//------------------------------//
// Epilogue 
// Story: Twelve Angry Mares 
// by Princess Woona 
//------------------------------//

	Deliberately the forepony stood, went to the door, and rapped twice. She exchanged a few words with the bailiff, then stepped out. Behind her came Twelve, a grave look on her face, and Seven, eager to get out by any means necessary.
One at a time they left. Nine tottered to her hooves, exiting under her own power. Five hurried, glad to leave the room and all those in it. Behind her came Four, even-tempered and purposeful, not a hair out of place in her mane, despite the humidity, the rain, the past deliberations.
Two came next, glad the process was over and somewhat looking forward to what came after. Six grabbed her jacket and clapped Two on the back. Ten slipped out past them, her face a mask of displeasure, but what the mask hid nopony could tell. Eleven followed, her coat standing out from the others almost as much as her jacket did.
Three remained at the table, head tucked away in an elbow, her body still.
Eight waited until the others had left before going for her own coat, a plain purple affair. After a moment’s hesitation she took the only coat left hanging, slowly walking it over to the table. She offered it, and Three accepted wordlessly.
Slowly, the older earth pony got to her feet, somewhat unsteady but not above accepting assistance. Eight helped her into the jacket, one arm at a time. For now, the rain beat steady, giving no sign of letting up, but it didn’t have to. That too would pass.
Three stumbled off, and as Eight followed her out the door she took one last look back at the room. It felt small, small and crowded as ever, even when empty. The fan still hummed to itself, the windows still quivered with the rain, but what was done was done. She turned and left.
In the room there was a table, and on that table there was the detritus of twelve angry mares. And at the end of it there stood a dagger, its hilt green and black, its point sunk into the table. And next to the dagger lay a little slip of paper, its ragged edges framing two words in gently flowing script: not guilty.
And outside the courthouse, life went on.