9. A Hasty Departure
It had been after another night she had stayed up late with her new books, a night of passionate intellectual exploration that had continued until the dawn tinted the hotel windows, and Moon Dancer realized that she had been awake almost 24 hours. Smiling to herself at the acquisitions of the previous day and in anticipation of the gathering she would make in the day to come, the young mare fell asleep.
Unsurprisingly, she overslept.
She awoke to the full heat of the day, the sun already low in the sky; she knew, even before she consulted the little bedroom clock that she had brought from Canterlot, that she had wasted most of the day. Muttering something short and unladylike, Moon Dancer rolled out of bed, ran into the bathroom, and preformed some exceedingly-hasty ablutions.
She hadn't bathed the night before, and she had no time now. (One of the pleasant surprises of the Crystal City had been its excellent plumbing and heating systems; better in some respects than those in her cranky, drafty old house back in Canterlot. The literary sources had implied this: it had made an impression on the Equestrians of over a millennium ago, who had almost entirely lacked such conveniences). She contented herself with a quick splash of cold water on her head and an equally-hurried brush-and-comb; a quick visit to the front desk to retrieve her little cart, and she was out the door.
The Crystal City was lovely in the late afternoon, the lowering Sun striking sparkles from every facet of the literally Classical buildings all around her. The multi-national throng were as colorful and fascinating as ever. Yet something was different, something darker, and that something was Moon Dancer's own mood.
She was a mess. She could smell herself, and it was not a pleasant smell. It had been two days since she'd bathed, and Moon Dancer -- messy as she was in so many other ways -- did not like to miss a bath. Her sweater really needed washing, she'd been putting it off, and as her body heat warmed and her new sweat permeated the fabric, the scent of stale sweat rose around her. Lovely.
Worse, she could tell that her cycle was coming, and she couldn't remember taking her suppressors. She probably hadn't; she'd been so consumed by the joy of finding so many new books that her bodily vagaries had been the last thing on her mind. So, tonight or tomorrow, she was probably going to start emitting a stench that would have every stallion downwind staring longingly after her, and every mare glaring at her convinced she was some sort of slattern. Wonderful.
She hated her cycle. When it had first come, she'd thought it was some sort of horrible personal curse; she'd been amazed when her mother told her that this was just something that happened to every filly as they grew into marehood, part of the Miracle of Life which she might one day create with a special stallion. To her -- especially because she knew she'd probably never have any special stallion -- it was just filthy and nasty, a reminder that no matter how far she developed her fine mind, she'd be forever trapped in her grossly-physical form.
She'd have to find some maskers. She didn't bring any with her, because she had suppressors, and only really prissy Ponies bothered to put on maskers over suppressors. Maskers were old-fashioned, the sort of thing used by one's grandmothers. She supposed they'd be easy to find here -- there had been no suppressors in the Crystal City over a thousand years ago, so the local apothecaries and perfumeries should stock them. Come to think of it, in the stories the public baths used to have that sort of thing -- she could solve both her problems at once that way. Problem solved, at least in theory, which was the way Moon Dancer solved most of her problems.
First, of course, she carried out her daily Quest for Books. It was a very abbreviated quest today, to be sure -- she only visited two places, and only one of them a real secondhand shop. But it was still a Quest for Books, and as such imbued with all the usual excitement, the suspense over what she might chance to discover.
The Quest was today a disappointment. The secondhand shop had mostly clothes and bric-a-brac; only a few books, and none of them really exceptional. She bought one or two anyway, because leaving a place without buying any was too much like defeat.
It was her own foolish fault. She felt angry at herself, angry at everypony else, wanting something whose details were hazy but which she knew would not be good to have, at one and the same time fascinated by and hating the Ponies around her.
Especially the stallions.
Oh, dear, she thought. My Cycle really is starting. I'd better hurry and get those maskers.
The maskers wouldn't change how she felt very much (the unguent forms were slightly anesthetic), but they would cover her marescent, conceal the embarrassing reality of what was starting to happen right now in her nether regions. She would still have to watch her own behavior: she was not used to her unsuppressed estrus, and she very much did not want to do anything she would later regret. But at least she would be the only one to know her own inner turmoil.
10. A Pleasant Bath
She remembered she'd seen a public bath near one of the better secondhand bookshops -- one now sadly closed, though she really needed to get clean and change out of her sweater. Maybe the public bath could sell or lend her a wrap as well? Moon Dancer hated to display her own body, especially when she was entering a Cycle. Still, perhaps nudity was better than smelling like this.
As she walked down the street she had a curious feeling of being watched, as if somepony were observing her. Of course rather a lot of eyes were probably observing her; the Sun was just setting, the streets still packed with Ponies and other creatures. The Crystal City had unfolded from its long sleep like a flower in bloom, and begun to resume its fabled nightlife. But this seemed more personal. More sinister.
She looked around, but she could see nopony in particular. Was that a motion in a shadowed alleyway? She was reminded of the hooded, cloaked figure she might or might not have seen in the Library. But why would he be here? Why would he be following her? (She did not know why she thought of the figure as "he," but there seemed in her memory to have been something male about him).
Surely she was safe. She was surrounded by other Ponies, and in the bath there would be attendants. Besides, the mysterious figure had never attacked her, and certainly he could have done so in the Library when she was reading, alone and isolated. Why should she assume he meant her harm? Perhaps he was just a lonely bibliophile, like herself?
In any case, she knew she could deal with danger. She'd proven it that day in Canterlot, when she'd slain two Changeling Warriors, using only her hooves and horn. She was no common cringing little foal. She was a Moon of the Canterlot Moons, and her father a Night, and they were both old families, who had been victorious on many a forgotten battlefield.
So she heartened herself, and then she was at the bathhouse.
She explained her needs to the attendants, and they were cool and professional and yet sympathetic, with that smooth flattery that was so characteristic of the Crystal Ponies. So unfortunate that the Honorable Mistress had forgotten her necessaries, of course they could supply such to relieve her embarrassment. Yes, they could clean her sweater, and for the night provide her with clothing to adorn her in whatever fashion she found most suitable. A silken chiton, perhaps? Or, if she preferred greater modesty, some robes and a cloak? A wise choice, they told her. And now the baths.
There were many options. The original Eastern Imperial system, which was standard here, was simply hot water, of which the bathhouse naturally had a great quantity, both water and chambers heated onsite by hypocaust. There was also the Western Imperial system, influenced by the Speaker-Ponies, which in its full glorious complexity included frigidarium, tepidarium and a caldarium. There was mention of a laconium, but the stories of how that sweated a Pony clean at temperatures which could fry eggs frankly frightened her.
She decided to go for simplicity her first time here, and chose a basic visit to the caldarium, which was just a hot bath, much as it was practiced in Equestrian spas. There were various possibilities here as well: originally, the Crystal City had used soaps, then later adopted oils, and later on returned once again to soaps and oils. The senior attendant was very familiar with the history of the processes, and expounded on them in detail once she realized that her customer found this interesting.
Moon Dancer was shown brushes, curry-combs, strigilae, and more dubious equipment of whose uses she was not entirely certain and felt strangely shy about asking. The one time she did ask, she was immediately sorry, because she then had to explain, blushing, that she did not wish to depilitate the coat of her lower belly in a decorative pattern.
Why would anypony want to do that, anyway? she wondered. She feared that the answer to that question would be even more embarrassing than the answer to the initial one, so she remained resolutely silent on the topic.
In any case, the bath was worth waiting for. She soaked in the hot water, feeling the warmth pervade every cell of her being, the water carry away all the sweat and grime she had accumulated. She had chosen to bathe in a great communal pool, and she watched lazily as the Crystal Ponies sat and conversed. Bathing was a social event, in the Empire, and it was oddly even more relaxing for that reason.
She did not speak with them. She did not know them. She was alone, as she always was even in a crowd of Ponies, but she felt as if the intimacy of the shared cleansing somehow bonded them together with her. She smiled happily. All her fears and problems seemed trivial now, just more of the dirt of the day to be wafted away by the clean hot water.
She stepped out of her bath, and an attendant toweled her dry. She was not used to being touched by other Ponies, but the feel of the fabric against her hide was somehow soothing, the very impersonality of the touches made them acceptable and even enjoyable. Another attendant brushed and combed her. They beckoned her to a side-chamber.
There she was given maskers -- rather than have them apply it to her most personal parts, something they were willing to do but she was not willing to have done to her, she had them verbally instruct her in the application. The attendants did not seem amused or surprised by her limited understanding of such matters -- already, in but a month, they had apparently become used to Equestrians. The perfumes of the maskers were heavy by her standards, but not unbearably so.
A hairdresser came over and gave her a quick manestyle. She would have applied cosmetics, but Moon Dancer indicated that these were unnecessary. Finally, she was provided with cloak and robes, and ushered out into the foyer.
There, Moon Dancer was reunited with her property, and inquired as discreetly as she knew how as to the local customs of tipping. She paid generously and without complaint, as this had really been perhaps the best bath of her whole life, and she had already decided to do this again while resident in the Empire. Perhaps try the whole sequence? Though not the decorative depilitations, she decided. Definitely not those.
So she stepped out of the bathhouse, wearing fresh clothing over her clean coat, smelling better than ever before, feeling that the night was finally going well. She'd have a pleasant dinner, wash it down with some wine, and this time go to bed at a decent hour, get an earlier start on the next day.
The Sun was down now. The Crystal City glittered with fairy lights -- the lights in the windows of the houses, the faint radiance coming from the living crystal all around her, and the glorious multi-hued skyglow of the auroras from the Crystal Heart itself. It was beautiful beyond compare, and she felt warm and happy and at peace.
So it came as a complete surprise to her when the shadowy figure stepped out from an alley between two houses, right into her path. It was the figure she had glimpsed in the Library, sensed watching her on the streets. Moon Dancer's heart leapt into her mouth, and she bit back a cry of alarm, and tensed, ready at a moment to fight for her life, feeling the adrenaline surge through her veins, everything slow down around her and grow icy cold.
The figure raised its head slightly, and she saw a masculine muzzle, charcoal-gray coat, and reddish-violet eyes. There was a horn above those eyes, but something about that horn's shape was wrong. More alarmingly, the figure seemed for a moment indistinct -- she fancied she could see the street through it. It winced, and then firmed its jaw. The horn glowed faintly, a sickly purplish aura, and the figure was abruptly more solid. She could no longer see the street -- at all, for a thick fog had whipped up out of nowhere. She could no longer see the skyglow of the Crystal Heart's aurora, or any but a faint glow from the houses.
"Greetings, Mistress Moon," the Unicorn intoned, in a sort of hollow whisper. "I have been waiting for you."
She gulped, and trembled. Suddenly she wished that she were anywhere but the Crystal City, this deceptively lovely city of the damned, which had been lost once in time, and might be lost again. But it was too late. She was here, and so was he, and whatever their meeting meant was about to transpire.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the stallion said. "I am ... well, I have been called many names, by many Ponies. But you may call me ... Penumbra."