“Tres bien, Mademoiselle.” Hotel Particulier held Octavia at hooves’ length, sharp eyes darting from place to place, taking in every detail of the uniform. “Very professionally done.” He nodded in approval and patted Octavia’s head before turning towards Harpo.
Particular narrowed his eyes, slowly pacing around the composer. “Lift your head slightly. Non, lower it a bit. There.” He stopped, having made a full circle around the other stallion. Harpo smiled tightly.
Hotel Particulier’s eyes flashed around the composer one last time. “You matched golden cufflinks with silver buttons, your bowtie is crooked, you’re wearing a kerchief with a vest, your bottom button is buttoned, and, though it is my uniform, I’m not particularly fond of the black vest with your natural violet. A light grey would, perhaps, fit you better. But you’ll have to wear black.” He turned suddenly, striding away from Harpo. “Mademoiselle Philharmonica, fix him.”
The composer’s mouth hung open slightly and he ran a self-conscious hoof through his mane.
“And fix your mane as well!” called Particular without turning around.
Octavia trotted forward, failing to hide a laugh with one of her hooves.
“I thought that it looked fine,” said Harpo sullenly.
“He has a very discerning eye.” Octavia tugged at Harpo’s bowtie, centering it as Harpo took off his cufflinks and unbuttoned the bottom button of his vest.
“He’s picky,” said the composer.
“He knows what he’s talking about.”
Harpo rolled his eyes. “Oh sure. Just because he called you professional.”
Octavia smiled wickedly. “He only said that because I don’t dress like a slob.”
The composer snorted, tugging at his sleeves, replacing gold with silver. “Sure.” Then, quietly, after Octavia had turned away. “I don’t dress like a slob. I look good.” Harpo glared at the floor for a few moments.
Hotel Particulier slid back in front of the composer. “Better. Much better. Do a twirl.”
Harpo blinked. “Pardon?”
“A twirl. A spin.” Particular spun his hoof in a tight circle. “So that I can see the rest of you. Quickly, Monsieur, I would very much like to get all of you into the dining room. We are running low on time.”
Harpo threw a helpless look at Octavia. The cellist waved him onwards. And Harpo spun, stepping slowly and carefully in a tight circle.
“Twirling also needs work,” noted Hotel Particulier. “Now!” he said, clapping his hooves together. “Where are Fleur and the other two mademoiselles?”
Octavia gave a half-smile. “They’re… dealing with a problem.”
“YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!” Vinyl burst through the changing room doors, her vest flapping uselessly around her hooves, her bowtie hanging limply from her collar.
“For Celestia’s sake!” shouted Fleur, bounding out in pursuit of the DJ. “Lyra, I told you to hold her down!”
Lyra followed Fleur, her own uniform askew and marked with hoofprints in some places. “She’s too fast! She got away from me!”
Vinyl jumped vaulted over a couch, peeking just the top of her head over it. Fleur hefted a brush menacingly.
“Vinyl,” said the mare, “I love you like a daughter, but I plan on beating you senseless once you get near enough.”
The DJ knit her brow in confusion. “See, that doesn’t really make me want to move.”
“Lyra, grab her hooves.”
A green aura sprouted around Vinyl’s front hooves, yanking them up into the air as the DJ let out a yelp. Fleur’s own magic flared, taking hold of Vinyl’s back legs. Vinyl was lifted up into the air, hogtied by magic, unable to even reach a hoof out to Octavia.
“Tavi,” begged an upside-down DJ, “save me.”
Octavia covered her face. “Remind me why we’re friends?”
Fleur and Lyra marched back into the dressing room, the door shutting closed on a bewildered Vinyl Scratch.
“How charming,” said Hotel Particulier with only the barest trace of irony. “I admire her... eh, what would you call it?”
“Complete lack of shame?” offered Harpo.
“Yes, that works.” Particular began pacing again, throwing the occasional glance towards the clock on the wall, muttering something in Prench, then pacing again.
Some ten minutes passed this way, the uncomfortable silence broken only by the occasional shout of pain from within the dressing room, until the three mares reemerged from the dressing room.
Or rather, Lyra and Fleur emerged from the room, both of them wearing proud, if a bit exasperated, smiles. Vinyl had to be coaxed out with promises of alcohol and cookies.
“Booze and cookies?” asked Vinyl, still hiding on the other side of the changing room door.
“Yes, Vinyl,” said Lyra. “Booze and cookies.”
“Can I have booze and cookies?” asked Harpo.
“Maybe if Vinyl decides to share.”
“Nope,” said Vinyl confidently.
Harpo sighed slightly, thumping a back hoof against the floor. “Why do you hate me?”
Hotel Particulier clapped his hooves, a sharp sound ringing through the entire room. He kept a stern expression as he spoke. “While I’ve enjoyed this detour, my friends, we really must be going; we are currently two minutes behind schedule. Mademoiselle Scratch, get out of there. Everypony else, file behind me.”
Particular turned sharply, quickly cantering out of the room. The musicians shared a look.
Fleur smiled. “Come along dears, nothing good can come of further angering Monsieur Particulier.” She turned towards the changing rooms. “And you, Vinyl Scratch, will come out of there this instant or lose your booze and cookies.”
Vinyl stepped quickly around the door. Her glasses were off, her vest perfect and, most dramatically of all, her hair brushed back away from her face and tamed by various bobby pins and hair clips. “Okay, I’m here. Booze and cookies?”
“After the show.” Fleur set off towards Hotel Particulier.
The DJ frowned, brushing at her vest. “Damn.”
The rest of the musicians quickly followed.
They left the main lobby, heading into a side wing of the grand hotel, their path taking them right in front of the grand wall of alcohol. Octavia had to physically push Harpo to get him to move away. Lyra did the same to Vinyl, amid repeated promises of booze and cookies.
“Still, Vinyl,” said Lyra, “why were you making such a fuss about wearing the uniform? Didn’t all of you have to dress up for a party?”
“It’s different.”
Lyra snorted. “Why? Because that was a dress and this is a vest?”
Vinyl shook her head, sneaking a glance at Octavia, who was currently trying to keep Harpo from dashing back to the bar and making friends with the bartender.
“It just is,” said Vinyl noncommittally.
Lyra wasn’t buying it. “Vinyl--”
Hotel Particulier threw open a pair of doors, revealing a wide, circular room filled with ponies, each of them buzzing to and fro, carrying tablecloths and chairs.
“Shift that table over a bit!” barked Particular. “We want the guests to be able to breath! I want somepony mopping down that stage until it shines! Quickly! Hop to it!”
A few working ponies nodded. Most of them simply picked up their pace slightly.
Harpo blinked. “I thought that we were running late.”
Particular’s muzzle scrunched disapprovingly. “We most certainly are. There are only 20 minutes left until lunch begins. I had wanted to walk in with 22 minutes left.” He let out a sigh as Fleur giggled into her hoof.
“Should we head to the stage?” asked Octavia.
Hotel Particulier knit his brow. “The stage? Non ma amie, you all will not be on the stage.”
Vinyl’s head snapped up in confusion. “Wait, what?”
“I mean no offense to any of you Syncopated Records,” said Particular quickly. “But you are fresh from a train! You are all tired and I would rather not take the risk of having tired performers perform.”
“Then why are we here?” asked Octavia.
Hotel Particulier grinned. “You will be servers!”
***
Octavia maneuvered through the crowds, a platter precariously balanced on her head. The gathering, party, whatever it was, was now in full swing. Each table was filled with ponies of all shapes and sizes, each of them dining on an assortment of hor dourves, fresh fruit, cooked vegetables, baked pastries, hot soups, cold soups, pizzas, pastas, ice cream, mousse, juices, water, soft drinks, hard drinks an endless assortment of food! Most of which Octavia had carried on her head and almost spilled.
The cellist tripped, her hoof darting up to keep the platter in place. Vinyl trotted past with a grin, waving her completely unencumbered hooves as her own silver platter floated over her head. Lyra followed close behind, a pitcher held in her lime green aura.
Not for the first time, Octavia cursed magic. Unicorns were cheating. However, Octavia was able to take some solace in the knowledge that Harpo was going through the same struggles.
A pause. Wait, where is Harpo?
A loud, booming laugh arose from a nearby table. A large stallion, his stomach bulging well out of the shirt he wore, roared with laughter, his rather large hoof roughly patting Harpo’s back, forcing a small cry of pain every time it made contact. Harpo laughed through the pain, lifting up a glass of some white wine and clinking it against the fat stallion’s. Then they settled into a comfortable conversation.
Harpo caught the cellist’s eye. He quickly looked away, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.
Nevermind, thought Octavia. Buck Harpo and everything he stands for.
“Pardon me! Excuse me!” A voice rose over the general mumble of the crowd from somewhere behind the cellist. Octavia painted a smile onto her face which seemed, truth be told, much more of a grimace, and trotted over to the voice.
The owner of the voice was a light green Earth Pony mare, lighter even than Lyra’s color, and a golden mane. Directly to her left sat another Earth Pony, a brown stallion with a carefully combed silver mane.
“Good afternoon,” greeted Octavia, shifting her platter to a hoof. “Can I help you?”
The mare’s face lit up. “It is you! Oh, Octavia, it’s very nice to see you again.” She patted Octavia’s hoof, a terribly bright smile playing across her face.
“Yes,” said Octavia awkwardly. “It’s… very nice to see you again.”
The stallion arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think Miss Philharmonica remembers us.”
The cellist nodded slightly, an implicit apology in the movement which the mare quickly waved away.
“No worry, Octavia, no worry! After all, it has been a whole year since we last saw each other. Ever since Frederic graduated from the Conservatory.”
Octavia’s eyes went wide.”Oh!” she gasped. “Mister and Missus Horseshoepin! I’m sorry, I hardly recognized you.”
Mrs. Horseshoepin laughed again. “No worry, as I’ve said before. We could hardly recognize you, dear. You’ve been rather busy, haven’t you?”
“Made quite the splash in Canterlot,” said Mr. Horseshoepin dryly. “Come to take the rest of Equestria?”
Octavia smiled tightly.
“He teases!” said the mare in her high-pitched whine of a voice. “We were in Canterlot when those reporters published that dreadful article about you, then we came to Fillydelphia and hardly heard a word about it! Tell me dear,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “has everything been quite cleared up?”
Octavia nodded.
“Good!” Mrs. Horseshoepin leaned back into her chair. “I’m glad that everything worked out. What a terrible accusation it was, too! I don’t see why they should mistake having some harmless fun with a friend with being a fillyfooler, but I suppose that it comes with being in the public eye.”
Mr. Horseshoepin grunted his agreement.
“In any case,” said Mrs. Horseshoepin, “I’d hate to keep you any longer, Octavia, but you simply have to visit some day. We’re staying with Frederic while in Fillydelphia, and I know for a fact that he would love to see you again.”
Octavia licked at her lips, trying to work some moisture back into her mouth. “I will. It was nice to see you again.”
“You too, dear,” said Mrs. Horseshoepin with that uselessly wide smile. Mr. Horseshoepin nodded his farewell.
Octavia turned away, balancing the tray again and allowing her hooves to take her where she needed to be.
Yes, terrible accusation. That’s what it was. She’d forgotten. Too much time with Harpo and Fancy Pants and Fleur and Vinyl. She’d forgotten what a terrible accusation it was. Be shocked. Not normal, not natural. That’s what they saw. Terrible accusation. Fun was fine, go out and drink all you want, leave nightclubs without a memory of what happened there, but how dare they call her that.
“Tavi?”
Terrible accusation.
“Tavi?”
Fillyfooler.
“Hey, Tavi!”
Octavia glanced up. The room was empty, her hooves suddenly tired from walking up and down tables, her neck stiff from heavy platters. Vinyl was a few inches from the cellist, a hoof rested against Octavia’s forehead. Octavia jerked away.
“Hey, Octy,” said Vinyl worriedly, “you okay?”
Now she remembered. The gathering had come to a close. The guests had left, leaving the musicians-turned-waiters to eat the leftovers. Hotel Particulier had left, taking care of some business or other. Everypony else was seated around one of the few tables left in the room.
A pause. Octavia caught her breath. “Yes, quite. Just wandered away for a few moments.”
“You sure?”
Octavia nodded, glancing down at the floor, not quite catching the way that Vinyl bristled slightly at the movement.
“Fine.” There was a deceptive nonchalant tone to her voice. She smiled, popping a slightly cold chocolate chip cookie into her mouth and washing it down with a light IPA.
Lyra sipped at her champagne, then took a bite of a peanut butter cookie. “Booze and cookies,” she said thoughtfully. “Weird.”
“I rather like it,” said Harpo.
“You haven’t eaten any cookies.”
The composer shrugged. “I see no problems with this.”
Fleur smiled, the simple gesture somehow bringing all attention onto her. “Once all of you have finished lunch, you’ll have some free time to explore the city. I won’t be able to join you, as I have some business to attend to, but I expect all of you to be back before it gets too dark. Is that clear?”
The musicians nodded.
“Wonderful.” Fleur climbed to her hooves. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the Fillydelphia Concert Hall. Have fun!” She left the room.
The four remaining ponies shared a look.
“Sooooo,” began Vinyl, “where’s everypony going?”
“Food?” asked Lyra.
“Always,” said the DJ.
“Bon Bon told me that there’s this really good confectionary--” she paused at Vinyl’s slightly blank expression, “--candy shops that aren’t too far from here.”
Lyra and Vinyl chatted for a few moments more, discussing the merits of candy, chocolates, cookies, and booze, providing just enough time for Octavia to secretly tap on Harpo’s shoulder. The composer leaned in subtly.
“Harpo,” said Octavia, “I need to talk to you for a while.”