Ida Red. And that's my Ma, Granny Smith; and my son Mackintosh...” his gaze drifted down to her luggage. “But hey, is that a fiddle you got there?”
In her most arch Manehattanite tone, she answered, “It's a violin.”
Utterly undeterred, he grinned. “Aw yeah, I play the fiddle too! Maybe we can have us a hoedown!”

 
Neither Apple Bloom nor Babs seemed capable of appreciating the fairly straightforward principle of “Avoid Vinyl at All Costs.” In fact, Octavia suspected them of deliberate obtuseness about it.
“You know her? You gotta get us introduced!” Babs insisted.
“More like she knows me,” Octavia said darkly. She paced back and forth between two racks of shelves, concealed from the window by the noble-minded bags of cornmeal and flour that packed them. “Where is she now?” she asked, daring to peer around one edge of the shelves until she could see the store window and the street beyond.
“She just went into the music shop,” Apple Bloom answered.
Octavia sank to the floor, pressing her hooves to her eyes with a groan. “Oh... fiddlesticks!”
The two fillies stared at her. At length, Babs said “You sure got a dainty way of cursing, Miz Octavia. It ain't like we ain't never heard no swear words before, ain't I right Apple Bloom?”
For a moment Apple Bloom looked as if she were trying to count up all the negatives in Babs' last sentence, but then she shifted mental gears with a nearly audible thunk, and looked at Babs with wide eyes. “You know your cuss words?” she asked. “Applejack tries to wash my mouth out with soap if I even say one little 'darn!' ” She looked nervously from side to side. “Don't tell her I said that.”
“Uh... okay?”
“So can you teach me some? Oh! What if I get my cutie mark in cussin'?” Octavia thought Apple Bloom seemed alarmingly enthusiastic.
Octavia slammed her hooves to the floor and glared at the two fillies. “Girls, we are not having this conversation,” she said, mustering what little authority remained to her.
The two stared at her a moment, and then looked back at one another. “A cutie mark in cussing? What would that even look like?” Babs asked.
“I dunno... maybe a pony with a bar of soap in her mouth?” Apple Bloom wrinkled up her nose at the thought of it.
“If it was Miz Octavia, she'd have a pair of fiddlesticks for dainty cussing.”
Apple Bloom started dancing around in a circle, glancing at her flank and calling out “Fiddle-sticks! Fiddle-sticks! Fiddle-sticks! Fiddle-sticks!” in a singsong tone. The two fillies collapsed to the floor in a fit of giggles. Octavia could only look on, speechless.
Eventually they calmed down, and Babs looked back up at her. “Well, so what are you doin'? You tryin' to go to the music store? You just gonna wait 'til she leaves?”
Octavia shook her head. “Vinyl?  She could be hours in there.” She bit at one elegantly manicured hoof, not noticing Babs' eyes going saucer wide again.
“Are you on a first name basis with DJ-PON3?!” the little filly asked, her voice quivering in awe.
Octavia ignored her, lost in her own calculations, muttering to herself as she paced back and forth down the aisle and swished her tail in agitation. “Do I really need new strings? It's true they're a little old, but they're holding up well... I could probably get by with them.... Yeah... but you only ever break a string when you don't have any spares....”
Apple Bloom interrupted her reverie. “Um, Miss Octavia, iff'n you're scared of goin' to the music shop, maybe we could go over there and get whatever you need for ya.”
The filly's words shot through Octavia's brain like lightning. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of that? She was so stupid—no, it was Vinyl's fault. That's right, Vinyl always made her so flustered, that's why she couldn't think straight. But now—
“And we can meet DJ-PON3!” Babs added, trotting in place with excitement.
“What? No!” Octavia cried out, “She mustn't ever find out I'm here!” Dear Celestia, I will never hear the end of it if she catches me playing fiddle tunes!
Babs gave an exasperated shrug. “We won't tell her about you, then.”
“Yeah!” Apple Bloom chimed in. “Cutie Mark Crusaders secret-keeper cutie marks, here we come!”
Octavia had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but the filly seemed sincere, at any rate. “You can't even hint I'm here,” she added nervously.
“Count on us!” Apple Bloom insisted.
Octavia gave it due consideration. “You're Mac and Applejack's sister,” she murmured, trying to shore up her own uncertainty. “That alone should vouch for your reliability.”
Apple Bloom threw her chest out and struck a proud pose. “That's right, Miss Octavia, us Apples are the very soul of reliability.” Beside her, Babs seemed to suffer a momentary attack of eye-twitches. “Or is that supposed to be 'souls of reliability?'” Apple Bloom continued, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Is it like one big soul that belongs to 'reliability?' Or is it like alla us Apples' souls are super-reliable?”
Octavia stared at the filly a moment. Where had that come from? “Err...” she said helplessly.
Babs mercifully intervened. “So, what was it you wanted us to fetch, Miz Octavia?” At the sound of her friend's voice, Apple Bloom snapped away from her maunderings and looked up at Octavia eagerly.
Octavia nodded. “Right. I need a set of violin strings. They should be medium gauge, steel core 4/4 violin strings, the Charger ones. The shop should have them, but if they don't you can get the Super Sensitive Roan Label instead. Don't let them try to talk you into the Hooficores—I've tried those, and I don't like the sound they give. Not that they're a bad string by any means, but they just don't agree with my violin. Oh, and I'll need a separate E-string too, the Coltbrokat Lenzner. If they don't have Coltbrokat Lenzner, then ask for Pirastomp Gold. They're sure to have at least one of those. Also make sure the E-string is medium gauge as well. Oh, and if they ask...” Octavia trailed off. The two fillies looked up at her with friendly smiles that seemed to have abruptly passed their sell-by date, and eyes that were turning glassy with incomprehension.
This isn't going to work.
She glanced up and noticed the shop clerk still patiently waiting at the counter with their bags.
“Right girls, change of plans,” Octavia said. “We're going to pay the nice stallion, sneak out the back, and hide out at Sweet Apple Acres.”
Babs and Apple Bloom immediately broke into a storm of protest. “Aww, do we have to go back yet?” they somehow managed to say in unison.
“Applejack's got us all runnin' around so much havin' fun we ain't had any time to have any fun,” Babs added.
“This is the first chance Babs and I have had to just hang out,” Apple Bloom said.
Octavia had some sympathy. Applejack had been almost manic about putting together the reunion, from what she could tell. It looked a bit like stage jitters to Octavia. Applejack was so nervous about the performance she was overthinking every little detail that went into it. Hopefully as the reunion went on, she'd settle down... there was supposed to be a hayride this evening, maybe she could finally relax for that.
Octavia nosed into her saddlepacks and pulled out the bits to pay the sales clerk. She set them on the counter, and as he swept them up with a “Much obliged, Ma'am,” she happened to look past him to the array of hats displayed on the wall behind him. Her eyes went wide, and she shot out a hoof to point.
“Add that hat!” she said.
The clerk shrugged and tossed a white cowpony hat to her. Octavia jammed it onto her head, and then turned to Babs and Apple Bloom with a wide grin. “Disguise, yes?”
Apple Bloom seemed confused, and Babs looked at Octavia as if she were crazy. To be fair, a single hat probably wasn't enough to make for an effective disguise. The fillies could be a little more supportive, though.
Babs chewed at her lip. At length she said, “You in a fight with DJ PON3, Miz Octavia? Is that what this is about?”
“Huh? No, umm... I....”  She wondered how many ways to tease her about her fiddling Vinyl would be able to devise. She thought of a depressingly large number. “It's... complicated.”
“Ewww,” Apple Bloom said, “that sounds like grownup talk.”
Babs clapped her hooves to her mouth. “Are you going out with DJ PON3?!”
Octavia stared at the filly in panic. “What? No, it—it's not like that. I mean, yes, somehow we hang out with one another a lot; or rather, she hangs out with me, and I try to get on with the normal tasks of responsible daily living. A thing she is eminently and willfully  ill-suited to comprehend. Why, that mare—” Octavia cut herself off. This wasn't the place for her to let loose with a tirade. “A... anyway, I certainly wouldn't characterize our relationship as dating, if that's what you're thinking. Which you fillies are too young to be thinking about in the first place.”
Babs grinned back at her like a cat.

 
Octavia had found a nice shady space to practice her violin behind the Apple family's barn. She'd managed to evade the little filly Applejack and her brother-with-the-cutie-mark, and hopefully she'd have a decent stretch of time with her violin now. Really this was ridiculous—she could have just as easily spent her time practicing on the cruise ship with her parents, rather than being shunted off to this nowhere town where the most sophisticated musical facility was a town band shell. A band shell!  It staggered the imagination.
She shifted on the smooth log that served as a bench, and reached to her music stand to flip the next page in copy of Advanced Etudes for the Young Violinist, Volume II. Truth be told, the pieces in it were technically intricate, but rather bland; and she was eager to move on to the next volume. Or get her music teacher to jump to a different series entirely.
She raised her violin and started in on the next piece. Cascades of notes splashed up and down scales, and arpeggios flowed from her strings like water dashing across the stones of a brooklet. Slowly the piece modulated to a fresh key, and ran through the same patterns of notes, then shifted to yet another new key. Eventually it worked its way through all twelve major keys, at which point the melody itself was sounding so trite and tiresome that Octavia felt less a musician than an endurance runner.
She struck the last note and lowered her violin. Not a note missed, she thought in satisfaction; then she stuck her tongue out at the sheet music.
Jonathan Apple's voice boomed out from directly behind her. “What terrible crime did you perpetrate on your music teacher for them to force such drudgery on you?”
Octavia jumped, startled, and nearly dropped her violin. She craned her head around to see him standing over her, a battered old violin cradled in one hoof. He was grinning at her, his expression warm, but somehow a bit alarming as well.
She gathered her wits and sniffed out “It's a technical piece. It's meant to develop the student's skill in scale runs and arpeggios.” She turned back to her music book, and flipped the page to the next etude.
“Is the next one as boring?” Jonathan asked.
Octavia's lip curled back in annoyance. “Moreso,” she said, which might have been a delicious bit of snark if it weren't true. Even more annoying, Jonathan threw his head back and laughed.
“Now, I heard you warming up, Octavia. You already know all those scales. Don't you play anything fun?”
She drew her bow across her strings in a sharp squawk of irritation. “Of course there are things I have fun playing! Buch, Brayhms, Beethoofen... but I'm practicing right now!”
Jonathan eased down on the log next to her, his back to her music. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “but hey, I've got a way of practicing I used to do with my uncle. It's a lot more fun than boring old 'technical exercises.' What do you say?”
Octavia looked up at him suspiciously. He had a dopey grin on his face, which was probably the only reason she didn't tell him to stop bothering her. Instead, sparked by a moment of curiosity, she said “Okay... what is it?”
“Hah! See, I knew you weren't a complete stick-in-the-mud!” He held up his violin to his chin. Seated facing opposite directions as they were, she had to crane around to watch him play, but he held up his bow warningly.  “No peeking!  Here's what we do. I'll play a lick--”
“A what?”
“A little snippet of music. Just something I make up. And you listen, and try to play it back. Then you play a lick for me and I'll try to echo it.”
Octavia was dubious. “I don't have perfect pitch, you know.”
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, you kind of have to guess a bit where to start. That's part of the fun. But if you do this enough you start to get an ear for notes. Not really perfect pitch, but you find yourself guessing right a lot. Now let's get started. Eyes front! Listen.”
Jonathan played a simple little string of notes. Easy enough to remember, but what note was it supposed to start on? Tentatively Octavia played a D... which was clearly wrong. But it was enough for her to hear she had been only a step and a half off, and that Jonathan had started on an F note; and once she played the F it was easy enough to repeat his musical phrase.
“Not bad,” Jonathan said. “Now, your turn.”
Octavia held her bow to the strings, and felt her mind freeze up. What was she supposed to play? “Ummm...” she said nervously.
Jonathan elbowed her in the shoulder playfully. “It's not an audition,” he said. “Just play something random. Try to mess me up, if you can.”
Octavia took a breath and played... something. She was barely aware of what it was, but Jonathan gave a happy little laugh, and then played it back for her. Then he came back with his own snippet of music, a little more complex than before.
But Octavia was listening intently, and managed to copy it back to him, awkwardly but credibly. Which meant now it was her turn to play something. Still casting around for an idea, she played a scale up to the fifth note, and then in a moment of inspiration topped it with an arpeggio which took the fifth as its tonic.
“Oho, cute!” Jonathan said as he played it back to her. “Still, it sounds like something out of your music book. I wonder if you can follow some good old mountain music, like this!”
A challenge! The rhythm was tricky, and the notes took a weird jump midway through, but Octavia finished the phrase in good order. Hah! And if he thought she was nothing but scale runs and arpeggios, well, he was going to learn something himself!
The notes sailed out into the orchard as Octavia closed her eyes to the music book on the stand before her.
And she smiled.

 
Toffee Apple seemed alarmed rather than reassured. Octavia stretched her lips back even further in an attempt to grin at him in an open, friendly manner. It didn't seem to be working well; what's more, all the muscles in her face seemed to be seizing up at the effort.
“Octavia... right?” Toffee said. Octavia nodded her head rapidly, then spared a glance at the street behind her. She'd crept out of the service entrance in the back of the dry goods store, the two bags of supplies tightly squeezed into her saddlebags and the two fillies in her care at her heels, now arguing whether they could still get a cutie mark in stealthy sneakiness if the shopkeeper actually gave permission to sneak out the back. No sign of Vinyl. Vinyl, of course, was in the music shop and would stay there for hours. Vinyl, of course, was the sort of pony that would take a stroll down a back alley when she was supposed to be hanging out in a music store for hours.
Toffee Apple was a light brown stallion, and one of Applejack's cousins... something-th removed. He came from Applelachia and looked the part, Octavia thought with an uncharitable snark that made her ashamed of herself. He wore a ragged green shirt vaguely reminiscent of the Buttercoat Bluie outfit Applejack's friend Obscurity—no, Rarity was her name—had whipped up for her on Nightmare Night. Because it was the sort of thing she couldn't imagine herself wearing in normal circumstances, she coveted it.
She was in desperate need of a disguise, after all.
“F... fancy meeting you here,” Toffee Apple said.
He seemed nervous about something, but Octavia had no time to indulge his worries. Instead, she went on the attack.
“You know I was friends with Applejack when she lived in Manehattan?”
“O...oh, she lived in Manehattan?”
For all of three months before she decided city life wasn't for her, Octavia thought. “Best friends, actually,” Octavia added. True enough, at least for those three months.
Toffee furrowed his brow. “Well... that's good... I guess?”
“And you're good friends with Applejack too, right?”
“Y... yeah, of course. Of course I am. Well, I guess I don't see her that often, but yeah. Yeah.”  He nodded, looking at Octavia with a searching expression, as if he wasn't sure if that was the right answer.
Octavia nodded reassuringly. “Would you say you'd even give her the shirt off your back, if she asked?”
“Well, of course any Apple--”
“So,” Octavia interrupted, “by extension, you would give me the shirt off your back too, right?”
Toffee started to get a panicked look in his eyes. “That sounds... logical... I guess...?”
“Okay then.” Octavia held out her hoof expectantly.
It took a moment for Toffee to understand the situation. Then he was up, hopping on his hind legs and nearly stumbling to the ground in his haste to pull the shirt up over his head.
He held it out to Octavia. “Uhh, you sure you want this? It's not even my dress shirt, you know. My dress shirt has fringes. Looks real sharp.”
Octavia grabbed the shirt. “This will be perfect!”
Still with a look of confusion on his face, Toffee took a step back. Hesitantly he said, “So, then... we're square, right? None o' this ever happened?”
Octavia held the shirt to her chest with a wide grin. “None of what ever happened?” she asked, absently, barely paying attention to him.
“You didn't catch me sneaking away from the reunion because Applejack was runnin' everypony ragged and—” He broke off, a sudden look of sly comprehension on his features. “Oh! Right. I get 'ya.” He gave a conspiratorial wink, and backed another few steps before turning and dashing away down the street.
Babs gave a low whistle of appreciation, just as Apple Bloom said “That was kinda evil, Miss Octavia.”
“Yeah,” Babs added, “You coulda got a cutie mark in hustlin' marks.”
Octavia stared at the shirt in her hooves, with the slowly dawning comprehension that she had unwittingly blackmailed Toffee; and as if that weren't bad enough, she had done so in front of two impressionable young fillies. She started to blush furiously. “Girls, that wasn't... I didn't mean to....” Her voice trailed off.  
“What do you even want that thing for?” Apple Bloom asked.
Octavia seized on the chance to change the subject. “Don't I look good with it?” she said as she held the shirt up against her as if she were wearing it.
“Naw,” said Babs. Apple Bloom was slightly more diplomatic, and added, “It looks kinda like that Nightmare Night costume Rarity set you up with.”
Octavia's eyes widened. Yes! Of course, if she truly meant to disguise herself, she shouldn't settle for half measures, right? Back on Nightmare Night, when Applejack had asked her to fill in for a sick fiddler in the Ponyville band, Rarity had coincidentally been along with Applejack to meet her at the station. Before Octavia quite realized what had happened, Rarity had seized upon the project of getting her appropriately costumed for Nightmare Night and whisked her off.
And once Rarity had coaxed out of Octavia the idea of dressing as Buttercoat Bluie, the Pozark fiddler of tall tales and folk legends, out had come the coat and mane dye, and she had been utterly transformed.
“Apple Bloom,” said Octavia, casually tracing the tip of one forehoof in the dust of the street, “do you know where I might find Rarity?”

 
“You never heard of Buttercoat Bluie?” Jonathan Apple's voice expressed the sort of horror one felt upon discovering you were well into your first exploration of Canterlot's warren-like shopping district, and you had forgotten to carry a map; or the moment at the outdoor concert of your school orchestra when a gust of wind blew the music on your stand all over the rest of the string section.
“I'm just here for the summer!” Octavia complained. “I don't know everyone in town.” She glanced across the yard to where Mac and Applejack stood along the edge of the orchard, looking back her way. Mac had half a dozen planks balanced across his back and Applejack was carrying a pail full of nails and a  few hammers. Octavia'd been about to join them to help build a treehouse in the orchard (perhaps she'd get a cutie mark in hammering nails—though she rather hoped not) when Jonathan had come charging up, reeking of trouble. Of all the Apple family, how was it the father seemed most likely to cause mischief?
Jonathan's eyes widened at her ignorance. He shook his head, “No, no, no, no, no! Legendary wandering musician of the Pozarks? Silver stringed fiddle? Yellow coat and pure blue eyes to make the fillies swoon? Does no one tell Buttercoat Bluie stories in Manehattan?”
“I've never heard of him,” Octavia said. “And I pity the filly so frivolous as to swoon over a pair of pretty eyes.”
Jonathan reared back and clutched at his heart with one hoof. “Oh Octavia! Princess of Ice!” He grinned at her. “That settles it! I know just what song you're playing with the band at the music festival.”
“What... what song...?” Octavia tilted her head, processing what she'd just heard. “What band?! What music festival?!”
“The Ponyville Music Festival,” Jonathan explained, as simply as if he were giving directions to the post office. “You see, me and Kazooie and the rest of the boys have a little band, and we've got a set at the festival, and we talked it over and we're going to bring you in for a song or two.” Jonathan raised his head to look toward his kids waiting along the treeline. “Sorry Mac,” he shouted. “I'm going to borrow your girlfriend—”
“What?!” Octavia squeaked.
“—and teach her a tune.”
“Daaad...” Mac's voice was painfully embarrassed.  
“Come on, loverboy,” Applejack giggled, and headed into the orchard.
Octavia stared after them, and then back to Jonathan. “I, I, I can't perform. I'm not ready for something like that!”
Jonathan raised one eyebrow. “Thought you said you were in your school orchestra.”
“That doesn't count!”
He laughed. “Course it counts. Now you're just being silly. Hey, I've heard you play. You've got a great ear, and you know all your scales. That's nine tenths of what you need right there. You're gonna be just fine, Octavia.”
She looked at him dubiously, feeling her way around the idea of playing in a band, a real band and not something ponies came to see just because their kid was in it. “R... really? You really think so?”
“Heck yeah!” he said. “That's why I'm giving you a solo.”

 
Not only had Rarity remembered who Octavia was, she still had a supply of the mane-and-coat dye from Nightmare Night. Half an hour after commandeering Rarity's bathroom in the Carousel Boutique, Octavia stepped back into the main shop, transformed.
“Well?” she asked as she struck a pose. Her charcoal coat was a pale yellow, and the jet color of her mane had become a deep blue. Rarity looked up from her work table and paused for a long moment. Octavia watched Rarity expectantly. Was that an eye twitch? No, how ridiculous—why, Rarity was smiling. A thin, strained smile, to be sure but even so—oh that was definitely an eye twitch! Octavia's own expression soured as she dropped back to all fours.  
“You don't like it,” she said darkly
“Oh, well, you know, it's not that it's outright dreadful, of course.... It's just... darling, it's just not you.”
Octavia brightened instantly. She drummed her hooves on the floor in excitement. “Yes! Exactly!” she said happily. She reached over to the rack of clothing where she had left Toffee's shirt—a metaphorical lump of coal among the couturial diamonds of Rarity's boutique—and slipped into it, adding her new hat to the assemblage next. She strutted around on her hind hooves, judging the effect in the various mirrors scattered about the room. She nodded in satisfaction. “This is perfect!”
Rarity went through a whole series of eye-twitches again. “Octavia...” she said, hesitantly, “why are you subjecting yourself to this... look? It's not Nightmare Night, and if you want to dress up, you can do so much better than that... that backwoods....”
“Buttercoat Bluie!” Octavia said sharply. “Silver-stringed fiddle! Legend of the Pozarks! Don't make fun of Buttercoat Bluie!” She paused a moment, and her eyes widened. “That's it, Nightmare Night! Nightmare Moon! She's like Nightmare Moon; no matter where I go, there she is with her turntables waiting to gobble me up! It's like I'm the tide, and I can't help but be caught up by her!”
Rarity frowned. “Is this a romantic problem?” she ventured. “Octavia dear, you're not making a whole lot of sense.”
Romantic problem? Romantic problem? Octavia rapidly shook her head no. “Vinyl makes me crazy; does that sound romantic? She's always trying to rile me up and then tries to make it better with a night out and then tries to rile me up again, and she keeps trying to tease me about getting a sample of my bass as if it were something she would actually use in her music even though she knows very well it isn't the amplified kind of bass, and she always shows up at orchestra performances even though I'm positive she can barely keep her eyes open through them, and then she'll turn up backstage afterward and say completely embarrassing things like 'Yo, Octavia, you laid down some crackin' ace badass bass out there!' and I have to explain Vinyl-speech to everyone, but at least that's the one and only place she remembers it's a bass and not a cello, which makes me certain she just calls it a cello because she thinks it's funny to make me correct her, which I always do!”
Rarity raised her eyebrow. “Invigorating, is it?”
“Yes!” Octavia nodded sharply, then caught herself. “No! Are you suggesting that I'm having fun?”
Rarity shrugged. “That's something you have to answer for yourself. You did seem to enjoy that tirade.”
Octavia stamped her hoof. “I did not enjoy that tirade.”
“Hmm. Well, then are you angry because you feel she is leading you on?”
“What? She isn't 'leading me on.' ”
Rarity rubbed at her chin. “In that case, do you suppose you might be, and I don't mean to suggest this would necessarily be anything intentional on your part, but might you be the one leading her on?”
Octavia gave her a withering look. “Nopony is leading anypony on. We're friends. Just friends. She's the super annoying friend who drags me off to go drinking, and I'm the inoffensive doormat friend who makes sure she gets home safely.”
Rarity reached out and touched Octavia on the shoulder. “I daresay relationships can be difficult, especially when you're not sure of the nature of one. Never mind, Octavia. I'm sure everything will work out with this 'Vinyl' pony.”
Octavia harrumphed brusquely. “Nothing to work out, since she won't even know I'm here.” She gazed admiringly at her image in the mirror. Who would recognize the First Bassist of the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra as this yellow pony clad in ragged clothes? A pity only Rarity was there to admire her transformation.
Only Rarity....
Octavia spun about, her gaze darting around the room. “Where are the fillies? I'm supposed to be keeping them out of trouble!”
Rarity flipped her hoof dismissively. “Don't worry, Apple Bloom won't get into trouble unless she has Sweetie and Scootaloo with her. They said they had a little errand to run; they'll be back any time now.”
As if summoned, Apple Bloom and Babs tumbled in through the front door, talking excitedly in spite of the stiff slips of colorful paper Apple Bloom carried between her lips. The two fillies came to a halt, their voices trailing off as they stared at Octavia.
Octavia stretched like a cat and showed off her lustrous yellow coat, her scintillating blue-tinted mane and tail, and her charmingly rustic green shirt.
Babs was the first to comment. “Uhh, you look kinda weird, Miz Octavia.”
Octavia nodded rapidly. “Excellent!” She beamed for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. “By the way, just where did you two run off to?”
Apple Bloom straightened up and spat the strips of paper into one hoof. Octavia stared. Were they... tickets?
“Oh,” the filly said, “we just went an' tried to buy you your fiddle strings.”
Octavia felt a cold rush of ice sluicing down her spine.
“Yeah,” Babs added, “but we didn't have enough money.”
With a ferocious calm in her voice, Octavia asked “What. Did. You. Do?”
With oblivious verve, Apple Bloom began explaining. “Well, you was busy, so we figured we'd go get your fiddle strings while we was waiting. So I was trying to remember all that stuff you said to get, but then Babs said 'Forget about it—'”
“Fuggedaboudit!” Babs illustrated with enthusiasm.
“—and she just walked up to the counter and said 'We've been sent on a mission to get fiddle strings for the Mysterious Fiddle Master at the Apple family reunion.' And the clerk said 'What mysterious fiddle master?' and Babs said—”
“'Exactly!'” said Babs, with a proud nod.
“'Cuz she's a mystery, right?” Apple Bloom explained. “So then the clerk was just all eye-rolly and went to get a set of strings together—”
Babs interrupted once again, this time holding her hooves up to her cheeks, a look of rapture on her face. “And that's when DJ-PON3 came over to talk to us!”
Octavia groaned. “Of course. You said just the sort of thing to pique her interest.”
“Yeah,” Apple Bloom agreed. “She started asking all about the Mysterious Fiddle Master, so we had to protect your identity.”
“What did you tell her?” Octavia asked faintly.
Apple Bloom smiled proudly. “Only that she's the best fiddler in Equestria!”
“A fate-tossed pony from the trackless wastes of the Applelachians!” Babs added.
Apple Bloom looked at Babs and nearly crossed her eyes. “What was that about, anyway?”
“We're studyin' all these overblown poems from the Romantic Era in school,” Babs explained.
“You only made her more interested!” Octavia said through clenched teeth.
Apple Bloom pursed her lips. “Come to think of it, she did start to ask a bunch of questions about where you'd be playing and when it was gonna be.”
Octavia squeezed her eyes shut and then sighed. At a certain point it was a relief to bow to the inevitable. “You told her, of course,” she said.
“Well, yeah,” Apple Bloom said sheepishly. “We didn't plan on her getting so curious.”
“Who coulda seen that coming?” Babs chimed in.
        “Oh, who indeed,” Octavia agreed. “And I suppose you ended up inviting her out to the reunion to see me.”
“Well, uh, it just sort of happened,” Apple Bloom said.
“And she's DJ-Pon3!” Babs said. “She's a star! A real celebrity!”
Octavia smiled, but it was a strained smile, her lips curling thinly up. She was a celebrity herself, after all. At least, within certain rarefied circles of Canterlot's cultural scene. Certainly she was far more respected than Vinyl—among those who'd heard of her. But if word got around that she was fiddling backwoods tunes out in Ponyville, what would that do to the respect she'd won herself in Canterlot? Fancy Pants was a bit of a radical, and would doubtless encourage her to go wherever her art took her; but the rest of the Canterlot set would be looking so far down their noses at her they'd need binoculars just to see past their nostrils.
“She was real nice,” Apple Bloom added.
Octavia couldn't let that pass. “Nice?” she said. "Nice? She's in your face all the time! Trying to get a rise out of you! You just didn't realize what she was doing.”
Babs shared a concerned glance with Apple Bloom. “Miz Octavia, she was real nice, honest. Maybe she just acts that way with you. You know, like a friend who's close enough you can rib them a bit.”
“Oooh,” Rarity piped in, her eyes wide with excitement. “Maybe it's just her juvenile way of telling you she likes you!”
“What?!”  Octavia looked back and forth between Rarity and the fillies like a cornered animal. She stomped her hoof angrily. “This line of discussion is at an end!” she declared.
“Of course, dear,” Rarity said. “We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I'm not uncomfortable!”
Apple Bloom rolled her eyes. “Well, that explains the disguise, I guess.”
“Never mind the disguise! It isn't a disguise so much as... as a tribute to Buttercoat Bluie!” She nodded briskly. “If I am to fiddle, I ought to honor the greatest of fiddlers.”
“It doesn't matter, Miz Octavia,” said Babs. “She ain't coming. She has her concert tonight, and then she goes back to Canterlot tomorrow. She seemed kinda glum about it, too.”
Octavia felt a flush of relief sweep through her. But mixed in with it was a tiny pang of—was it possible?—disappointment.
Nonsense. What a ridiculous idea. Surely she had no reason to share every little part of herself with Vinyl. Or to want to.  
“But,” Apple Bloom said, with an excited little hop, “she gave us tickets to her show!”
“Yeah,” added Babs, “Can we go?”
Octavia furrowed her brow. “Why are you asking me?”
Babs gave a sheepish smile. “She said we'd sorta need a chaperone.”
“That's why she gave us three tickets!”
Octavia pulled her head back dubiously. “Vinyl's shows may be wild, but they aren't decadent.”
Off to one side, Rarity snickered as she rummaged through a cabinet of fabric scraps. “My, you sound as if you've been to a lot of them,” she teased.
Octavia gave her a glare. “I'm polite,” she said. “Since Vinyl insists on attending my concerts, it is only proper for me to return the favor.”
Apple Bloom trotted up to Octavia, and held out a ticket to her. With a big, artificial smile she said, “So then you wanna go anyway, right? So will you take us to her show?”
Octavia glared at her. “Certainly not! Are you mad? What do you think all...” she waved a hoof at her pale yellow chest. “...All this is about?”
“Weeellll,” Babs said, with a sly note in her voice, “it'd be a shame not to test out your disguise, though.”
Octavia blinked. Test out her disguise? The whole point of it was to insure safety, not tempt fate. Ideally, she would never even end up face-to-face with Vinyl—she would merely fade into the background, another random pony.
Who happened to be the “Mysterious Fiddle Master.”
Well, even if the fillies' ill-placed braggadocio did attract Vinyl's attention, her disguise was there for her to fall back upon—that was what it was for!—and really, it was a fine disguise at that! Why, to be honest, she probably could walk right past Vinyl undetected. In fact, if she wanted... if she really wanted... she could probably go to Vinyl's show, with Vinyl none the wiser. Indeed, it would be such a delicious turn of the tables, to be able to pull a fast one on Vinyl for once instead of always feeling caught up in Vinyl's wake.
How many times had Vinyl shown up out of nowhere to catch her off guard? How many times had Vinyl swept in to blow her plans completely apart, and drag her off on some adventure exploring Canterlot's nightlife? How many times had Vinyl kept her out at her shows dancing past any reasonable hour?
Just once she wanted to be the one who was in control of a situation around Vinyl.
For a moment she turned the thought over in her mind, contemplating it like a diamond cutter holding up an uncut stone.
Temptation.
Then Rarity's clock chimed the hour, and Octavia realized how late it was getting. “Girls,” she said, attempting to round up the fillies, “we need to get back to Sweet Apple Acres if you're going to go on the hayride.”
Apple Bloom's face lit up, all thoughts of DJ-PON3's concert momentarily displaced. “Ooh, yeah, you ain't never been on a hayride, have you, Babs?”
Babs' expression reflected all the enthusiasm of a student faced with a pop quiz. “I dunno, it doesn't sound all that exciting....”
“Oh you gotta come,” Apple Bloom insisted. “Besides, my sister promised she was gonna do up something special for it.”
Babs looked like she needed more convincing, but Octavia interrupted, clearing her throat impatiently. The two fillies gathered beside her and she turned back to thank Rarity, just as the unicorn gave a squeal of delight. From her scrap cabinet she levitated a red sash and matching square of cloth. Before Octavia quite realized what was happening, Rarity had looped the sash into a belt around the bottom of her shirt and tied the cloth into a smart neckerchief at her throat.
Rarity stepped around Octavia, taking a moment to view her from different angles before giving a sharp nod of approval. “I knew there was something missing. You look dashing, my dear. Err, in a rustic sort of way, that is.”
Octavia craned her head around to try to see herself, before realizing she was in a place full of mirrors. With a twinge of embarrassment, she trotted to one and then reared up on her hind legs, inspecting herself.
She did look dashing. It wasn't her prim Canterlot self staring back at her, but some wild pony legend of the Pozarks. Who was that? Could that really be her? She felt a laugh bubbling up from her chest, and an inexplicable rush of exhilaration. She spun on one hoof, grinning. Why did she get so worked up over Vinyl? She was free, free to feel however she liked! Let Vinyl get worked up over her for a change! She jumped to all fours, and then with panther-like grace leapt to Rarity's side, letting her laughter spill out like a flourish of chimes.
She gathered up Rarity's forehooves in her own, shaking them effusively. “It's marvelous! Thank you so much, Rarity!”
Rarity gave her mane a modest toss and looked aside. “Oh, think nothing of it. Really, all I did was find a bottle of coat dye and some fabric scraps.”
“Still, how much do I owe you?”
Rarity waved her off. “Hadn't you better get these fillies back to the farm?” She levitated Octavia's saddlebags across her back and simultaneously opened the door of Carousel Boutique, ushering her guests out into the warm afternoon sunshine.
Octavia was three blocks down the street before she even remembered to watch out for Vinyl.

 
“Watch this!” said Ida Red as she kicked at the trunk of the apple tree. A moment later a dozen apples bounced down into the basket she had placed beneath the branches, seemingly at random. Applejack's mother grinned over at Octavia and Applejack, and flexed one hind leg. “It's all in the fetlock,” she said.
“My Mama's the best apple-bucker in Equestria,” Applejack said proudly.
Octavia was surprised. “Not Jonathan? I thought he would be the one to—”
Ida guffawed. “Oh Celestia, no! He has to help out during applebucking season, but let me tell you, he's more comedy relief than harvest help. No, his talents lie elsewhere. He can fix up a busted machine with nothing but spit and baling-cord, and he cooks like he just stepped out of a fancy restaurant’s kitchen. And then there's the fiddlin'. Let me tell you, a pony what knows how to fiddle has a shortcut to the heart of any filly he fancies.” She gave a knowing little smile, and her eyes glimmered as if she were recalling a precious memory.
Applejack mimed shoving a hoof down her own throat and made a barfing noise.
Ida smiled and mussed Applejack's mane with a hoof. “Hush, missy! One day you'll find a special somepony, and then you'll be playing a different tune!”
“Bleeeaaaahhh.”
“Um, Mrs. Ida,” Octavia ventured, “I appreciate you taking me around the farm, but I really have to get back to practicing.”
“No,” Ida Red said sternly, “you need a break, is what you need.”
“But the concert is only four days away!” Octavia heard her voice slide upward into a whine, and clamped her lips shut.
“Yes, and you're ready now. Jonathan says you're fine. All you're doing now is fretting yourself into a tizzy. Well, not today. Today I get to monopolize you 'stead of my husband.”
Octavia glanced from Applejack to Ida Red and back, flitting between them like a panicked hummingbird. “I... I have to practice more! I don't want to mess up a note on my solo!”
Applejack scrunched up her forehead in thought. “Didn't you say that whole solo is made up anyway?”
Octavia shook her head vehemently. “You can't just make up anything when you make something up!”
Applejack furrowed her brow. Ida Red laughed.
Octavia stamped her hoof. “I'm serious! Songs are built on top of chords. And chords are related to scales, so if you're improvising, you can play any note in the scale that goes with the chord, and it will sound good. But if you play a note that's not in that scale, it will sound bad.”
“Hmmm,” Ida said. “And what does Jonathan say about your worries?”
  Octavia glowered. “He said, 'If you play a wrong note, play it again.'”
Ida snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“What kind of advice is that?” Octavia muttered darkly. “ 'If you play a wrong note, play it again.'  How is that supposed to help?” She watched as Ida bucked another group of apples into the basket. At last she asked, “Just what did you want us for, anyway?”
“Hah!” Ida grinned wolfishly. “Y'all are helpin' me make some apple pies!”
“Uh ohh...” Applejack said softly.
Octavia thought a moment. “But didn't you say Jonathan was the one who could cook?”
A fiery look came into Ida's eye, and her voice was fierce with determination. “This time it's different! I won't burn it! I won't serve it with the crust inside! I've been studying! For once it's going to work, and I'll fry you up the best apple pie you ever tasted!”

 
The hayride had turned into a disaster worthy of Ida Red's apple pies, and Applejack was in the midst of some sort of nervous breakdown, at least to the extent she ever had nervous breakdowns. Nopony was sure what was going on, so when two fillies only slightly the worse for wear after hurling themselves from a runaway cart (and checking one another for crashing wagon cutie marks immediately thereafter) appeared in front of her with soulful eyes and a trio of tickets to Vinyl's show, Octavia just sighed and nodded. She was getting tired of inventing implausible excuses for her new color anyway. She'd gone through “Dreadful accident at the paint factory” (Ponyville didn't have a paint factory), and “It's just my allergies acting up,” and “Ugh, I finally washed that awful gray dye out. You wouldn't believe what sort of appearance they make me keep up in the Canterlot Philharmonic.” She'd even tried “That time of the month,” with a wink that just left ponies even more confused.
So now she stood before the Ponyville City Hall, the music throbbing out into the street, her own feet dragging as Babs and Apple Bloom pulled eagerly forward. She'd been confident at Rarity's boutique and Sweet Apple Acres, but now she was full of worries. Vinyl was sure to recognize her; Vinyl was always inconvenient like that.
She looked at the event poster as she made her way to the ticket taker. ONE NIGHT ONLY!  DJ-PON3 it said. Special benefit concert! Help us renovate our City Hall!
Huh. So that's what this was all about. She felt an obscure sense of pride in Vinyl. She was pretty sure Vinyl didn't have any connection to Ponyville, but here she was doing a charity event all the same.  
Octavia presented her ticket alongside the fillies, and let herself be drawn within. The show was already in full swing, the music a loud pulse that she could feel echoing in her chest, urging her toward the dance floor. The lights, projected from enchanted crystal orbs, swirled about the chamber in constantly shifting colors. Ponies were dancing, a thick crowd jostling and bouncing to the music. Vinyl cavorted behind her turntables, flipping switches on the spell-laden equipment to bring in effects, and swapping out records as she sensed the tastes and mood of the audience. From time to time, when the music carried itself, she would step away and dance a few paces with the ponies by her modest stage, revving up the crowd.
Octavia pulled her hat tight around her ears. She had no intention of getting close enough to risk Vinyl recognizing her, but a little extra precaution wouldn't hurt.
She supposed Apple Bloom had never been to a rave before, but she wasn't so sure about Babs. Judging from the the equally wide-eyed expression they shared, it was a first for both of them.
“Cutie Mark Crusader dancing cutie marks?” Babs asked.
“Naaah, we already tried that one,” Apple Bloom said. “Let's just dance!”
Babs grinned back at her, and with that the two of them were off to the dance floor. Octavia couldn't help but smile. The music pulled at her too; Vinyl's music always did. She let herself drift toward the other ponies, her hooves steady at first, then catching the beat of the music and tapping at the floor in a syncopated rhythm. Each step took her deeper into the music, and by the time she joined the mass of dancing ponies, she was spinning and swaying across the floor like she was born to be there. Apple Bloom and Babs stared at her wide-eyed, and then whistled their approval; but she scarcely heard them. The music washed through her, and it was like she was its instrument, shaping herself to it's purest expression. All the cares and the stress that had plagued her through the day faded until there was only the moment for her, the flow of sound through her body, and her trust in the music as it carried her from step to step.
Why did Vinyl always throw her so out of sorts, anyway? It wasn't that she didn't enjoy her company—Vinyl was genuinely fun to be around. But she was also a storm that blew through one's life, and tossed one every which way. Perhaps that was it. Octavia never felt in control around Vinyl, because Vinyl was willful and wild and unpredictable. And Octavia liked nothing better than to know what the plans planned, where the things were, and when the happenings happened.  
Except when she played the fiddle, and tore loose with a solo.
Except when she danced.
Vinyl had seen the latter. Wasn't it okay for Octavia to keep the former private? One last piece of herself that could be for just herself?
She snarled at herself. The dance floor was no place to indulge in deep maunderings about the nature of her relationships. The dance floor was for dancing! With that, she gave herself a spin...
And ended face to face with a grinning Vinyl.
Somehow instead of following her intention to remain as far across the room as possible, she'd let her dance steps carry her unwittingly to the very pony she least wanted to notice her. A sudden chill surged down her spine. “Oh fiddlesticks!” she swore, just as Vinyl was asking “So what's your name?”
Vinyl grinned, one hoof resting on the equipment that held her turntables. “Fiddlesticks, huh?” Without even looking, she flipped a switch and the music phased into a muffled underwater throb. “I like your dancing,” she added.
Octavia grinned stupidly, a half-panicked expression on her face. What was she supposed to say? Out of the corner of her eye she saw Apple Bloom and Babs attempting some sort of mad half-dance half-swimming interpretation of the music. Notice me, Octavia thought at them. Rescue me! She didn't believe in telepathy, but she was willing to make allowances.
Vinyl slowly twisted a dial, bringing the timbre of the music back up to normal, all the while watching Octavia. “Hey, Fiddlesticks, do you play any instruments?”
Octavia kept grinning blankly. Don't panic, she told herself. Remember your new identity! She mimed playing the fiddle, reluctant to speak again lest Vinyl recognize her voice.
Vinyl clapped her front hooves together. “Aww yeah! I can always spot a musician! Hey, wait, so then, are you that visiting mystery fiddle-master those fillies were talking about?”
Octavia stared back, paralyzed. Apple Bloom! Babs! Help me out here! The two fillies danced on obliviously, but then, as if struck by the force of Octavia's beam of thought—or perhaps through sheer chance—Babs looked up and spotted her and Vinyl. She grabbed Apple Bloom's shoulder and then pointed Octavia's way.
Yes! Yes! Yes! thought Octavia. Come get me out of this!
The two fillies drifted closer, eyes wide, but then, instead of swooping in to extricate Octavia, they settled on their haunches to watch.
Octavia repressed her urge to scream. Did they think this was all some entertainment? She was in serious trouble here!
But Vinyl was undeterred by her taciturnity. “Hey, hey, Fiddlesticks,” she shouted over the music, “do you have any relatives in Canterlot?”
Octavia gulped. Vinyl was definitely getting suspicious. Don't panic, she told herself again. Don't you have your disguise? Don't you have your hayseed identity as—ugh—“Fiddlesticks?” She took a deep breath, tried to pitch her voice down away from her normal register, and spoke.
“I, uhh, ah cay-un't say ah buh-leeve ah gots any kin in Cayn-ter-lot... eenope.”
Vinyl gave her a searching look. Octavia glanced away from her, and saw the fillies off to the side. Apple Bloom was glaring at her in furious indignation, while Babs was either doing her best to contain a fit of the giggles or having a seizure. Octavia wondered if she'd overdone the accent.
Vinyl grinned again. “Are you sure you don't have a long-lost sister or anything? I swear, a friend of mine in Canterlot looks a whole lot like you.” She leaned toward Octavia, one hoof raised to the side of her own mouth to utter conspiratorially, “She's a bit of a snob.” She drew back and manipulated her sound board, bringing down the volume, while holding the music's tension by adding in a tight, energetic pattern of percussion. “She's cool, though. She's a musician too. She's in the Royal Canterlot Philharmonic; she plays cello.”
“Bass” Octavia said reflexively. Then she froze as she realized what she'd done. She might as well not have bothered creating her disguise to begin with. Vinyl always called it a cello, and she always corrected her. And now, like a perfect chump, she'd gone and done it again.
She felt the hysteria bubbling up her throat, a cascade of mad laughter as all her machinations fell to rubble around her. Everything ruined with a word. Four letters. Technically three. Vinyl was looking at her, brow furrowing.  
And then a last, desperate inspiration took her. She pumped one hoof into the air, and she screamed “DROP THE BASS!”
Vinyl stared at her.
Vinyl grinned.
Vinyl dropped the bass.
        

 
“My Pa's the best fiddler in Ponyville,” Applejack said to Octavia. They stood in the rough wings of the Ponyville band shell, waiting for Octavia's cue. The woody smell of the sun-aged timber was a mellowing scent that nonetheless failed to calm her. Jonathan's band was halfway through “Them Good Ol' Mountain Colts (Got Into My Oats).” He was going to bring her on stage when it ended.
“Uh-huh,” Octavia said. She felt queasy. She hoped she wasn't going to throw up.
“I guess you ain't bad either,” Applejack admitted.
“Uh-huh.” Octavia gripped the neck of her violin in her fetlock joint and tried not to think of how nervous she was. Wasn't this what she'd been dreaming of? A chance to perform in front of a real audience? Sure, it wasn't the setting she imagined—a classical affair playing things like Strawvinsky and Naganini—but it was real all the same, with an audience of hundreds... no, it was well over a thousand. The Ponyville Folk Festival seemed to be an event of some renown.
The music on stage came to an end. Octavia took a deep breath and readied herself. Don't worry about everything, she told herself, just worry about the next thing. It was a bit of Jonathan's advice, and rather more useful than his nonsense about playing wrong notes over and over.
“Fillies and gentlecolts,” Jonathan said, “I have a confession to make.” He winked at the crowd. “I have relatives... in Manehattan.” There was a mock gasp of horror from the crowd, which sputtered off into laughter. “I know, I know, I've been trying to keep it a secret. Only, seems they might not be beyond salvaging after all. You see, they figured the neighbor filly ought to have a chance to get out into the clean country air for a summer.” There were some approving whistles at that. “Well, either it was that or they were going off on a cruise ship with those neighbors to party their hooves off.” The crowd laughed, although Octavia scrunched up her nose. It was totally true!
“So,” Jonathan continued, “I figured we Apples would be playing nursemaid to some Manehattanite foal, fishing her out of wells and snagging her out of the Everfree. But it turns out she'd rather be playing fiddle than getting into trouble. And let me tell you ponies, whooo, she can play! She's a real find, and she'll be going places. One day, you're going to look back and say, 'I was there when she debuted!' Hopefully you'll remember the rest of the band too; but right now, let's give a warm country welcome to Miss... Octavia... Melody!”
Octavia snapped her head around to Applejack beside her. “My name is Philharmonica!” she said.
“Aw, he's no good with last names. 'Least he made up a decent one for once. Now get up there!” Applejack put one hoof on Octavia's back and gave a gentle shove, propelling her out onto the stage, and into the sound of clapping hooves.
Octavia took a few steps and stared out at the crowd. So many ponies; it was all quite intimidating. She made her way over to Jonathan, who grinned at her and winked. He leaned in close and whispered, “Remember, have fun!”
Right. Fun. Octavia was in no mood for fun. To the contrary, she was feeling a distinct sense of terror.
Don't worry about everything, just worry about the next thing. The next thing was the first few bars of “Oh, Ye Nightmare,” and she knew that much; there was nothing to fear there.
Jonathan addressed the crowd again. “Octavia here can play like a dream, but oh, when she looks down her nose at you, you'll have nightmares,” he said. There was a ripple of laughter from the audience at his joshing and Octavia's answering glower. He readied his fiddle, then counted off at a jaunty pace, “One, two, a-one-two-three....”
Octavia hit the first note spot on with the band. The introductory passage flowed from it smoothly, and that tricky bit of syncopation in the third measure went without a flaw.
Jonathan's voice lit into the lyrics, clear and strong.

 
Octavia played her part, smoothly meshing in with the rest of the band. It was a heady feeling. The band was small enough that her violin didn't seem lost, as it would be in an orchestra—in fact, she was an integral part of the song, since Jonathan was only playing a little counterpoint in the spaces between verses, leaving her as the only fiddle most of the time. It frightened her a little, but she knew the music, and she was sharp and focused, and the music itself had an energy that carried her into a space of mental confidence that let her strike the notes with authority. And though the thought of it pricked her with anxiety, her solo was still far off, many stanzas away. For the moment, she could relax.

 
Now the music shifted from the vaguely ominous rising chords of the previous stanzas to the impudent jig of the refrain. The sound thrummed through her, and she grinned as the band, of a single mind, made the transition effortlessly.

 
Anxiety coiled in Octavia's belly. Her solo was drawing closer, and though she shouldn't be so afraid of making a mess of it, she had but to look out at the myriad pony faces in the audience (“Don't look at the audience,” Jonathan's advice from the last practice session floated through the back of her mind) to feel the pressure of the moment bearing down on her.
Jonathan had also told her to feel free to take a second chorus if her solo was tearing up the joint (a good thing, evidently). As if she wanted anything but to survive and put it behind her.
No. Play. Don't think about anything but the notes.

 
And that was her cue. Her moment to shine, to be the center of all attention, to make up the tune while the rest of the band laid down the bones of structure that carried her along. No time to be terrified, even though she felt a little wobbly with adrenaline-laced nerves. She drew her bow across the strings and out came a run of notes—not quite what she'd had in mind, but it was a start. She kept playing, now varying what she'd started with into the riff she'd intended to have come out, then echoing it, then changing it up (“If you play something twice, you need to play it differently the third time around,” Jonathan had told her) by letting the first note lag half a beat, then dropping a few other notes and sending the riff upward at the end. The song changed chords, but the note she was playing was still okay in the new chord, so she held it. The way the music changed around the sustained note energized the sound, and Octavia found herself responding by daring to take greater risks as she improvised. Her mind raced as she concentrated, perhaps harder than she ever had in her life, on the music.
She was, in a way she had never anticipated, having fun.
And then she hit a wrong note.
The discordant sound sailed from her violin, striking her ear with a musical wrongness that sent a shudder of horror through her body. How had she done that, letting her hoof slip out of position on the neck of her violin? For an instant she faltered, the notes trailing off uncertainly; but then she gamely kept playing. Perhaps it had gone unnoticed, a single sour note in the midst of so many... but no, if it had grated on her so badly, there was no chance it had passed by the audience.
If you play a wrong note, play it again. Jonathan's mad advice echoed through her head. Surely he'd been joking... but then again, when had he ever lied about music? He fooled around constantly, but he'd never misled her.
With a feeling of equal parts dread and hysteria, she played a syncopated run of notes around the mistake, and then quite deliberately played the wrong note again.
It still sounded awful. Jonathan had been messing with her! She glanced his way, a look of miserable accusation in her eyes, but he wasn't laughing or mocking or anything but watching her with encouragement. He nodded at her, urging her on.
And... as it echoed in her ears, she realized this time the dissonance seemed... uncertain. One bad note was a mistake, obviously. But two? The same note, twice over? It made one wonder. Perhaps it wasn't the musician who was wrong, but rather the listener...?
With the sensation of stepping off a cliff, she swerved the melody she was playing toward the bad note, and played it twice more in quick succession.
In a heartbeat everything changed. The note wasn't wrong, it was impudent! How utterly appropriate to a song about an impudent fiddler singing an impudent song to Nightmare Moon! The note teased at the listeners, throwing off their expectations, snagging their ears and making them take notice. It itched and demanded to resolve into a proper note, just half a step away; but Octavia played around that note, stringing the audience along with the sustained tension. She laughed as she felt a rush of warmth pass through her. Suddenly she wasn't afraid anymore. Suddenly finding the next note to improvise wasn't a desperate leap from crumbling foothold to foothold, but rather a ballerina's surefooted dance upon a stage she was master of. Even as her solo drew toward the final measures, she realized what she was doing with it, the shape and spirit within.
She looked up at Jonathan defiantly. I'm taking another chorus!
Jonathan looked back at her, grinning wildly. You're darn right you are!
She played as she had never played before—no, as she had never imagined she could play. The notes sparked from her strings, melodies and countermelodies following one another, building the architecture of her solo into a compelling whole. She was flushed with energy, the music flowing through her body until she did not know if she was playing it, or it was playing through her. She was perfectly attuned with the rest of the band, so that their musical flourishes and chords meshed with her own sounds. They provided the supports her notes danced along and answered to her riffs with uncanny precision.
It went on for an endless moment of elation. It went on for sixteen bars. And when at last it had to draw to a close, without regret she drew together the motifs of her improvisation into a rousing finale that launched the remainder of the song with irresistible momentum.
Jonathan's eyes were sparkling, and he was grinning so widely he could barely get his mouth around the lyrics. Octavia was dimly aware that the crowd was roaring its approval, but she was still wrapped so deeply in the ecstasy of the music that none of that registered. Her hooves tapped and cavorted across the stage as she played her part, striking the notes like jewels as Jonathan sang.

 
...And with a smart little riff, the music came to an end. Octavia stood on stage, frozen as the echoes of sound faded, and realized for the first time that she was breathing hard, droplets of perspiration glittering on her face and neck.
The crowd erupted. Ponies leapt to their hooves and pounded at the ground in applause. Jonathan himself couldn't resist uttering a loud whoop! To Octavia, it all seemed a little overboard. It had been fun—no, it had been amazing, from her perspective—but even so it was just a good song, performed well. Though she was still flushed with the energy of the performance, she took a step back, a nervous smile creeping onto her lips.
Jonathan gestured at her, and another surge of cheering came from the crowd. “Can you believe it,” he said, his voice for once stumbling for words. “A new talent... born before our eyes!” He waved a hoof at her again. “Octavia!”
She took a bow, and the crowd cheered even louder. It was crazy. She turned to Jonathan, and shouted, striving to be heard above the sound, “Are your audiences always like this?”
His eyes gleamed, and his smile grew even wider. He shook his head. “Your flank, your flank!” he shouted back, gesturing toward her side. For a moment she thought he was trying to tell her something had happened, a bucket of paint had splashed her or something. She craned her head around to look.
There on her hip, still practically glowing with freshness, was a treble clef cutie mark.
Later, Jonathan would insist her ecstatic scream had been loud enough to overpower the thousand pony audience. Also, that she had spun around trying to get a good look at it like a dog chasing its own tail. She didn't really believe him on either count, but there was something enjoyable in his good-natured teasing.

 
Octavia lazed on her bench on the half-empty train and watched the trees go by. Applejack had finally gotten the Apple family reunion into gear yesterday... or maybe it was just the collective effort everypony had taken in rebuilding the barn that had turned the mood around. Octavia had done what she could, playing through the day with a handful of other ponies, keeping spirits up with fiddle tunes and still inventing reasons for her yellow coat (one could never be too sure of Vinyl, even when one was sure she had already left town). Sure enough, her failure to get back to the music shop proved a mistake when one of her strings had given way late in the afternoon; but somehow she had managed to play around it all the same. All in all the day had been fun, especially when she decided to play “Oh, Ye Nightmare” and announced it as the song that had brought forth her cutie mark, only to see Babs and Apple Bloom's eyes simultaneously go wide as dinner plates.
She'd finally cleaned up this morning, as the reunion drew to a close, and made sure to return, with apologies, Toffee Apple's shirt, and Rarity's kerchief and belt. The hat she briefly considered leaving as a gift for Apple Bloom to grow into; but darn it, she looked good in it, so she decided to keep it. Maybe she'd wear it into orchestra practice and scandalize everypony.
Maybe a little more scandal was what her life needed.
She thought about what Rarity had said. Was she really leading Vinyl on? She'd never thought about the two of them in those terms. She liked Vinyl well enough... when Vinyl wasn't driving her crazy. Vinyl liked... driving her crazy. The thoughts chased around in her mind, muzzy and unresolved as the smooth kli-clak, ti-tack of the Canterlot-bound train slowly lulled her into a pleasant doze.
“Heeyyyy there, beautiful!”
Octavia's eyes snapped wide open. She turned slowly to the pony in the aisleway beside her. “V... Vinyl?” She pulled her lips into a transparently phony smile. Fiddlesticks! She's on the same train! she thought in horror. “Wha... what are you doing here?”
With an easy grace, Vinyl sprawled onto the bench opposite her and flipped her shades back to rest over her horn. “Gig in Ponyville. Told you I was going out of town. Which means technically, I'm the one who should be asking you that question.”
Octavia stared at Vinyl's insolent grin. “I, ah, had a music conference.”
“Really? In Ponyville?”
“N, no, of course not. Hoofffinggg...” what was the name of that town “...ton.”
Vinyl nodded, and pursed her lips. “Hoofington isn't on this line, though, is it?”
“It isn't?” Octavia squeaked. And then realized how odd a thing that was to say if she had actually just come from Hoofington as she claimed.
And dammit, Hoofington was on this line.
Vinyl leaned forward with a grin, and reached out to scratch Octavia in that one spot right under her jaw that could make her go wobbly.
Then she drew back her hoof, and showed it to Octavia. There was a faint smear of pale yellow on the smooth keratin. “You missed a spot,” she said.
“Oh,” said Octavia, her voice barely audible against the rumble of the train. She stared down at the carpet. “Did you notice just now?”
“Hah, nah, I figured it was you at my show. I spotted you doing the Octavia Shuffle.”
Octavia glanced up to Vinyl. “The what?”
Vinyl shrugged. “This dance thing you do.  A... step and a drag. A step-and-drag. Nopony else does it. So I figured it was you, and I ought to stay over an extra day and try to see the Mysterious Fiddle Master play.”
“So you found out,” Octavia murmured. “You saw it all.”
Vinyl rubbed at the back of her neck. “Nah, they had the barn halfway up by the time I got there. Real friendly sorts, even if I wasn't an Apple. Ran into a couple fillies I met at the music store the other day.” She gave Octavia a searching look. “I, uhh, asked them what was with your getup. Then I kinda tricked them into telling me.” She bit at her lip. “Octy, were you hiding from me?”
Octavia studied the worn weave of the carpet. Shame burned in her cheeks. In a miserable voice she said, “You would have made fun of me. For playing... that kind of music.”
Vinyl sat still for a long moment. Then she rubbed the heels of her hooves into her eyes and threw her head back with a frustrated groan. She slumped in her seat, dropping her hooves to the cushions with a dispirited thump, and gave a defeated nod to Octavia. “Yeah, you're right.”
Octavia looked up at her, startled. Vinyl didn't say things like that; Vinyl brushed off any wrongs she committed with a “You know I'm only kidding” and a laugh. Only, she wasn't.
“Vinyl?” Octavia asked uncertainly.
Vinyl gave her a pained smile. “I'm sorry. I'm just... I'm not... that good with ponies. Everypony expects DJ-PON3 to be loud and outrageous, but I don't... I don't always know how to not be PON3. Octavia, I like to be around you, but all I know to do is tease you. It's like, if I get you riled up, I know you're thinking about me. But then all I'm doing is making you mad. I'd tell you you're the only pony that's worth teasing, but...”  Her voice trailed off. “I guess that isn't really the sort of compliment you'd want to hear.” She sighed miserably and looked away, unable to meet Octavia's gaze.  
“And now,” she continued in a forlorn voice, “I've got you running away from me.”
Octavia bit at her lip. She reached out a hoof and tentatively touched Vinyl's shoulder. “Look, it's....” She paused, trying to order her thoughts. “Ponyville is... there's a history there for me that's complicated, and personal, and tied up in my fiddle playing, and... I guess I wasn't ready to share it.” She looked out the train window as the freshly painted buildings of a small farmstead flashed by. She gave a sad little laugh. “You know, in some other world of might-have-been, I could be touring around with Applejack's father right now. The Mysterious Fiddle Master for real, whose bandmates look at her funny for her love of classical music, and who has no idea how much she'd enjoy a DJ-PON3 rave.”
“That last part sounds awful,” Vinyl murmured.
Octavia smiled a little half-smile. “I suppose it does,” she said.
“So... why didn't you? Go and play in his band, I mean?”
“Oh Vinyl,” she said sadly, “he died.”
Vinyl's eyes widened. “Oh, uh, crap. I'm sorry....”
Octavia shook her head. “It was a long time ago. I spent two summers with the Apples learning all about playing fiddle music from him, and I was getting all excited about spending a third when the word came. There had been a... terrible accident. And...” she gave a weak shrug, “well, that was that.”
“Octavia....”
“Oh, don't let's be maudlin,” Octavia said, and sat back on her bench. There was a long space of silence between the two of them, and old memories rose once again to tack across the waters of her mind. Of Jonathan, taking such joy in music; and her helping to put the finishing touches on Mac and Applejack's clubhouse; and Ida yelling at Jonathan for teaching a naughty fiddle tune, and yes, Ida did know it was naughty, she proved it by belting out the lyrics 'till they echoed back from the trees and Granny Smith poked her head out the window and scolded her that baby Apple Bloom was going to learn all sorts of bad language from this misbehavior. Maudlin after all, she thought, and snorted softly in irritation with herself.  
“Vinyl,” she said, “I want to apologize. I'm sorry. When I saw you, I sort of... overreacted.”
Vinyl started shaking her head. “No, that was because of me, though. Because I'm always—”
“Stop,” Octavia interrupted. She paused, furrowing her brow. “It's true you could... stand to rein in your attempts to 'rile me up,' as you say. You don't need to do that for me to notice you. I mean, just look at this whole time in Ponyville.” She barked out a trembling little laugh. “Trust me, I notice you.”
Vinyl opened her mouth to say something, but Octavia held out one hoof warningly.  
“Please,” she continued, “please don't be DJ-PON3 with me. It's okay to be awkward and to mess up. It's okay to not always know how to act. It's okay to not try to prove yourself all the time.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then took a nervous breath. “That said—and I will likely deny ever admitting this—it can be... invigorating to go a few rounds with your obnoxiousness, Vinyl Scratch.”
Vinyl took a moment to process that. “Oh...?” she said, and then “Oh!” She started to smile. “So, does that mean we're still dating?”
Octavia's jaw dropped. “We aren't dating!” she exclaimed. “Since when have we been dating?”
Vinyl drew her head back in an are you serious? posture. “Let's see, you go to my shows, I go to your shows—”
“Those are called concerts.”
“—we hang out together, talk music together, get drunk and end up in bed with each—”
“That only happened twice!”
Vinyl just grinned.
Octavia heard herself say “Vinyl Scratch, if you want to date me, you will have to ask me out properly.” She wasn't sure where that had come from. She couldn't quite believe she had just said it.
Vinyl's eyebrows shot up. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Octavia watched her befuddlement impassively. At length Vinyl mumbled, “How about we go try out that new restau—”
Octavia interrupted. “Pro—per—ly.” She punctuated each syllable with a tap of her hoof to Vinyl's knee.
Vinyl grimaced. “Uh, okay.  Octavia, would you, umm...”
Octavia gave a slight nod.
“Would you, um, do me the honor of, uh...”
Octavia's lips curled back as she tried to hold back a laugh at the phrasing.
“Of accompanying me to dinner Friday?”
Octavia pursed her lips and held one hoof up to her mouth thoughtfully. “I'll consider it,” she said at last.
“Oh, come on!” Vinyl exclaimed, and Octavia just laughed.
 
        
Later, Octavia gazed at Vinyl napping on the bench across from her, one leg stretched out to curl her ankle around Octavia's fetlock joint, occasionally tightening as the train gently rocked. It was cute, like a little foal clutching a parent, and Octavia let a little half-smile grace her lips at the sight. Nevertheless, the uncomfortable questions Rarity had put to her still echoed through her mind. What was Vinyl to her? Or rather, what did she want Vinyl to be to her?
Of its own accord, a snippet of music ran through her head. Oh, ye Vinyl marry me.... Octavia snorted. Where had that come from? Whatever she and Vinyl were, they were nowhere near... that, surely. She looked out the window where the land sloped sharply up and the passing trees blurred into an indistinct mass, too close to see clearly.
And then the rising course of the tracks brought the train over the long ridge and onto its last leg home, the towers of Canterlot coming into view at last, glowing with the ruddy orange light of sunset and promising a future full of possibility, brilliant and unknowable.