- Chapter 2 -
With a cough and a undignified snort, I woke up, blinking blearily and rubbing my eyes. I groaned, shifting from the odd position I’d fallen asleep in and feeling my joints creak in protest. I glanced at the last page of writing I’d done, and used a spell to read it back to me out loud. The spell filled the room with a impassive voice as it read the page back to me. “Briar Rose trotted down the mud-soaked streets of his village...”
I listened to the results of my sleep-addled writing as I stood up and shuffled tiredly into the kitchen, re-igniting my horn’s aura as I did so. I nearly opened the door to the den’s closet again, but I caught myself this time. Once I was in the kitchen, I searched for some breakfast. With a grimace, I realized that all I had available was the cake from the other day. I decided to forgo breakfast, and tapped my hooves irritatedly on the tile floor before returning to the den, just as the page finished reading itself. “...Rose didn’t care. She still looked beautiful.”
It was rubbish, of course. This always happened when I fell asleep writing. Who was this ‘Lady Iris’ that I’d apparently added into the story? With a shake of my head, I tore away the page and threw it in a trashcan. I grumbled to myself as I rummaged for a fresh page of paper.
I almost didn’t hear the knock at my door.
I considered ignoring it, pausing in my reading only briefly. I could pretend that I hadn’t heard it. I was just about to do that, when there came a second knock.
I grunted, dismissed my spell, stood up from my chair. With a huff of annoyance, I walked to the front door and flung it open. “What?”
“Mail for you, mister!” A bubbly voice chirped. A trio of letters were offered to me in an outstretched hoof.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the mail and asked, “What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty!”
“Thanks,” I said, slamming the door.
A muffled yet still chipper “you’re welcome” sounded from outside the door. I shook my head and tore open the first letter in the pack and focused on it carefully, running a hoof against the edge of the paper. Sweepstakes... entrants may receive... junk mail! I tossed it to the floor.
The next letter felt important. I took it and the third letter with me back to the den. I cast a quick spell on the second letter as I sat back down in my chair, reclining in a more comfortable fashion. The letter pulsed with magic, and then began to read itself aloud.
“Lower Case! How are you doing, buddy? I know that you’re on sabbatical and all that jazz, but I was hoping you’d reconsider putting the Golden Goose on hiatus. You can still have your alone time, but—”
“Buck, how’d he find me?” I cursed. It was a letter from my publisher, the last pony that I’d hoped to hear from. My read-aloud spell managed to somehow convey the total lack of sincerity that always oozed from his voice.
“—you’ve gotta keep the fans happy, you know what I’m saying? Can’t let the fillies down! They need their role model. Just think about it and write me back. I’m sending out Sticky Wicket to check on you, so keep an ear out for him. He should be arriving five days after you get to that little podunk nowhere you now call home. Catch you on the flip side, pal! Regards, Fine Print.”
I groaned, my ears canting back as I rubbed a hoof over my now-aching skull. Well, the secret was out. Fine Print knew where I was hiding. I suppose it couldn’t have been that hard to track me down, though. At least he had the presence of mind to send me my—
I sat upright and froze in place. Had Fine Print said that Sticky Wicket would be coming five days from when I arrived?
That was today!
I quickly tore open the third letter, hoping for some good news, my horn firing off the letter-reading spell again.
“Dear Lower Case. I hope you’re doing well. I know that it’s been a while, but I wanted to try writing you again. I know you’re still an—”
My horn pulsed and the letter burst into flame. I caught the burning ashes in a quick telekinesis spell, waiting until the letter was nothing more than motes of grey dust. I hopped out of my seat, carrying the ashes, and opened my front door. With an indignant flick of my tail and a grunt, I threw the ashes out in a wide arc, scattering them over my lawn.
At least something would benefit from that manure!
I made to return to my den, but a sputtering cough interrupted my retreat. I turned around, feeling my face grow hot. “Crud, sorry, did I hit somepony with that?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you did,” groused a familiar voice. “I knew that I wasn’t going to be well-received for dropping in under orders, but that was more than I had expected.”
I beamed, stepping outside. “Wicket!” I reached forward and brushed a hoof across his messy mane, sending a cloud of ash into the air, and I straightened his loose tie and collar that hung around his neck. “Sorry about that! Bad timing on your part.”
“No kidding. How are you, you lazy slob?” Sticky Wicket shook his mane, clearing it of whatever char remained.
“Doing pretty decent, candlestick head.” I stepped to one side, motioning him towards the entry. “Come on in. Want some cake?”
“Was all the ash you threw at me all that was left of your first attempt at baking?”
“Nah, I got this from a bakery. It’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“By all means, then.”
Sticky Wicket and I stepped inside the house, and I lead him into the kitchen, gesturing to the cake box on the table. “Help yourself. Plates are... somewhere.” I scowled at the new cabinetry.
“Thanks.” Wicket pulled up one of the kitchen chairs and set himself in front of the cake box. His telekinesis went to work, searching for a clean dish, while I leaned against the doorframe leading into the den.
“So, I just got Fine Print’s letter. What brings you out here?” I asked, tapping a hoof against the tile.
“He’s making sure you aren’t going all J. D. Haylinger on us, that’s all,” Wicket stated, smiling triumphantly as he found a clean plate and began to help himself to some cake. “I told him that you were working on a new piece, but you know how he is. Hey, was this left out overnight or something?”
“He doesn’t want new. He wants what works. The soulless stuff,” I groused.
Sticky Wicket sliced a piece of cake for himself and settled it on his plate, his magic now searching around for a cutlery drawer. “On the nose. He’s hoping that he can weasel a fresh manuscript out of you in a month or two.” He retrieved a fork from a drawer.
I shook my head. “No way. I’ve gotten a good head of steam going on this work. It’s gonna take a lot of time, but I’m willing to take as long as it needs until I’ve got something that I can be proud of in my hooves.”
He grunted in reply, his mouth full of cake. I continued, “I mean, a lot of why I moved was to get away from the demands and the stress that Fine Print always kept on me... and, no offense, Wicket, but you’re part of that stress.”
He said nothing, busily chewing a fresh bite of cake. I squinted at him. “So, I’m going to keep working on this new piece, and you can tell Fine Print that I’ll deliver it to him when I’m good and ready.”
No reply. I shook my head. “And then once that happens, I’ll check myself into a mental ward and start writing about time-travelling chickens who fly in zeppelins... Are you even listening?”
“Hm? Sorry, I got distracted by this cake.” He took another bite, sighing happily. “This is super-delicious. Where’d you get it?”
I sighed. “I’m spilling my soul out to you, and you’re distracted by cake?”
“Really good cake.”
“It’s a day old!” I protested.
“And it’s still moist?! Witchcraft! You’ve gotta take me to the pony responsible for this!”
“I’m not going back there. She’s a crazy, bouncing, terror of a mare, and I don’t care how good her cakes are.”
Before I could react, I found myself assaulted by a flying slice of cake. “Have a bite!” called Wicket, pushing the piece of cake through the air with his telekinesis.
“I already ate!” I protested as the chocolate cake bumped insistently against my muzzle.
“Lies! You don’t eat breakfast!”
Wicket’s attempt to foist the cake slice on me grew obnoxious. I sighed, giving in, and opened my mouth, taking a cautious bite of the floating pastry. The flavor of chocolate exploded across my palate, leaving me feeling woozy from sugar overload. “Sweet Celestia, that’s good cake,” I mumbled, swallowing the awesome morsel.
“Now will you take me to this mystery mare?”
For cake that good? “Fine. But we’re getting coffee afterward.”
Sticky Wicket and I stumbled out of Sugarcube Corner. Wicket glanced at me, eyes wide, and I shrugged, feeling confetti slough off my shoulders. “I told you. Now can we have some coffee?”
“Yeah, I could use a strong shot of caffeine to round out the whole... Pinkie Pie experience,” murmured Wicket, sounding a bit shell-shocked.
I chuckled and pulled an entangled rubber chicken out of Wicket’s tail hairs, leaving it on the doorstep of Sugarcube Corner. Together, we meandered down the street to Java Junction, and I nudged the door open ahead of Sticky Wicket, trotting inside. Mocha Java’s chipper voice chimed out from somewhere. “Be with you in a moment!”
Wicket took a seat at a nearby table, looking around. “This is pretty low-key. Just how you like it, eh?”
“Yeah. More my style than... whatever you’d call that bakery.” I settled onto a couch.
“If this is low-key, than that place is high strung,” said Wicket, chuckling softly.
“Hey, you’re back!” Mocha Java chirped, smiling at me from behind the counter. “Let’s see, black Griffonese roast, right? Want some cream on that?”
“Please,” I replied, smiling back. Now that was good customer service.
“How about you, sir?” Mocha Java asked Wicket.
“How about a mocha?” said Wicket.
“My favorite! Sure thing, one mocha, coming up. That’s gonna be eight bits for the coffee and six for the mocha.”
The two of us dropped our bits on the table, and within a few minutes Mocha Java swooped over, delivering our beverages and scooping up the bits with a nod of her head. True to form, she returned right back behind the counter without spontaneously bursting into song or throwing confetti or anything ridiculous. I smiled at Sticky Wicket. “This place is the best.”
“No kidding. And the mocha is pretty good, too.”
We sipped our drinks for a few moments, sitting in amiable silence, before Sticky Wicket spoke up. “So, what’s this new thing you’re working on?”
I grinned, leaning forward. “ An adventure story, written classically. Hero’s journey, intrigue, betrayal by the secondary characters, and some victory with a side of vengeance at the end. It’s gonna be good.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’ll be more than that,” I said confidently. “This is going to be the story I’m remembered for. The whole thing is based in fact, but twisted to fiction. I learned about this old record in the Canterlot archive, detailing a story about a pony that Princess Celestia encountered early after Canterlot was built. I’m using that as a basis for the tale. The best stories are rooted in fact. I’m hoping to leverage an interview with Princess Celestia; get her side of the story.”
Wicket nodded, “That’s really impressive. It sounds like you’ve done your homework on this one. So, it’s historical fiction?”
“I think it’s more of... historical fantasy, actually.”
“Like that one bestseller? The DaVinci Colt?”
I snorted. “Don’t compare me to Dam Brown.”
Wicket shook his head and took a sip of his mocha, and I leaned back in my seat, drinking my coffee contemplatively. The bell above the door to the shop jingled behind me, alerting Mocha Java that a new customer had arrived. I caught the scent of irises, and smiled to myself. “Wicket, check out the mare that just came in and tell me what you think.”
“Seriously, Case? You’re asking me to check out a mare?” complained Sticky Wicket.
“Just do it.”
“Fine,” Wicket groused, shifting in his seat to look. “Ugh, I feel like such a pig whenever I—oh. Oh, wow.”
I chuckled, my suspicions confirmed. “That good, eh?”
“Case, I wish... well, doesn’t matter what I wish. She’s gorgeous,” whispered Wicket reverently.
“Almost makes you wish you played for our team?” I said with a wink.
“No, but a stallion can be jealous. Her mane is perfect, and she’s wearing a scarf that compliments—”
Wicket’s appraisal was interrupted by a feminine voice, calling out to me. “Oh, hello, Mister Case! What a pleasant surprise to run into you again. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Wicket hunched over in his seat, covering his face in his hooves as his ears flattened in embarrassment. “She saw me checking her out!” he whimpered.
I smiled at Rarity, and waved her over with a hoof. “Yes, nice to see you again. Miss Rarity, this is Sticky Wicket. Wicket, this is Miss Rarity. She’s a fashion designer and businessmare.”
Sticky Wicket regained some level of composure, his hooves nervously reaching up to tighten his tie, and nodded to Rarity politely. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
“Likewise, darling. Mister Case, you didn’t tell me you had more friends in Ponyville,” said Rarity, her voice almost reproachful.
I smiled. “Wicket is just visiting. He only arrived today.”
“You’ll have to excuse my present state, Miss. I’ve had a long morning of travel,” Wicket complained, his hooves reaching up to tap his mane slightly, trying to ascertain its level of messiness.
Rarity took a step back, smiling. “No need to apologize, Mister Wicket... and stop fussing so! Your mane is fine, all things considered, and it’s my fault for making you feel self-conscious.” She giggled, one hoof reaching up and giving her curled mane a luxurious bounce, “After all, one can’t always expect to look their absolute best.”
Wicket squirmed in his seat, carefully returning his hooves to his sides and attempting to appear nonchalant. “Yes. Indeed. That’s... very kind of you.”
I quietly held in my laughter. I hadn’t seen Sticky Wicket this awkward and uncomfortable since the time we’d gone to a meet-and-greet with the Wonderbolts, and he’d gotten a hug from Soarin. I spoke up. “Would you mind joining us, Miss Rarity?”
Rarity shook her head. “Oh, terribly sorry, dear, but I can’t stay and chat. I’ve got an order at the Boutique that I’m working on that can’t wait. Thank you for your oh-so generous offer, though.”
I gave her an affable nod. “You’re quite welcome.”
“There is one thing, though,” Rarity suddenly added.
She stepped a bit closer to me, smiling warmly, and unwrapped the scarf from around her neck. With a nod, she threw it over my shoulders and secured it in a tight cravat knot at my chest. I found that I had been holding my breath, and exhaled sharply, giving her a questioning look.
“I made it for you. The fringes on the end match better with your longer mane and fetlock style, and the colors are better for the season, while still being complimentary to your coat’s coloration.” She waved a hoof. “Now, I won’t take no for an answer. It’s in my nature to want to see the best in others, and part of that is dressing properly.” She turned away with a bounce of her curled mane as I opened my mouth to protest, and trotted to the door. “Ta-ta!” With a jingle and a final wafting scent of irises, Rarity was gone, leaving me dumbstruck.
Wicket gaped after her, before turning to me. I barely noticed him, my hooves touching the scarf around my neck. I ran a hoof over the fabric, feeling the knit texture and the residual body heat Rarity had imparted to it. Wicked snorted, crossing his forelegs. “I don’t like her.”
“Don’t be jealous,” I murmured, my mouth on autopilot.
“One can’t always expect to look their absolute best? What a load. I’ll bet she spent hours getting her mane looking just-so. I had to travel.”
“Yeah, you’re jealous.”
“She made you a scarf. Does she know who you are? I’ll bet she’s figured it out, and she’s trying to get into your pocketbook.”
I snorted, finally looking up from the scarf. “Are you calling Miss Rarity a gold digger?”
“Maybe I am! Anyway, I don’t like her.”
“She’s very generous!” I argued, grinning.
“Only when it suits her!” retorted Wicket with a huff.
“And she’s beautiful.”
“Skin-deep, baby.”
I threw my hooves up in the air. “Looks like we disagree. I suppose, then, that you won’t want to join me for a visit to her boutique.”
Wicket glared. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes.” I smiled, reaching out and putting a hoof on Wicket’s shoulder. “I’m a big stallion, Wicket. I can take care of things here, and I’ve been writing a lot. I’ll have that book done before you know it.”
“What about this Rarity mare? Is she going to be a distraction?” queried Wicket.
“More like an excuse. She’s nice enough, anyway, and I’ve got to try to pay her back for making this scarf for me.” I scowled slightly at the article of clothing. “I don’t like owing ponies.”
“Suit yourself.” Wicket finished his mocha and set aside his cup with a sigh. “Anything I can do for you? Otherwise, I’m going to head back home.”
I pondered for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah. Would you mind dropping by the market and grabbing some food for me? I’ll pay you back.”
Wicket shook his head, chuckling. “Sure, I don’t mind, I guess.”
We both stood up, and I dropped a few bits on the table for Mocha Java. She gave us a friendly wave from her position behind the counter. “Thanks, gentlecolts!”
“Thank you, Miss Java.” I smiled at her and led Wicket out to the street.
Wicket put a hoof on my shoulder. “Glad you’re doing okay here, Lower Case. I mean it. It’s good to see you getting out and, even though I don’t like that mare, the fact that you’re—”
“Alright, that’s enough! I get it! You’re happy for me and crud. Will you grab some cider for me, too? This place has quite the reputation for their apple products.” I shouldered away his hoof, scowling slightly.
With a wry grin, Wicket trotted away, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck, you grumpy workhorse.”
“See you later, candlestick head.” I listened to his hoofsteps recede away, sighing to myself and gathering my thoughts.
What was I doing? I didn’t have time to go visit some prissy mare at her shop! I had a book to write. I turned, about to head home, but the weight of the scarf around my neck gave me pause. I reached up and touched the tight knot that sat over my chest, and smiled slightly.
Maybe this would be okay...
After asking for directions and taking a meandering route through Ponyville, I found myself standing before the aptly-named Carousel Boutique. I approached the front door hesitantly before inhaling and reaching a shaking hoof out to knock.
Here goes nothing.
I knocked on the door, which was flung open after a moment and I was greeted by the beaming face of Rarity. “Welcome to Carousel Boutique, where the—oh! Mister Case! I didn’t expect you to drop by so soon!”
“Hello, Miss Rarity.” I cautiously mustered my most winning smile—no easy task. “I know you said you were busy, so—”
“Nonsense, sir. It would be uncouth of me to extend an invitation and then not follow through on my offer. Quite against my nature, as it were! Please, do come in.” Rarity opened the door wide and stepped aside with a welcoming gesture.
I cantered inside and halted in the middle of the room, turning slowly. Ponnyquins circled the room, draped in gowns and garments that blended together into a riot of shapes against a background of carefully organized chaos. Fabrics hung from shelves and covered work tables around the room. Sewing machines and more traditional tools of a seamstress filled any spare space. I felt instantly at home among the mess.
“Excuse my... organization. I honestly didn’t expect you to show up so quickly, so I was working on a new design.” Rarity gestured vaguely towards a piece of paper tacked to the wall.
“Nothing to excuse. This looks sort of similar to my work room, just with fabric.”
“Oh? What line of work do you pursue, Mister Case? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” Rarity asked, tilting her head inquisitively.
I rubbed the back of my neck self-consciously. “I write,” I muttered, and changed the topic as quickly as I could. “I was just dropping by to thank you for the scarf.”
Rarity smiled, her ears perking forward in a way that told me I’d caught her interest. “Think nothing of it, darling. Did you say you were a writer? What kind of writing?”
Nothing got past this mare. I sighed. “This and that,” I said, waving a hoof in the air. “Mostly adventure. A lot of junk.”
“I appreciate creative endeavors, as is probably evident by my profession,” Rarity said, gesturing to the ponnyquins around the room. “I don’t know much about writing, I’m afraid, though its always struck me as a terribly interesting job! I do love a good book.”
I smiled. “What kind of writing do you enjoy? And don’t say ‘adventure,’ or I’ll know you’re just trying to flatter me.”
“Adventure isn’t my cup of tea, really. I’m an avid reader of romance novels and poetry. The Late Reconciliation Period is my personal favorite,” Rarity sighed, sitting down and relaxing a bit more.
I sat down facing her, deciding to put her to the test. “So, who is your favorite writer of the era? I’m a fan of Strawdelaire, personally.”
Rarity smiled. “Ah, now you’re in my territory, sir,” she said with confidence, flipping her mane. “Strawdelaire is wonderful, and his commentary on the changing nature of beauty in post-industrial Prance is stirring, but my personal favorite is Oscolt Wilde. A true romantic, if there ever was one! Though really, poetry is more my forte.”
My mouth fell slack with shock, as she lifted a hoof in the air and closed her eyes, reciting softly, “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Luna-wards had sunk...”
I felt shivers run down my spine, and I replied without thought, “‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, in some melodious plot of beechen green and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease.”
Rarity clapped her hooves together, beaming at me. “You know John Koats!”
“Koats is our—my favorite,” I stuttered.
Rarity’s smile turned to a more composed expression, and she stood up. “I will admit, Mister Case, I was testing you. Many stallions have said untruths to try and impress me, but I believe that you are a writer... or at the very least a lover of good poetry.”
I was surprised. I thought that I had been testing her, but the tables had been turned on me, again. I stood as well, chuckling. “I find myself caught off-guard by you consistently, Miss Rarity, and I’m not sure whether I enjoy it or find it troubling,” I said, speaking my mind.
She watched me quietly for a moment, before nodding almost imperceptibly. She took a step forward and stated evenly, “Mister Case, I find you intriguing and interesting for reasons I can’t fully articulate, and I would terribly enjoy spending an evening with you at a nice restaurant, should you find the courage to ask a lady such as myself.”
Her boldness startled a laugh out of me. “Are you asking me to dinner, Miss Rarity?”
“No,” she said, a fiercely charming smile spreading across her face. “I am asking you to ask me to dinner. There is a difference.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped short. What was I doing? I mean, sure, Rarity was intelligent and witty, and apparently enjoyed reading as much as I did, but was that all? Was I ready to jump into a dinner date with this mare? We barely knew each other... but there was something about her. Something that made me think maybe being a reclusive, jaded, extremely successful writer wasn’t all there was to life.
Maybe there was some room for something beautiful, too.
“No.”
Rarity’s mouth fell open. “W-what?”
“No.” I grinned at her. “I won’t ask you to dinner.”
“I—oh.” Her ears lowered. “I... understand. Of course. I was too forward, and perhaps insulted you by testing your—”
I held up a hoof, silencing her. “I’ll ask you to lunch. My sire always said that dinner was for the second date.”
Rarity stared at me for a moment, confused, before biting her lip and narrowing her eyes. “You are most uncouth to lead a lady on like that, Mister Case! What makes you think I’ll say yes to your proposal after such a move?”
“Because you asked me first.” I swept myself into the most courtly bow I could muster, lowering my head until my horn nearly touched the plush, lilac-scented carpet of the Boutique, my magic aura brushing the fibres of the floor. “Lady Rarity, would you do me the honor of accompanying this uncouth writer to a luncheon?”
Rarity giggled, caught off guard by my sudden bow. “Will there be sandwiches?”
“Tiny ones. And tea, I suspect. Nothing but the tiniest of sandwiches for you, Lady.”
“Oh, stop. Enough. Get up!” Rarity stuck her nose in the air, a small grin belying her attitude. “Very well. Your courtly mannerisms have moved me, sir. I shall accompany you to... yon luncheon.”
I snorted and straightened up. “Great. Tomorrow, then? At noon? I’ll meet you here.”
Rarity nodded. “That sounds delightful, Mister Case.”
“I can’t promise delight, Miss Rarity... but perhaps you’ll accept ‘interest and intrigue?’” I said with a wink.
“Hm. It’ll have to do,” replied Rarity. “Tomorrow at noon, then.”
“Tomorrow at noon,” I promised, turned around, and walked directly into the doorframe.
Rarity giggled behind me. “Was that on purpose?”
“Yes,” I grunted, rubbing my sore nose, and I opened the door and left the boutique, walking out into the warm afternoon. I stood on the grass for a moment, my mind running over what had just happened, and I felt the urge to throw myself into the door frame a few more times.
“What did I just get myself into?”