"Celestia, it's wet!" Daring Do stumbled back along the piazza away from the rain and threw herself against the front door.
"Are you sure you have everything?" Sir Bristlewood asked, picking up Daring Do's bag. His face still expressed concern for her condition which had not yet begun to lighten even as she moved about packing her things and getting dressed. This only distressed him the more. If time was no matter, he would insist she wait until morning.
She nodded. She looked green. Her hat fell off. She fell at the railing and puked. The old wood creaked as she pushed herself up.
"That's it then?" Sir Bristlewood was already locking the door for her. He put the key in a pocket in her bag. Putting Daring Do's hat on her, he gave a sharp whistle. A stagecoach rolled up from beneath some pines. "Come on, now." He threw one of her hooves over his back for support. "Easy. There are steps."
Daring Do spat on his polished hooves.
Sir Bristlewood, ever the professional, did not permit a glance and stoically opened the cab door. He shoved Daring Do inside, wiped his hoof on the slick grass, and hopped up behind her. The two ponies inside helped Daring Do up onto a seat. She braced herself against a window.
Sir Bristlewood banged on the ceiling and the stagecoach took off. Stealing a look around at the faces, he sighed and announced proudly, with a hoof to his chest: "I got her!"
"So you have," spoke a cool voice.
"We have her, but she is impaired," spoke another voice, this one warmer.
"It couldn't be helped," Sir Bristlewood remarked matter-of-factly. He shook he head rapidly. "It was a matter of taking her now, or waiting until morning." He suppressed the urgency in his voice, for the sake of Daring Do.
"Why the hell are we in the dark?"
All in the cabin turned to Daring Do.
"Hello? I said: why are we in the dark? Sire Bri-Se-Vu-de, hoof me my torch." She slipped off her seat. "Are these seats of leather?!" Her voice cracked.
"Miss Do."
"What?" Daring Do took off her hat. "Oh! I had my hat over my face the whole time. Wha..."
Since Daring Do had been moving, the alcohol circulated her system with greater ease, and she felt the effects more potently than she had soon after Sir Bristlewood's arrival. She felt light-headed, and her body felt detached from her mind, and her mind from herself. Everything seemed for all the world a stage, and nothing quite real.
One of the strangers helped her up onto her seat, and immediately wiped off their own hooves as though having touched something filthy. The pony grumbled all the while.
Sir Bristlewood sighed deeply. The pony with the cool voice leaned into the pony beside them. The pony with the warm voice shook their head rapidly. A silence fell that held only the sound of Daring Do's deep breathing in its wake.
"I suppose I should say something to break this intolerable icy sheet," the pony with the warm voice drew from his lips the first words in the very long hush that ensued since the stagecoach had leapt into the air. "Miss Do, my name is Hoofcliff. I am a trader of fine goods between the Saddle Arabians and Equestrians. This here on my right..." Hoofcliff shot his lips at his companion indicating her moment to give her voice.
"Call me Kitty; Lady Catherine by formality, I much prefer the former." Her voice was as cool as her very rigid way of holder herself, as though always and habitually on ceremony, quite at odds against her inclination for the casual way of being addressed. "I am a mare of blood from both Saddle Arabia and Equestria; I am the head curator of the Museum of International Arts and Histories." She screwed up her face in subdued scorn looking down upon Daring Do. Daring returned her look, as much as to say, You who speak of royal blood, who appeal to authority, are nothing but banal knives cutting histories away, never letting truth get in the way of a good story. This thought, of course, fell unheard and died in the dark waters of her mind.
Daring Do pulled herself up, breathed deep a full drought of air, and, the stench of alcohol hitting her nose, shook her head, sneezed, and sat down.
"And?" Daring Do swept a look that was difficult to discern.
"And?" Hoofcliff began.
"You can't be serious," Daring Do cut in. "Oh, listen to me, you have even me doing it!"
"Miss Do," Sir Bristlewood pleaded breathlessly.
"Hoofcliff, you're an usurper; Cat, a whore in your trade and your body."
The whole cabin broke into silence. No one, not Hoofcliff, Catherine, nor Bristlewood dared speak a word. What could they say? Each knew they could hardly argue it: if they did it was likely Daring Do, even in her inebriated state, would promptly leave, which she had been known to do on many other excursions where some ponies had enlisted her aid and had in some way irritated her, never to hear from her again, and they could not afford to lose the fallen hero.
Daring Do produced a flask from her bag and took a swing.
Sir Bristlewood breathed a sigh of relief after a few moments. Neither Hoofcliff nor Kitty breathed so much as a whiff of malidiction against Daring Do's wild and disillusioned accusations.
For the rest of the flight to Saddle Arabia they all were silent, silently resigning to discuss matters when they had arrived and Daring Do's head was clear. When they had landed, Hoofcliff was shaking.