In her mailbox, Fleur could always hope to find the following: a forecast bulletin of the Weather Corps, a flashy postcard from one of her friends modeling abroad, a bunch of leaflets, and of course the obligatory letter of complaint from her mother. It would appear that living a thousand miles away wasn’t a sufficient excuse for not attending a dinner every other weekend. Fortunately, it took a few good days to get a message between Prance and Equestria, so Fleur could always take her time and come up with a convincing reassurance that she was indeed eating and dressing properly. But yet, the day ponykind would invent the means to instantly communicate over long distances was going to be her certain undoing.
Today her trip rewarded her with something special: a curious parcel of little weight, enclosed in autumn wrapping of superb quality and tied with a sleek ribbon. She hurried back into the house upon realizing who the sender was.
“Chestnut!” she called upstairs. “Would you mind coming down for a minute?”
After a mighty slam followed by a quick ‘whoopsie!’, the house resounded with stomping no quieter than that coming from a herd of buffalo trampling its way across the Appleloosan orchards. The stampede consisting of four hooves total stopped at the top of the staircase, extended its wings, and glided down to stop at the mare's outstretched foreleg.
Chestnut took Fleur’s hoof off her forehead. “What’s up?”
“This parcel just came in. I thought you’d like to open it.”
Eyes wide open, mouth frozen in cluelessness, and head cocked to the side, Chestnut’s expression went from casual to confuzzled. That was another word Fleur had picked up from the filly, one that apparently meant being confused and puzzled at the same time.
“For me?” Chestnut carefully poked the bundle, not trusting the fancy wrapping in the slightest. “But I’ve never got a parcel before! I’ve got a letter once, sure, more if you count the group cards sent to everyone at the Orphanarium. Are you sure it’s for me?”
“I do believe so. Here, notice the way it’s addressed!”
“Huh?”
Chestnut turned the bundle around. On a white label placed exactly in the middle she saw the name and address of the receiver written with dark indigo ink. Decorative swirls here and there were moderate enough to leave the perfectly round letters readable, but they definitely added a touch of refinement so distinctive for the sender herself.
Ms. Chestnut
88 Rimway Ave.
Canterlot
Fleur closed the filly’s gaping muzzle.
“Do you think you could find any other Miss Chestnut under this address? Go ahead, open it up!”
Fangs shined as Chestnut bit into the edge of the parcel. She tore through the first layer with ease, but she encountered a much more durable box underneath. Surprised at first, she sat on the floor and began her struggle anew, restraining her prey in a tenacious grip while completely disregarding the side of the parcel where a cut along the subtly placed tape would suffice.
“Need a hoof?” Fleur asked.
“Nah, I’ve gat thish!”
What initially looked like an attempt to reap the reward in the messiest way possible turned out to be a planned effort of perforating the box. If a non-thestral tried such an approach, they would indubitably end up choking on the salivated pieces, but Chestnut and her much more suitable toothing proved the primal pony dominance over cardboard materials once and for all.
Fleur shuddered a bit, wondering if there was a grain of truth to the stories relating thestrals and vamponies. Brrr.
“There you go! What’s inside?”
Forcing the box open revealed a beautiful scarf composed of two shades of orange, puffy fringes, and a dose of innate warmness that guaranteed to keep its wearer safe from the hazards of winter. Chestnut picked it up in disbelief.
“It’s like the one Miss Rarity was wearing! But I don’t… but I…” She turned away, but not before Fleur noticed her eyes watering. “I-I need to try it on!”
She rushed upstairs, clenching onto her prize and turning her head away from Fancy Pants coming down with a blue bow tie floating behind him. He opened his mouth to say something but he dropped the idea and joined his wife by the mirror.
“My, my! What a mess!” he said over the sad remnants of the ravaged box from which he fished out a short note. He glanced at it and passed it to Fleur. “That would be for you, dear. Tell me, have you and Chestnut acquired a pet timberwolf when I wasn’t looking?”
“Oui, we’re also thinking about a string of decorative parasprites for good measure. Perfect for Hearth’s Warming, no less,” she murmured in response, skimming over the letter. “Aw, Rarity won’t make it to the party! Something about work overload… taking a train back to Ponyville… and that’s she’s terribly sorry…”
“Well, that’s most unfortunate,” Fancy Pants said, tinkering with the cream white collar of his shirt. He frowned at the skewed bow tie, loosened it, and started forming the knot all over again. “I was looking forward to seeing her again.”
Fleur sighed. “Tell me about it. I was hoping she would come by and, I don’t know, just be here, I guess. But Rarity has always been a busy pony and I respect that. Besides, have you seen the scarf she made for Chestnut? It’s so thoughtful of her!”
“Do you mean the one Chestnut just carried all the way upstairs to try it on within the privacy of her room despite the quite comfortable mirror we have here? I’m not sure I can imagine how astounding that scarf must be.”
Fleur stepped next to Fancy Pants and inspected his mirrored twin. Not entirely content with the way they looked, she turned to the original and aligned his bow tie, smoothed the creases of his tailcoat, and employed a couple more fixes any good wife would consider to make her husband look respectable at work.
“I think the fact she received a gift was in itself quite shocking for her,” she said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time, you know. She was completely lost for words when we were buying ink. To be honest, I don’t think I have ever met a pony who’d be so uncomfortable with getting little presents like that. It’s like she thinks she doesn’t deserve any of them! Mind that we’re not talking about things like dresses or jewelry here, but just some everyday utilities,” Fancy Pants pointed out. “And the joy in her eyes when you told her she could keep your old pen? Truly heart-warming!”
Fleur couldn’t agree more. If she had to name one thing that was distinctive for the filly, it would be her readiness to express gratitude regardless of how insignificant the good things happening to her were. That could be anything ranging from completing her own writing set, being told to choose anything she liked from the dessert menu, or simply having a chance to spend some time with either of the unicorns. In search for the cause of such an attitude, Fleur reached a grim conclusion.
“Perhaps her life was filled with misfortune in the past and now she’s taking every chance she has to be happy?”
“We know so little about her childhood. Inquiring about it before earning her trust wouldn’t do any good. It’s bound to be a delicate subject.”
“Mhm, you’re probably right.” Fleur took a step back. “Now, look at you! Straight from the cover of Cosmare!”
The stallion stared at his reflection at the verge of vanity. “Is that so? You’re much too kind.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not you, husband! Up there!”
Chestnut appeared at the top of the staircase with her new scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Instead of bolting down like the last time, she kept her wings close to her body and commenced what had to be the most uneventful descent in her life. First step. She assumed an indifferent, almost torpid expression. Second. She placed her hoof lightly to reduce the noise. Third. She restrained her wings further and overcame the urge of skipping the staircase altogether. It was not easy.
The lessons in etiquette had not gone in vain. Though Fleur and Fancy Pants made it clear Chestnut didn’t have to pretend around them and she was free to act naturally, seeing her clothed in dignity and sophistication was immensely gratifying for the aspiring parents.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she spoke in a somewhat exaggerated, almost aristocratic manner.
“Say, how do you like my apparel?”
“You look wonderful!” Fleur replied. “And very classy! How do you feel?”
“Ah, you know, it’s just a scarf. Nothing special.” The filly lifted the fringes with nonchalance and let them dangle freely as if she couldn’t care less. That mask lasted for about three seconds, but was then dropped in favor of Chestnut tucking into the material and nuzzling her cheeks against its softness. “Oh, this winter’s going to be both cool and warm!” she exclaimed, quick to assume her ladylike poise back on. “Uhm, I mean, the upcoming season shall prove temperate and marvelistic alike. Yes. That’s definitely what I wanted to say.”
Fancy Pants laughed heartily. “We’ve told you that there’s no need to force your act around us, or anypony at all! What we wanted to show you were mere guidelines which you may find useful in the future, but you must not let that change who you really are. Sadly, it’s something that many of our acquaintances seem to have forgotten. Just do what feels right.”
Chestnut looked upon the unicorns with mild interest and went back to caressing her scarf. Fleur giggled, and the filly immediately smirked and gave a relaxed sigh, her posture morphing into that of a swashbuckling filly.
“I know. I was just practicing for the party,” she said. “So, what are you guys up to?”
“Myself, I’m needed at work,” Fancy Pants replied. “The embassy is struggling with a peculiar case of a Diamond Dog movement whose members no longer wish to be called that way. Instead, they want to establish diplomatic relations with Equestria from scratch as a new, independent nation they’re forming beyond the Macintosh Hills. Since we have no proper regulations for spiritual exoduses, Princess Celestia has requested somepony with experience on the job.”
Fleur brushed her lips on the stallion’s cheek. “She’s lucky she has you, then. No one has more experience with convincing foreign cultures to work with you than you do,” she said. “Go now, ambassador. Your country needs you.”
“I’ll do my best.” He gave them a nod and trotted outside. “Ladies.”
“Have fun diplomating!” Chestnut called.
Fleur waited for Fancy Pants to reach the gate and wave his goodbyes. She waved back, closed the door, then winced at the shredded gift wrap littering the floor. “That leaves me with tidying up the house for tomorrow. I have to sweep the floors, polish the silverware, clean the stains off the windows after that downpour… in short, I have a lot of boring, housekeeping chores to attend to. How about you? Do you have any plans for after your photo shoot?”
Chestnut, who up to this moment had been striking poses in front of the mirror, spun around and quickly piled up the litter. “I do! I’ll be helping you with your boring, housekeeping chores!”
Fleur’s jaw dropped a little. “C’est impossible! Why would a filly like you want to do that? Wouldn’t you rather spend this time reading your comic books or playing? I know there’s little things to play with around the house, but perhaps you’ll figure something out?”
“But I already have. I’ll be helping you,” Chestnut replied with adamant resolve. “Back at the Orphanarium we all have duties. Some of us help at the kitchen, others do the dishes, and others again clean the bathrooms. Since I’m, uhm, one of the oldest kids around I can do more than the others, but it’s fine by me. I mean, there’s more to life than just having fun, right?”
Hearing how responsible for her age the filly sounded, Fleur shivered at the mere thought of Chestnut having to grow up too soon due to her troubled past, but she took her husband’s advice and chose not to pursue the issue. For now, she certainly didn’t mind teaming up with a flying helper—hovering a feather duster with unicorn magic could only get her so far.
She pointed at the ravaged box. “Let’s start with this.” She headed down the hallway and under the stairs where in a small cupboard she kept all sorts of cleaning utensils, a dustpan, a brush, and a roll of trash bags included. “So, what else can you tell me about the Orphanarium?”
“Oh, everything!” Chestnut replied, but then frowned and stroked her chin. “Hmm, maybe not everything. I promised Glavia and Wind Whisper I won’t tell anyone about the thing. But there was that one time when we were setting the tables, right? It wasn’t anything special until I went to the kitchen to find the missing fork and…”
The next few hours they spent on household affairs Fleur counted among the most enjoyable experiences of the trial period. Between disposing of dust and rubbish, she and Chestnut had been exchanging stories about their lives as a supermodel and an orphan respectively—lives that just recently had taken an unexpected turn for them both.
With a certain dose of regret, Fleur noticed that the filly spoke highly of Doctor Hugs and his co-workers, and that she appeared to be someone akin to an older sister for the rest of the orphans. A thought she would describe as dreadful crossed her mind. What if Chestnut didn’t want their time together to last longer than a week?
She had to talk it over with Fancy Pants and decide when to ask Chestnut whether she’d like to stay with them.
The opportunity arose in the evening.
Fleur stepped out of the squeaky clean house and onto the balcony to indulge herself in stargazing. Some ponies said one could read their own future from the looks of the night sky during certain astrological occurrences, while others claimed that the stars were the world’s way of preserving the past in shimmering patterns. Fleur stayed skeptical either way. She would give a lot to know the outcome of tomorrow’s party, but for now she just silently admired the beauty of those tiny fireflies stuck far over the land. She never bothered to get a telescope, or to learn the names of constellations, so what future could she read from them other than the one she wanted to come true?
Something landed gently on her back, covering her croup and flanks, up to her neck. A blanket. She swaddled herself tightly and smiled.
“It’s a tad chilly outside, wouldn’t you say? And it will be only getting colder,” Fancy Pants said. He walked to the railings and embraced the mare who snuggled into his neck. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Everything. Tomorrow’s the party. Less than twenty-four hours from now, everything will become clear.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
After a moment of aimless meandering Fleur faced the truth.
“Chestnut. Chestnut has grown on me. We’ve had a good week, there’s no denying that, and I’d hate to send her away. The thing is, we talked about her life at the Orphanarium. She’s quite fond of Doctor Hugs and her friends there, and it occurred to me… what if she doesn’t want a family?”
“Ah, it crossed my mind as well,” Fancy Pants admitted. “Well, not the part about her not wanting to have a family, I’m certain every orphan does want that in the end, but about choosing us and this house for her new home. I suppose the only sure way to find out is to talk to her.”
“I know, but I don’t want to rush it!” Fleur said, furiously ironing the blanket underneath her hoof. “I need more time, I think. Chestnut and I are all good, but I don’t think I could go through it right now. What if she says no? I… I don’t want this little vacation to end, Fancy.” She turned her head away and quietly added, “I don’t want to be back to where I was before.”
Fancy Pants beamed and tightened the hug. “Oh, Mrs. Fleur, just listen to yourself! You’ve come a tremendous way for this filly, don’t let your nerves get the best of you now! I understand you don’t want to deal with it this very moment, but do keep in mind we’re having an appointment with Doctor Hugs in just two days. You need to talk to her beforehand.”
Fleur threw him a questioning stare. “Moi? What about you?”
“I’ll be around.” He tenderly cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. “Besides, I believe you already know my take on this particular affair.”
“I do.”
Under the myriads of stars, the two ponies locked their lips in a kiss.
* * *
Guided by a tight grip of the magical mist, a shining, silver teaspoon darted in the air and twirled over the buffet table. Avoiding imposing mountains of fruits and multilayered walls of cake, the spoon danced playfully around a half-empty glass of water, then struck it several times to send the universal message across the living room. For that one moment and one moment only, all eyes were on that spoon, and all ears turned to capture the resounding jingle.
Soon enough someone else stole the show.
“May I have your attention, please?” Fancy Pants said, putting the teaspoon aside and thus effectively ending its short-lived adventure. “Thank you. My friends, I would like to introduce the guest of honor for this utmost pleasant evening. While she may not be a celebrity many of you have expected, she is undoubtedly a pony worth getting acquainted. So, without further ado, I’d like you all to meet Chestnut, a lovely lady from a distant land of Tramplevania.”
A dozen pairs of eyes turned in anticipation as Fancy Pants pointed where none of them had bothered to look before. Some of the guests squinted in disbelief, a few dropped their jaws in surprise, but most of them simply acknowledged what they were seeing and refrained from passing a judgment on the apparent important invitee. For now.
Chestnut flicked her forelock off her brow and took a step forward. Not too slow to make it look ridiculous but not too hasty either, she walked across the room straightened up and keeping her head high, with a gentle smile adorning her face. She joined Fancy Pants by the buffet, proudly stepping among the ponies of the Canterlot Elite. She gave them a slight nod, otherwise keeping her gestures to an absolute minimum.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlecolts,” she said softly. “I hope you are having a great time tonight.”
“Chestnut has been staying with Fleur and I for a couple of days now. I hope you will prove as welcoming to her as you have been to our other distinguished guests in the past. Now please, enjoy the party!”
The ponies retreated to their cliques and so the game of social dodgeball was on. Ten points for not being the first one to comment on the unusual choice of the hosts. Twenty for playing it safe and finding out something either interesting or compromising about the exotic filly without talking to her in person. Fifty for voicing your opinion—a rather risky strategy!—and having somepony more important share it.
“You haven’t told them I’m an orphan,” Chestnut discreetly stated. “Why?”
“Neither have I mentioned your talents or interests,” Fancy Pants replied. “I didn’t want to put you into any specific role. That way nopony really knows what to expect so they’ll go easy on you. I wish I could elaborate further, but it seems somepony is already coming to meet you.”
Chestnut let out a distressed squeak.
“Any last minute tips?”
“Octavia. Cellist. Classical music. Good luck!” he quickly said and walked away. He stopped by the approaching mare, nodded, complimented her trademark pink bow tie, pointed at his own, then nodded again and trotted into the crowd, leaving Chestnut to deal with the challenges of the high society on her own.
Well, not entirely on her own.
A good lady of the house she was, Fleur was making sure that her guests would never run out of snacks or things to talk about. It was most unfortunate—and totally planned—that she had somehow forgotten to add the slices of a spiced peach pie with lattice crust to the buffet. Now she had to spend a good minute rearranging the dessert section of the buffet so that the composition of colors and shapes remained flawless. Coincidentally, she had a perfect view on the mare with coat only several tones brighter than Chestnut’s own.
Octavia Melody! Oh, how glad Fleur was to see it was her who first approached the filly.
Although during her performances she appeared as distant, even cold, Octavia had a gentle nature. She was a cultured and sophisticated mare who combined the vast knowledge of music with a knack for creating beautiful, yet sometimes tear-inducing tunes. She had every right to think of herself as a prodigy but she never used that to up her social score. In fact, she cared little about what the socialites thought of her, and unlike most of them she would never use another pony for her own gain.
“Good evening,” Octavia greeted the filly. “It’s Chestnut, isn’t it? I’m pleased to meet you.”
“And you must be Mrs. Octavia, ma’am,” Chestnut replied. “A cello, if I remember correctly? I heard that without you no classical musical ensemble is complete.”
Fleur allowed herself a smile. That’s a good start. Keep it up, Team Nuts!
“Oh, you’re too kind. I simply do what I love, and I continue to run into ponies who also enjoy my music,” Octavia said, helping herself to a cluster of grapes. “What about you? Are you more of a Beethooven or Mozheart enthusiast?”
“I enjoy any kind of music as long as it’s, uhm, loud.”
That could have gone better. There was certainly more to the many symphonies, concertos, and sonatas conceived by those great composers than just being ‘loud’. Fleur rebuked herself. She outfitted Chestnut with manners, but forgot about the general knowledge regarding the classics? Fancy Pants was right—she really should have cut short on teaching her how to accessorize shorter manes.
Much to Fleur’s surprise, Octavia giggled.
“You sound just like Vinyl! A DJ friend of mine, that is.”
“Excuse me, did you say Vinyl?” Chestnut replied in mounting excitement. “As in Vinyl Scratch, the pony who did all the audio mixing for the Shouts & Whispers by Gemtrance?”
“The very same! Though I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of ‘hard basses’ as she puts it, I have to admit there’s a certain merit in their loudness. Oh, before I forget—she’ll be performing at Brimstone here in Canterlot in about two weeks. The tickets have been sold out a few good months ago, but I think I could find a way to get you in if you’re interested.”
Thunderstruck with the idea, Chestnut replied, “I certainly am, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’m not old enough. The bouncers aren’t letting fillies like me in. From what I heard, that is.”
Octavia nibbled a grape and smiled mischievously.
“Who said anything about the main entrance?”
Fleur frowned. Was Octavia for real? Did she just offer a backstage pass for a rave at the most underground club of Canterlot to a filly who got lost after a trip to a music store across the street? No wonder that she never wanted to have children, she simply wouldn’t know how to cater for them. Not that Fleur herself was an expert in this field, but those were the basics!
“I was wondering—” the mare began, but a melodious, almost singing voice from across the room cut her off.
“Oh, my dear, dear Octaaavia! Would you mind coming up for a moment? I have something of extreme importance to share with you!”
The mare winced. “Hyacinth. She’s still trying to add her voice to my performances.” She leaned towards Chestnut in a conspiratorial manner and whispered, “Not going to happen!” She straightened up. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, miss, but I’m afraid I have to leave you for the time being.”
“I totally understand!” Chestnut said with a reassuring grin on her lips. “One has to handle ponies like Mrs. Hyacinth straight away. If you don’t go, then she’ll come here and sing at you until you have agreed to satisfy her wishes.”
The ease at which Chestnut was partaking in the conversation filled Fleur with pride. She wasn’t only making use of the rhetoric Fancy Pants taught her, but she was doing it within her own charm. Bravo, Team Nuts!
“Very much so!” Octavia giggled. “Enjoy the party!”
Would you look at that—Fleur decided she was content with the composition of the desserts the exact moment Octavia trotted away towards Hyacinth and Rich Card. It was a rather fortuitous coincidence that on her way back Fleur could also sneak upon Chestnut.
“So, you’ve met Octavia? How did it go?”
Without having to mind her manners, the filly’s composure melted. “Pretty good. I think. Or not. I need a drink.” She poured herself a glass of juice and emptied it in a single gulp. “I mean, there was a moment when she asked me about some fancy musicians and I had no idea who they were, but I took the advice you guys gave me and just told what felt right. It turned out well, I hope.”
“You’re doing great,” Fleur replied and stroked the filly’s back, bringing an unsure smile to her face. “But don’t be afraid to trot around and mingle with others. You are the guest of honor and you have every right to approach them.”
“But I know nothing about them!”
Fleur walked around the fruit display. She had already discerned the balance of power for tonight and she could now provide guidance for the filly. “Let me help you with that. First, do you see the bearded stallion standing by the clock? That’s Garlic Bread, the owner and chef de cuisine of Acquarellion, the restaurant by the Promenade. I heard he wants to enrich their winter specials with something exotic, and I think Tramplevanian chestnuts could be just the thing,” Fleur said. “That’s one. Now, the awful dress by the fireplace.”
“Is something wrong with her?”
The mare rolled her eyes. “Please. Beige is not a color. But don’t tell her that! Instead, know that Right Write is A.K. Yearling’s editor and probably knows a lot about the Daring Do series. Thus, you have a common topic to discuss.”
Chestnut’s ears flattened as she nervously shuffled her hooves. “Yeah, but she was staring at my wings earlier! It’s not easy being the only batpony around. And the only filly! I don’t suppose there’s a lot of ponies my age usually coming to your parties, right?”
“Not really, but perhaps there will be more after tonight,” Fleur replied. “I have to go now. You’re very brave, so keep it up and don’t worry. Fancy Pants and I are watching over you, alright? You’re doing great!”
The mare’s reassurance calmed Chestnut down and even emboldened her because she took a deep breath, peeled away from the buffet, and went partying—Canterlot manner, naturally. She was unaware that the rules of engagement for tonight had changed the moment Octavia approached her. From now on, whoever wanted to stay on good terms with the cellist, which would include everyone, had to avoid making faux pas around Chestnut. Inadvertently, Octavia upped the ante to a hundred points for reaching her through the filly.
As the evening progressed, Fleur was splitting her time between three major activities. She had to be an excellent hostess serving exquisite appetizers, a charming lady participating in all-important conversations, and most importantly, a kind of a wingmare for Chestnut. She couldn’t find a proper word describing that role, but she definitely enjoyed it the most. Keeping an eye for the filly, providing guidance when needed, or looking out for any emergencies should they arise, Fleur wanted to be there for her.
So far the only real emergency which required her swift intervention was the sudden shortage of snacks. She hurried to the kitchen to dice cheese and every type of pepper she could find. Between the red and green ones, she halted the knife.
She went back to how she used to imagine parenthood, to that picture of her being a perfect parent of a perfect child. In her impossible to fulfill dreams she was witnessing her child’s first steps, she was hearing their first spoken word, and she was framing the first, awkward doodle they made to hang on the wall. Of course none of that mattered now. Chestnut could walk and talk already, and drawing wasn’t among her hobbies, so that’s that.
A funny thought struck her.
They had indeed taught Chestnut how to walk and talk. What else was she doing right now if not moving smoothly from one high society pony to another while engaging in delightful chit-chats with them? The realization filled Fleur with glee. Thousands of mothers would teach their children how not to get messy in the backyard, but only she had the privilege of showing someone how to impress the high society of Canterlot.
That was it. In full awareness, Fleur thought of herself as Chestnut’s mother, which meant she was ready to accept the filly as her—
“How are we doing?”
The intrusion of Fancy Pants stealing a single bite of cheese broke Fleur out of her peaceful reverie. As if she had just awoken from a slumber, she looked at the suspended in mid-air knife and correctly assumed she was in the middle of preparing snacks.
“You tell me,” she replied, dicing more cheese. “Since we’ve run out of these, I assume no one wants to talk to anyone and they’re all just hiding behind appetizers and drinks?”
“Not really, no. These are only gone because Chef Garlic is taking them in bulks.”
“Vraiment? He only does that when he’s excited about something. Who’s he talking to?”
“Who do you think? Chestnut, of course.”
Fleur chuckled. “That explains it.” She moved away the little yellow cubes and returned to the green pepper she hadn’t processed yet. When she remembered why, her heart started to beat faster. She put down the knife and turned to her husband.
“Hey, remember pretty much every conversation we’ve had since we met Chestnut?” she asked. “I think I’m ready. I mean, I feel calm and collected, Chestnut’s behaving flawlessly, she’s practically running the party—”
Ding-dong!
“I’ll get it!” Chestnut called from the hallway.
“—and I feel calm and collected,” Fleur repeated. “And I know I have already said that, the point is, I don’t think the circumstances will get any better. We should talk to Chestnut about the adoption now. I no longer fear that word.”
“That’s wonderful, dearest!” Fancy Pants beamed with happiness, grabbed his wife’s hoof and put it next to his heart. “Shall I call her here, or do you want to announce it later, or…”
As he was still talking, something else caught Fleur’s attention. Her ears perked at the sound of the opening door, the voices of some newcomers entering the house, and the disturbed squeal of the filly who let them in.
“We’re terribly sorry for being late, but—YOU!”
Fleur knew that voice! She rushed out of the kitchen. As expected, the newly arrived guests were their acquaintances from the Canterlot Elite whose looks, bearing, and even names all formed the epitome of the high society.
She looked at Chestnut. The filly managed to maintain her poise despite facing a terrifying sight. Because while Jet Set seemed more concerned about his wife than the weirdly looking filly in front of him, Upper Crust, red on her face, was about to blow.
“Lady Bucket Head,” Chestnut replied with unparalleled dignity. “Alas, we meet again.”