//------------------------------//
// Chapter 8 
// Story: To Glimpse a Wider World 
// by Burraku_Pansa 
//------------------------------//

“Trixie will state for the record, young Scootaloo, that she is far from being any sort of expert on pegasus magics.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes and continued her walk about the little field. “You’re the one who said you’d rather teach me that than stunts.” Finding a nice patch of trampled grass by a recently used fire pit, the filly sat. She raised her fore legs and extended her wings, setting about doing stretches. “Rainbow Dash isn’t here, and you’re the next best thing. Or the next best thing around, anyway. Teach whatever and I’ll learn it, no prob.”

With a hint of bitterness, the mare said, “Trixie finds herself floored by your flattery.” She took her place a couple of hooflengths in front of Scootaloo. “Alright. Trixie shall begin as she did with Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom. How far along are you in your magic training?”

“Well…” Scootaloo pulled and popped the joints in her ankles. “I haven’t started? To be honest, I didn’t know pegasi could do magic, before this. I thought that was just a unicorn thing.”

“What?” said Trixie, brow raised. “Don’t be ridiculous. Surely you were aware that pegasi can fly and manipulate the weather?”

Scootaloo let her fore legs fall to the ground. “Oh, that’s what you meant by ‘pegasus magic’? Geez, that’s kind of a letdown.”

“Do you mean to tell Trixie that they no longer teach this?” Trixie’s magic flared up, and Scootaloo felt a gentle telekinetic pull on her primaries. “That a pegasus’ wings are the focal points for his or her weather magics, like a unicorn’s horn for arcane magics?”

Scootaloo shivered, giving her wings a little flap, and the magic dissipated. Looking back to Trixie, she said, “Well, I dunno. That’s news to me, but Ponyville’s not really a pegasus town. There’s no flight school or anything.”

“But what of your parents?”

The filly frowned. “I don’t think either of them ever went to a flight school either—they both lived in Ponyville their whole lives before they got together.”

“No,” said Trixie, “what Trixie had meant to ask was what they’ve taught you.”

“Oh! Well…” Scootaloo held up one forehoof and bobbed it theatrically. “Dad’s not really around anymore, and mom…” She bobbed the other, but slower. “She was never much of a teacher, I guess.”

Trixie blinked, then lowered her head. “Trixie somehow feels as though she was prying. She deigns to apologize.”

“‘S fine,” said Scootaloo, standing back up now. “And Rainbow’s the only teacher I ever actually wanted. But again, she’s not around right now, so I’ve got you.” A sharp hoof-jab at Trixie.

The mare rolled her eyes, saying, “Coming full circle, Trixie reiterates: how much magic training have you had thus far? What are you able to do?”

“Oh, yeah. Um, I can hover.” Scootaloo leapt into the air, wings buzzing. The grass around her tried in vain to retreat, and the air thrummed with her power—for all of two seconds, before her hooves met the ground again.

“Is…” Trixie looked off left and right, as though expecting to see someone leap out of a bush holding a recorder spyglass and laughing. “Is that all?”

Scootaloo went from grinning to scowling faster than Trixie could blink. “Nu-uh! I can cloudwalk and stuff, too, if somepony brings me up there!”

“Th-that’s literally as basic as it gets!” Trixie all but spluttered. “That’s merely your passive air cushion. Trixie grants that you are only a filly, but you should at least be capable of bursts of sustained flight by now!”

Scootaloo winced. “I know,” she said, looking to the ground, “but that’s always been kinda tough for me—sometimes it feels like my wings are only good for scooter tricks.” She looked back up, eyes steelier. “But I’m gonna get Rainbow to whip me into shape, someday. Until then—” She found a blue hoof over her lips.

“Trixie will not hear your insult a third time.”

Scootaloo snickered around the hoof before smacking it away. “I was gonna say that until then, I’ve got my scooter, and I love that thing.”

Tapping her chin, Trixie said, “Yes, your scooter…” She walked around to Scootaloo’s side, leaning in to prod a hoof at the filly’s legs. “That is a difficult mode of transport to master, as Trixie understands it. It asks a lot from quadrupeds.”

A proud smirk erupted on Scootaloo’s face. “Whatever that means, I’m taking it as a c—”

Trixie thrusted a hoof under Scootaloo’s front and lifted, and the filly—wide-eyed and wobbling—found herself standing on her hind legs in an instant.

And she remained that way for the next instant, even without Trixie’s hoof. And then for a few instants more.

“Hm,” said Trixie, when Scootaloo had finally fallen back onto all fours. Her horn lit up, and a sphere of magical light appeared on the ground at the filly’s hooves. She pointed to the sphere, saying, “Kick it.”

Eyebrow raised, Scootaloo did as she was told, and with a deep thunk, the sphere flew most of the way to the field’s treeline—a good fifty hooflengths at least—before dissipating.

“Huh.” Trixie’s eyes glazed over, staring at the spot where the orb had stopped.

“What?” asked Scootaloo as she looked between the spot and Trixie. “What am I supposed to be learning here?”

No response.

Scootaloo waved a hoof in front of the mare’s eyes. “Trixie, what the hay?”

Trixie shook her head and looked to Scootaloo. “Trixie apologizes,” she said, “but she shall have to cut this lesson short.”

There was a beat of silence, then Scootaloo said, “Why?” Her little wings sagged, but her frown was bordering on red hot.

Trixie’s face remained blank. “Trixie is afraid that she needs to visit a bookstore.”


- - - - -


Stomach skyward, Apple Bloom tried her best to enjoy the feeling of the bed beneath her, in spite of her racing mind. “Over an hour,” she said.

“Oof,” said Sweetie Belle from the cot by their room’s wall. “My show was awful, but at least it only lasted a few minutes.” She stared out at Dappleton through the adjacent window, watching the town chug along beneath the pre-noon sun. “Still, though, I think I would’ve liked being bored more than being scared out of my mind…”

Apple Bloom turned and caught the frown her friend was wearing, and it spread to her own face. “Ah’m sorry, Sweetie,” she said. “Must ‘a been rough.”

“Mm. I definitely want to ask for something less hooves on next time. But it could’ve been worse, I guess.” Sweetie Belle sighed, but slid on a small smile. “At least Scootaloo was there, doing her best to cheer me on—even if she drank my birch beer before I got back off the stage.”

They both giggled, but the air quickly settled into silence. Apple Bloom went back to staring at the ceiling, and Sweetie lay her cheek on the windowsill.

The door swung open, slamming into the wall, and the pair turned towards the sounds of stomping.

“Scootaloo?” said Apple Bloom, making room as her friend leapt up onto the bed. “Y’all weren’t gone half an hour. What happened?” It seemed to Apple Bloom as though Scootaloo’s scowl was radiating off of her in waves.

“Nothing,” growled Scootaloo.

“You can tell us, Scoots,” said Sweetie with a note of concern. “We’re here for you.”

“I did tell you!” Scootaloo threw her hooves up. “Literally nothing happened! That mare—she takes me out to a field, tells me I suck at flying, has me kick a ball, and she freaking leaves!” She threw her head forcefully back onto a pillow. “I didn’t learn a thing. Except that she’s terrible.”

Apple Bloom’s head rose. “A ball?” she said, inching over to Scootaloo. “Like a magic one?”

Letting a raised eyebrow loose on her friend, Scootaloo said, “How’d you know?”

“‘Cause she did the same thing with me…” Apple Bloom’s mouth twisted up. “Ah think it let her know how strong ah was?”

Scootaloo turned now to Sweetie Belle. “Did she do it for you, too?”

Sweetie shook her head, and Scootaloo’s mouth tightened.

“Well,” said Scootaloo, looking to Apple Bloom again, “you were gone pretty long, so she didn’t cut your lesson short before it even started, right? What did she have you doing after that?”

Apple Bloom sighed. “Boiling water.”

A moment passed, and then Scootaloo’s ear twitched. “That’s it?”

“Mhm…”

Scootaloo sat back up. “Lemme get this straight.” She pointed a steady hoof at Sweetie Belle. “You get your head messed with and then thrown into the manticore’s den.” It moved to Apple Bloom. “You get the most boring-sounding lesson ever.” It dropped back to her side. “Then I don’t even get that much? We need to do something, you guys.”

Apple Bloom nodded. “Me an’ Sweetie were talkin’ it over before y’all showed up.”

“Yeah,” said Sweetie Belle. “Did you notice that she didn’t even ask how my show went before she left with you, Scootaloo?” She frowned. “That’s not how a teacher should be.”

“Forget ‘teacher’!” said Scootaloo, fire kicking back up. “That’s not how anypony should be! I remember how down you looked, and I know she saw it.”

“So, um.” Apple Bloom gulped. “Are we gonna ask to go back home again?”

“I don’t know,” said Sweetie.
“No,” said Scootaloo forcefully, in the same moment.

The pegasus deflated some, letting her wings fall and slumping further back onto the bed. “Really, guys?”

“I think…” Sweetie turned to look out the window again. “I think I would be fine whether we go home or we keep going with Miss Trixie.” Her eyes moved back to Apple Bloom. “Even if today hasn’t gone well so far, I really do think she knows a lot of stuff I want to learn, whether it helps me get a cutie mark or not.”

Eyes back to the town outside, she tapped a free hoof softly against her forehead. To herself more than the others, Sweetie said, “A cutie mark isn’t the only thing I’ve been waiting for.”

Apple Bloom, expressionless, said, “So what are we gonna do?”

Scootaloo sat back up. “Let’s just tell her that—” There came a riotous gurgling. “…Er.”



“Let’s tell her,” said Scootaloo, shoving another few red-dripping hay fries into her mouth, “fhat we don’ wanna pugh uff wiff any more weffons if—”

“Please,” said Sweetie Belle from across the table. “Once, have some table manners. I’m spending all I got from—” An orange hoof pushed fries into Sweetie’s own mouth.

Scootaloo said, “Don’ be your fifter.”'

Sweetie Belle grumbled, blushing, and ate.

The Paddock was picking up with the lunch crowd, but the fillies had managed to snag a booth all to themselves, and their order of a plate of hay fries with firesauce had arrived in only minutes. Apple Bloom hadn’t had a bite of it yet, preoccupied as she was watching the inn’s small-town ponies being with one another.

Scootaloo drank from her water, then said, “So yeah, we just have to say we don’t like the way she’s been teaching. She has to listen, right? ‘Trixie’s name depends on her company not sucking,’ or whatever.”

Sweetie Belle frowned. “That’s not a nice spot to put her in.”

“So what?” Scootaloo dunked a few more fries in firesauce, not looking at Sweetie. “It’s been days away from Ponyville and I don’t feel any closer to a cutie mark. We need to be more… that thing you say.”

“‘Proactive,’” said Sweetie, rolling her eyes. “I still think we should be nicer about it than that. How about you, Apple Bloom?”

“Hm?” Apple Bloom turned to the table. “What were y’all talkin’ about again, sorry?”

Scootaloo groaned. “Come on, Bloom. Telling Trixie to stop being awful. What are you even doing?”

“Nothin’,” said Apple Bloom, mouth slipping down from neutral. “Just thinkin’.”

“What, not about this?”

Apple Bloom shook her head, then turned back towards the other patrons. “This town feels weird, is all.”

“How do you mean?” asked Sweetie Belle.

A pair of earth ponies at the bar had Apple Bloom’s attention. One green, one dark red, one a mare, one a stallion, one with a homegrown air, one thin and delicate. Both laughing for all they were worth. One was bellowing the laughter heartily, the other trying to restrain it. There was an unmistakable light in their eyes.

“What’s a town,” said Apple Bloom, “without Pinkie Pie? Ah never thought about that kinda thing before. Ah never had to.”

“What?” asked Scootaloo, eyes watering from a hoofful of fries that was more firesauce than hay. “It’s a town that isn’t Ponyville, duh.”

“That’s not what ah mean.” Apple Bloom looked Scootaloo in the eyes. “What if Ponyville never had Rainbow Dash, Scoots?”

Scootaloo stuck out her (bright red) tongue, looking disgusted. “It wouldn’t be anywhere near as cool.”

“Scoots,” said Apple Bloom, shaking her head, “y’all told me ya wanted to be Rainbow Dash ever since she helped you up when ya crashed yer scooter, forever ago.” She sat back. “Ah’m not askin’ ya what Ponyville would be like. Ah’m askin’ what you’d be like, if Ponyville was different.”

Scootaloo slowed her chewing, and she swallowed. “Trick question,” she said. “I wouldn’t be me then.”

“That’s…” Apple Bloom raised a hoof. “Well, that’s not what ah meant exactly, but ya get the point. Ponies back home made us us.”

Sweetie Belle asked, “And you’re worried about being away from them too long?”

Apple Bloom nodded. “Who’m ah gonna be without Applejack?”

“Still a trick question,” said Scootaloo, “because you’ll still be you.” She pointed a hoof and the hay fry it was holding at Apple Bloom. “You can’t not be whoever you are, because once you’re not, you’re really just the you that’s what you are then, and not the one that’s not what…” The hoof drooped, along with Scootaloo’s face. “Y’know what I mean?”

Before Apple Bloom could respond, the fry in Scootaloo’s hoof shimmered purple and zipped off to the side. The trio tracked its flight, right into the mouth of a passing Trixie.

“Ack!” Spitting the fry up, Trixie coughed and sputtered. She sent a glare up at her still-lit horn, and then she turned to the Crusaders’ booth. “Oh!” she said, putting on a light smile. She closed a book that had been floating next to her and placed it into her saddlebags. “Hello, all.”

“Um, hi,” said Scootaloo, sitting up rigid. She leaned into the table, held a hoof over her mouth, and continued in a whisper, “I can’t remember if we picked a plan of attack, you guys.”

“What’s that?” said Trixie. “Plan of what?”

Scootaloo snapped back into place, smiling.

Trixie shook her head, saying, “No matter. Children, listen. Trixie’s company has enough coin to afford another night here yet, so there are a good many options available.” She slid herself into the booth, Apple Bloom scootching over to accomodate her. “One more show to bolster those reserves would be a wise decision—Trixie would recommend in the evening. She would offer more lessons in the meantime, if you would all give her an hour or two to prepare.”

As one, the Crusaders opened their mouths—

“And on the topic of lessons…” Trixie looked to Scootaloo. “Trixie apologizes once more, young Scootaloo. She promises that her next attempt will have more… content.” To Apple Bloom, at her side. “The same for yours, Apple Bloom. Trixie judges you to have taken naturally enough to boiling water that you would be more than capable of simple potions.” To Sweetie Belle. “And Trixie is pleased to see that your spirits are back up, Sweetie Belle. She’d wanted to ask about your performance, but you’d seemed so distraught before. She hopes it wasn’t too awful an experience.”

“Oh,” said Scootaloo.
“Uh,” said Apple Bloom.
“Huh,” said Sweetie Belle.


- - - - -


Apple Bloom trotted back into that same field as earlier. It looked different now, with the sun in the other side of its sky—shadows from the trees reached out into it, shading her approach.

Trixie had said to meet her there in about an hour, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Apple Bloom saw only that same cauldron as before, set out over the fire pit by a wood pile. She made her way over to it.

The cauldron was full. Apple Bloom was unpleasantly surprised to find that her hooves were reflexively reaching out to the flint set beside it. She reined them in.

“Ah, right on time!” came Trixie’s voice from the treeline.

Apple Bloom turned. Trixie was heading her way with what looked like a gunny sack slung over one shoulder. As the mare got closer, Apple Bloom spotted lots of little scrapes and scratches pockmarking her blue coat red.

“Are y’all alright, Miss Trixie?” she asked.

“But of course. Trixie's expedition was a marked success.” Trixie flung the sack down by the cauldron. Her horn lit up, and some of the sack’s seams vanished, the whole thing unfolding—just one of the cloths from the wagon, Apple Bloom realized—to reveal a set of pouches and something that looked almost like fruits. More magic, and the pouches emptied themselves out onto the cloth. A line of seven small, vaguely leafy piles, with the fruits set at the end.

“With but a short foray into the nearby wilds,” the mare continued, “Trixie has collected common thyme, running thyme, quitting thyme, blood yarrow, lemon grass, lime grass, bug basil, and she was even skilled enough to recover a pair of perfectly intact crab apples. Come and have a look.”

As Trixie set about lighting the fire, Apple Bloom approached the collection. To the furthest left on the cloth was a pile of tiny, grayish-green leaves. Bringing her nose close, Apple Bloom found that the pile’s scent reminded her somewhat of Sugarcube Corner’s kitchen. Just the thyme, she guessed.

Another pile of little leaves, brownish-green this time, was set to the right of the first. The filly leaned in to sniff this pile as well, but reared back suddenly; the leaves appeared to be moving! Each one twitched and jiggled of its own accord, aimlessly. Apple Bloom hesitantly reached a hoof forward to poke at the pile, and once she made contact, the leaves all seemed to swarm around it. Life and energy—a simple urge to run anywhere and everywhere—filled the filly’s mind. Before she knew it, she found herself giggling helplessly. She extracted her hoof from the leaves, and they resumed their aimless wiggling, Apple Bloom’s sense of their energy gone.

She turned to the third and final similar pile. The leaves in this one were colored a matte gray, and looked a bit older and more curled up than the others had. The filly found herself almost not wanting to touch this pile, but did so regardless. She pulled her hoof back immediately—her mind had been invaded by a feeling of crushing sadness, if only for an instant.

“This earth pony sense,” said Trixie, her voice making Apple Bloom jump. “It has always been fascinating to Trixie. Every earth pony she has taken the time to speak with about it seems to describe it a little bit differently. Tell her: what is it like for you?”

Apple Bloom sat back on her haunches, Trixie following suit. After a short while staring up at the clouds, the filly said, “Well, ah guess ah just get a feelin’. Not like the kind ‘a feelin’ like when yer just scared or hungry or somethin’, though. It’s like…” She shut her eyes. One hoof lifted up and pushed purposefully into the ground. “It’s like how it feels when ya remember a memory, ‘cept ah don’t have a memory to remember. Like, this dirt is makin’ me feel full ‘n happy, like how ah’d feel if I was back home, after a good supper. ‘Cept without all ‘a that. Ah just get the feelin’.”

“Mm.” Trixie looked on at Apple Bloom’s half-buried hoof. The fur all along the filly’s extended arm seemed to bristle slightly, in time with her breathing. “Though Trixie would never want to be anything other than what she is, she admits to having often thought about what it is like to use earth pony magic.”

Apple Bloom opened her eyes back up, and looked between her own hoof and Trixie’s stare. She hastily yanked the appendage out from the ground, a slight blush on her face. “It’s nothin’ all that special.”

“Mm, it is so easy to think that, is it not?” Trixie looked down to her own hooves. “Because it is subtle. Every step you take, you feel some hidden facet of the ground beneath your hooves—something beyond the shapes and texture of it. Something all your own.” The mare set off her horn, petals from a nearby flower plucking themselves and floating over. They danced about one another while Trixie stared on, no emotion on her face. “Unicorn magic is rarely so tactile or… romantic. Even if it does impress.”

Apple Bloom didn’t know how to respond, so instead, she turned back to the cloth. Past the piles of thyme she’d touched were more bits of plant matter—a mound of delicate-looking crimson petals, a matching set of yellow and green grasses that the filly could smell distinctly even from where she was sitting, a collection of leaves that she almost mistook for dragonfly wings at first, and the pair of brownish-red apple-like fruits that seemed to be armored and covered in little protrusions. “What exactly are we gonna be doin’ with all ‘a these?”

“Hm?” Trixie said, looking up from her still-dancing petals and following the filly’s gaze down to the cloth. “Ah, yes. An age-old examination, this.” The mare turned off her magic and sat up more rigidly. “You, little one, are a beginner pony apothecary, and what Trixie has planned for today is a sort of rite of passage for just such a person.”

Before Trixie could continue, Apple Bloom picked up on a sound she’d become all too familiar with—the cauldron was boiling.

“Ah,” said Trixie. Standing up, she released the petals she’d been holding and floated up a number of the dainty red ones from the cloth. Those she dumped promptly into the cauldron, and she extinguished the fire simultaneously.

Apple Bloom got up as well. She craned her neck to see over the cauldron’s rim; the petals were swirling around in the bubbling water, but nothing else was happening.

Patting Apple Bloom’s shoulder, Trixie said, “Never mind that, little one. This easy sort practically makes itself.” She sat back down. “Speaking of, that will be half the nature of your assignment. Using any single one of these ingredients”—she swept a hoof over the cloth—“you are tasked with creating a potion and then investigating and describing its effects and what makes it identifiable.” She paused, then added, “Not the blood yarrow, mind. That shall be my example—too easy.”

A grin sprung up on Apple Bloom’s face. “And if ah do it? Ah’ll be a full-on apothecathy?”

“Apothecary, yes.” Trixie was smiling a smile of her own. She raised her head and peered into the cauldron. “Ah,” she said again, before standing up. “Come, come.”

Apple Bloom got up and looked in. The water had gone a cloudy pink, slowly swirling.

“Notice the color,” said Trixie. “Not just of the concoction, but of the air around it.”

Apple Bloom shifted her gaze and saw that, indeed, the air itself was almost imperceptibly pinkened.

Trixie continued, “A potion such as this would radiate that ‘steam’ even if it was cold. Raw magic seeping off—that is how one knows it is simple and inefficient.” She leaned over the cauldron and sniffed, undoubtedly catching what Apple Bloom recognized to be a sweet, very floral scent. Suddenly, Trixie dipped her mouth into the mixture and started gulping a few mouthfuls of it down. She rose back up and said, “One must either use or store an inefficient potion as soon as one can, lest all the magic escape and it become nothing more than colored, flavored water.”

Before Apple Bloom’s eyes, all the cuts and scrapes along Trixie’s body seemed to quietly hiss and steam—and then they knit themselves shut. Even the blood was gone, as though it had been selectively burned away.

“Wow,” she said.

Trixie chuckled. “Refrain from being impressed, initiate. This is one of the simplest healing potions possible—wounds any more serious and it would have been useless. Besides…” She lit her horn and overturned the cauldron, pouring its remaining contents out over the grass. Calling up more water from the stream, she filled it again. Trixie turned back to Apple Bloom. “It’s your turn now.”

Apple Bloom took the flint in hoof, sparked a fire in the pit, and all but leapt over to the cloth. She eyed each ingredient in turn, tapped her hoof to them and felt what they wanted her to feel. She took in their scents. She… felt her grin slowly fade.

“Do not worry,” said Trixie from behind. “All are valid ingredients for potions—even the common thyme, though that might offer a bit too much of a challenge in discerning its effects.” She nudged the filly. “All are perfectly safe, as well, with not a single recorded case of aberrant misfire. All you need do is make a selection, and I have every confidence in you, little one.”

Apple Bloom set her jaw and nodded to herself. With a steely grunt, she reached out for the gray, wilted quitting thyme.


- - - - -


“Ooh…” said Sweetie Belle. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” said Trixie over the polite sizzling. “Soon to be even better, once she replaces her stock of healing herbs, incinerated as it was.” She shook her head mirthlessly—her blackened, wiry mane tumbled all about. “Your little friend certainly has a… talent for the unexpected.”

Frowning, Sweetie said, “I’m sorry. Did you want to postpone?”

“No, no.” Trixie sucked in a breath. “First, just let Trixie espouse a bit of personal sense and caution with a fresh life lesson: simply because she says nopony ever recorded a case of something does not mean that it never happened.” She licked her lips. “Merely that whoever it happened to probably died.”

“Um.” Sweetie gulped. “Got it.”

“Good.”

Sweetie Belle followed as Trixie pushed through the parquet door, out of Dappleton’s little family-run Wellwishers’ Burn Clinic and onto Midsummer Street. Walking there since Apple Bloom had gone and gotten her, Sweetie hadn’t failed to notice that most every business—and there were many—along this side street and others seemed to be owned and operated by some family or another. That, the decreased hoof traffic, and the warm quiet made the area feel almost residential.

Trixie led the way to a nearby open-air cafe. Perky Later’s, according to the hoof-painted sign hanging from its green- and white-striped awning. The hostess, a rather peppy and wide-eyed young mare, sat them promptly at one of many empty tables.

“An espresso,” said Trixie, lowering her menu, “with the white bean and escarole soup.”

“Um,” said Sweetie Belle. “The same for me, please, but a grape juice instead.” She turned to Trixie. “Should we get something for Apple Bloom and Scootaloo?”

“No need.” Trixie floated their menus up and stacked them. “Trixie gave Apple Bloom a bit of money for them to split.”

“O-okay,” said Sweetie, grimacing. Turning back to the hostess, she said, “That’ll be it, thank you.”

“Comin’ right up!” The hostess took the menus and practically bounced off to the back.

Trixie tapped a hoof on the wood of their table. A hint of something like regret in her voice, she said, “You never did give Trixie the details of your… ‘homework’.”

Sweetie stared down at her hooves on the seat. “There’s not a whole lot to say about it. Not really.”

A smile slowly snuck across Trixie’s face. “Melodrama suits you a touch too well, little apprentice.” At Sweetie Belle’s solemn pout, she continued, “How about starting with this much: what were your expectations for the show, before you began?”

“I…” Sweetie sighed, and she met Trixie’s eyes. “I don’t know. None?”

Trixie shook her head, saying, “Trixie sincerely doubts that.”

The filly put her forehooves up on the table, rubbing them together. “I knew it was going to be bad,” she said, not sounding sure even to herself. “But…”

“…But you also knew it could be wonderful.”

Sweetie frowned. “Yeah.”

“Excellent,” said Trixie, leaning forward. Still smiling, she went on, “Basic fact, little one: not-having is an important step on the road to having. Wanting and imagining are, too.” She pointed a hoof to herself—still blackened, still missing small patches of her coat. “When you find yourself having all that you wanted and imagined, you shall have developed the capacity to appreciate it!”

The clocktower rang thrice in the distance.

Sweetie Belle severed her stare to bury her mouth in her hoof, but couldn’t stifle her giggling. She said around it, “Now who’s melodramatic?”

Trixie sat back—formal posture, spine rigid, but grinning on. “The term ‘apprentice’,” she said, “implies that there exists a master.”

Sweetie giggled through the hostess bringing out their orders. Even through the first few unfortunate spoonfuls of soup.

“There, now,” said Trixie. “Spirits lifted, yes?”

The filly nodded.

Trixie blew on her espresso. “No resentment for putting you through it all?”

It took a moment, but Sweetie shook her head. “None, Miss Trixie. Or—” She bit back the rest, but then said, “Just please don’t make me do it again?”

“Nonsense,” said Trixie, smile evening out. She set the drink down on its saucer. “Whyever not? Trixie assures you that you will improve.”

“I just…” Sweetie stirred the spoon around in her bowl. “I’m not sure I can take being up there, everypony looking at me.”

There was a shimmering sound, and Sweetie felt a force beneath her chin. It pushed her head up, until her eyes were level with Trixie’s.

“There exists an easy remedy, little one.” The glow of Trixie’s horn started to fade. “The next time, Trixie shall simply make sure that you aren’t on stage alo—” The horn flashed sharply, and a bubble of her soup rushed into her open mouth. She reared back, spluttering, “Oh, come now!”

The hostess bounded over. “Miss?” she said with heavy concern. “Is everything alright? Problem with the food?”

“It’s fine,” grumbled Trixie, dabbing a napkin over herself and the table. “Too good, even.”

“O-Oh…” The hostess’ eyes narrowed—the first time Sweetie Belle had seen her eyelids fall even minutely. “Um, should we be charging more, or…?”

Trixie shot the hostess a sidelong glare.

“Er, right. Sorry for… interrupting?” The young mare bowed and scurried off.

Trixie turned her eyes back to the task of cleaning herself up. She dropped the soiled napkin down after, taking up her spoon in its place.

“Miss Trixie?” asked Sweetie as her lunch partner shoveled down soup. “Why does that keep happening?”

A discontented grunt was the response, along with metal rapidly clinking against the bottom of a bowl.

Sweetie just went back to her own meal.

Bowl empty, Trixie sighed. “Trixie does not permit you to laugh, understood?”

“Promise,” said Sweetie Belle.

Trixie folded her fore legs on the table. Frowning, she said, “There is something that they do not tell you about horns, Sweetie Belle.”

The filly set aside her juice and cocked her head.

“Use your horn to do something enough times”—Trixie floated up the last remnants of soup from her bowl—“enough that it becomes second nature, enough that you do not even have to think about it to do it”—she took it into her mouth and swallowed—“and your horn can develop a mind of its own.”

Sweetie Belle’s eyes widened. “Horns can…”

“Yes,” said Trixie. She glared up at what of her horn her forehead wasn’t blocking. “And Trixie’s horn is an idiot.”

Sweetie snickered, and Trixie’s glare shifted down. “Um, sorry!”

Trixie’s eyes softened into a tired look. “It is perhaps the single embarrassing aspect of being Trixie’s self.” She shifted her gaze again, staring off down the street. “In an earlier stage of her life, Trixie found it to be an invaluable trait, this food-lust. It has long since outlived its merits, though, and there seems to be nothing Trixie can do.”

“You can’t, um.” Sweetie’s eyes were locked on the horn. “You can’t retrain it somehow?”

Trixie shook her head, saying, “The only references to the phenomenon that Trixie has found have amounted to old mares’ tales, and they tend to leave off at ‘or it’ll get stuck that way.’” She gave a mirthless chuckle. “And it doesn’t help that Trixie’s carbuncle is rooted firmly in her stomach.”

Sweetie Belle’s brow shot up. “A carbuncle in your stomach—like a boil? Are you al—”

“You know far too many words, young one.” Trixie shook her head. “Not that sort of carbuncle. And it is merely an expression.”

“Um, not one I’ve ever heard.”

Trixie sighed again. “In reference to dendritic carbuncles?”

Sweetie opened her mouth, but shut it and shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh ho,” said Trixie, rising up in her seat and smirking. “Trixie had come to wonder how rare would be the occasion that she would need to define something for you.”

Frowning, Sweetie said, “If you’re going to be that way…”

“Lighten up, little one. In brief, dendritic carbuncles are a superstition, similar in nature to one’s horoscope.” Trixie slumped back onto the table. Her smirk retreating again, she continued, “Trixie would remind you that we are quite off track for our lesson. Please tell her that you would rather not spend any more time delving into such rubbish?”

“We~ell…”

“Ugh.” Trixie snorted out a puff of air, sending her crumpled napkin flying. “Alright. Riddle Trixie this: what determines which spells a given unicorn is skilled in casting, apart from practice? What determines base aptitude?”

Sweetie Belle looked up to the cloudless sky, and she said, “Their special talent does?”

Trixie nodded as much as she could without raising her head from the table. “That is the dominant modern hypothesis, yes, and the one to which Trixie subscribes.” She waved a hoof about dismissively. “Some centuries ago, this was not the case.

“Ponies theorized,” she went on with yet another sigh, “that there existed in the unicorn body a crystalline or pseudo-crystalline object of indeterminate size, enmeshed with the flesh—or bone, or nerves, or whatever there happened to be wherever it happened to coalesce.” She stuck her tongue out, closed eyes crinkling. “Nasty thought. At any rate, the idea was that the specific location of this so-called ‘dendritic carbuncle’ influenced magical aptitude. Massaged it towards or away from certain categories of spells.”

“And yours,” asked Sweetie, “is in your stomach? Or would be, if it was real?”

“Perhaps,” said Trixie, all but rolling her eyes verbally. “As with horoscopes and birthsigns and such, carbuncles were also supposed indicators of personality. Trixie merely feels that she fits the description.” She shrugged. “They say that one who has one’s carbuncle in the stomach is possessed of a hunger for power and fame and the like.”

Sweetie Belle tapped a hoof to her chin. “That does sound about right.”

“Or, of course,” said Trixie, tone serious, “that one is just literally hungry remarkably often.” Her smile crept back, and she continued lightly, “Trixie would not argue with either description.”

Sweetie gave a quiet giggle, then she asked, “So they never found one, then? If it’s just a theory, I mean.”

“Pshaw,” said Trixie. “Proponents would claim that carbuncles go away when observed or damaged, or that they weren’t actually physical things at all and were ingrained instead in the body’s magic. Any number of excuses that defy being disproven.” She held up a forehoof. “Thus, superstition.”

“Hm,” said Sweetie, and she started in on the last of her meal. When metal met bare porcelain, she said in a tentative tone, “Twilight always—Twilight Sparkle, back home, I mean. She always says ponies often don’t pay enough attention to ‘superstitions’ and ‘the supernatural’. Knows from personal experience as a formerly close-minded cynic, she says.”

Trixie groaned, saying, “So she’s the expert, is she?”

“Well,” said Sweetie, “probably?”

Sitting back up, Trixie said with ice in her voice, “Twilight Sparkle is just the sort of ‘disillusioned’ university-age pony who would try Zebrican meditation or other such nonsense to ‘find her carbuncle’ and then think it a revelation.” She clicked her tongue. “Perhaps not an inherently useless exercise, but far outpaced in reason and practicality by simply learning useful spells and seeing which you’re naturally best at.”

“Um, I don’t know about all that,” said Sweetie, wincing. “She does seem to spend most days just learning spells, though.” She could faintly hear the teeth grinding in Trixie’s mouth.

“Little one,” Trixie breathed, “this has been more than enough copperstore mysticism and-or Twilight Sparkle for one conversation, would you not agree?”

“Sure…?” said Sweetie meekly. “So, um, spell practice, or—”

“Spell practice.”


- - - - -


The door opened, and Scootaloo heard little hoofsteps slowly and heavily make their way into the room.

“Scootaloo?” came Sweetie Belle’s exhausted voice.

Scootaloo sat up on the bed. “Right here.”

“Hey, cool bandanna.” Sweetie walked to the bed and scrambled up. Lying back and looking once more to Scootaloo, she said, “So, Trixie wants to meet you out in that field you all go to. But…” Her brows creased some. “Is everything alright, Scoots?”

Scootaloo realized then that trying hard to look like you weren’t feeling anything probably looked a lot like trying hard to look like you weren’t feeling anything. “Yeah, no,” she said. “I just know that Trixie’s gonna try and give me some bad news.”


- - - - -


“Where did you get that?” asked Trixie, pointing to Scootaloo’s chest and the bandanna—purple, with black geometric designs around its visible edges—that rested there.

Scootaloo shrugged, taking a seat on the grass. “A little store in town, with the money you gave me and Bloom.”

“That was for food!”

“Hey, calm down!” said Scootaloo, holding her forehooves up. “I already ate.”

Trixie brought a hoof to the bridge of her nose. “And Apple Bloom?”

“She got something to eat with it, yeah.” Scootaloo settled back. “It was kinda crazy, actually. We found a place where that many bits gets you like a full-on pound of candy.”

Without hesitation, Trixie said, “Sweetie Belle is now in charge of your per diem.”

“Okay,” said Scootaloo, shrugging again. “Whatever that means.”

The sun was well on its way to the horizon, and the field was almost entirely shaded by the tree line—the only object set out nearby, the cauldron, was ominously black already. It would soon be getting a bit too dark out, Scootaloo noted gravely, for flying practice.

“Alright,” she said, “what’s the deal?”

Straightening up where she stood, Trixie said, “During Trixie’s last lesson, you h—”

“Just to be clear,” said Scootaloo, one hoof raised, “you mean that talk we had instead of a lesson, yeah?”

Trixie cleared her throat. “Precisely. And Trixie apologizes once more for that. At any rate, during that talk, you had said you were the child of two pegasi born and raised in Ponyville, correct?”

“I am,” said Scootaloo, starting to frown.

“Well,” Trixie said more slowly, “Trixie has a theory for you in regards to your flying that might come as something of a sh—”

“You think,” said Scootaloo evenly, “that I’ve got too much not-pegasus in me to be a normal pegasus.”

“That’s…” Trixie blanched slightly. “That was not how Trixie would have put it. How did you…?”

Scootaloo scoffed. “I’m not the smartest filly around, but I’m not a complete idiot either. You ask me about my family—three earth pony grandparents, by the way—you give me some strength test you gave Apple Bloom, and I saw that book you got.” She pointed to Trixie’s saddlebags. “‘The Potency of Parentage’? Sweetie told me what that means.”

“Okay,” said Trixie, mouth twisting. “Clearly, Trixie has failed to give you enough credit. Once again, she finds herself apologizing.” She paused, and then she sat down across from Scootaloo and leaned to eye level. “The fact remains, however, that you do not seem to have the flight capabilities of a pegasus years your junior. An uncommon multi-racial deformity could be a viab—”

“Deformity?” said Scootaloo, shooting up to her hooves. “I know that word. You calling me something, here?”

Trixie’s head reared back. “No, young one! Trixie only meant that—”

“No, you know what?” Scootaloo all but shouted. “I’ve freaking had it.” She started to pace-stomp around the area, her little form the very picture of seething tension—wings flittering, jaw gnashing. Without looking to Trixie, she continued, “You tell me I suck, you won’t give me a lesson, and now you try and say I’m freaking crippled.”

Scootaloo brought her hind legs up and kicked out at the only thing in range—the cauldron flew nearly ten hooflengths.

Scootaloo stared at it where it landed, her eyes wide.

“Er,” said Trixie, cutting through the silence. “This was what Trixie had meant to get at, Scootaloo.” She opened up her saddlebag and levitated the book out, turning to a bookmarked page. She read aloud, “‘In roughly seventy-eight percent of recorded cases, ponies afflicted with multi-racial deformities were seen to develop secondary or tertiary racial characteristics in the absence of or to the detriment of primary racial characteristics.’”

Looking back up to Scootaloo, Trixie said, “In short, you are—to some extent—capable of earth pony magic.”

“I…” Scootaloo moved her stare down to her hooves. “What?”

Trixie flipped to another bookmark, and she brought the book over to Scootaloo. On the pages was an illustration—exact and clinical, all sharp lines and no frills—of three pegasi in profile, wings extended. The first was normal apart from its baldness. The second and third, though, had smaller wings drawn within dotted outlines the size of the first’s set. The second pegasus was unique in that it had flowing lines superimposed over it, these lines collectively labelled ‘Flumen pollentis’. The third pegasus had a slightly bulkier frame, and in the provided cross section of its hooves was depicted a shaded layer beneath the skin labelled ‘Terra corporis’.

Trixie brought a hoof up and tapped the third pegasus, saying, “Trixie imagines you’ve been coming into some earth pony magics instead of the pegasus magics you’d been expecting, and for some time now.”

Eyes coming back into focus, Scootaloo looked up to Trixie and said harshly, “I think I’d notice it if flowers started sprouting around me everywhere I go.”

“That is not at all how it works,” said Trixie, grimacing, “and Trixie is sure that you know it.”

Scootaloo gritted her teeth. “I don’t care how it works, okay?” She started turning back to the field’s path, continuing, “If you don’t have any pegasus stuff for me, then—”

Trixie reached out and grasped Scootaloo’s fore leg, and the filly’s ears drooped back.

“Stop, little one,” said Trixie softly. “Trixie understands that this was not what you wished to hear, but…” Her mouth twisted up. “Well, it is the reality. What can be done but come to understand it?”

Scootaloo gripped back with her own hoof. She turned her head to Trixie, saying, “That’s what you’d do, huh?”

Trixie nodded, no hesitation.

A moment of the field’s stillness passed silently, then Scootaloo sighed, and she took her hoof back. “If I wanted to, where would I start?”

Trixie’s mouth split into a grin, and she said, “The basics, of course.”

Scootaloo sat back down, hesitantly. “And those are?”

Taking in and releasing a deep breath—and pointedly ignoring Scootaloo’s reemerging frown—Trixie began, “It could be said that an earth pony’s core abilities can be boiled down to just two bullet points: spellcasting of a generally passive sort, and what is known commonly as the ‘earth pony sense’.”

Trixie started to pace, as though she were a teacher in front of a blackboard. “For the former,” she continued, “there are rare exceptions, but most earth ponies enjoy some inborn measure of above average strength and balance, at least or especially when in contact with the ground. Or something solid which has itself been in contact with the ground for a long enough time.”

“Howzat work?” asked Scootaloo, her head tracking Trixie’s little circuit.

“I'm not certain you'd be able to grasp the technical details…” Trixie’s hoof shot up as Scootaloo’s mouth opened, and she added, “No offense intended, of course. Have you had any arcanodynamics at school?”

“Um…”

“Right.” Trixie rolled her eyes. “Essentially, magic flows in one or more of three directions naturally, with few exceptions: from hot things to cold things, from insubstantial things to tangible things, and from moving things to stationary things.” She pointed a hoof to the ground. “The magic in the planet itself is of a form that abides primarily by the second and third directions, and it spreads by physical contact.

“Everything here but the air,” she continued, sweeping the hoof about the field, “is a tangible thing that has been touching the ground for some time, and so is permeated by some amount of this magic.” The hoof settled to point at Scootaloo. “This includes you, and as an earth pony, your body—specifically your hooves, with the alicorn-like material they contain—is able to passively and very efficiently expend this kind of magic into spells. Generally performance-enhancing ones, hence the strength and balance.”

Scootaloo’s eyebrow rose. “You’re saying my hooves are princess—”

“No,” said Trixie, smirking. She tapped her horn. “‘Alicorn’ is a term for the core material of a unicorn’s horn—or any horn-based spellcaster’s.” She motioned to Scootaloo with her head. “You have a related material in your wings as well, of a hollower sort.”

Wings twitching, Scootaloo averted her eyes. “Look,” she said, “can we just get to something useful?”

Trixie’s smirk softened, and she bit her cheek. “Gladly,” she said. “Learn by doing.” She took in Scootaloo’s half slumped-over form, and she added, “But perhaps a small lesson first, agreed? A bit of practice?”

“Fine, I guess.” Scootaloo stood. “What am I doing.”

“Well…” Trixie coughed into her hoof. “Trixie takes this opportunity to admit that she has only the benefit of word of mouth from here on.”

Scootaloo’s frown was going full force. “So you’re saying you don’t know.”

“No,” said Trixie, voice muffled by the hoof still in front of her mouth, “merely that Trixie doesn’t know for su—”

“Let’s just get on with it,” said Scootaloo, rolling her eyes.

“Of course…” Trixie walked around the filly, inspecting her stance, loose as it currently was. “So, two bullet points, two broad options to explore. Passive spellcasting or the earth pony sense.”

Scootaloo looked back to Trixie. “You didn’t tell me what the second one is, y’know.”

Trixie pshawed, and she said, “You gave Trixie the distinct impression that the time for talk had come to a close.” She nodded to herself. “The earth pony sense shall be our starting point, then, why not. It is usually the first of the two to manifest anyway, in full earth pony foals.

“This question may strike you as odd,” she continued, staring at where Scootaloo’s hooves met the ground, “and I would bet that the answer will be ‘no’ regardless, but have you ever noticed a new sensation that you’d never noticed before? Different feedback for touching different materials or objects with your hooves?”

Slowly shaking her head, Scootaloo asked, “What kind of feedback?”

“Quite impossible to say.” Trixie sighed. “Every earth pony describes it differently. If you’ve never noticed it, then your earth pony sense—assuming you do indeed have one, which you should—must be either fairly weak or fairly subtle.” She rubbed a hoof to her chin. “Or, Trixie supposes, so specialized as to be all but worthless day to day.”

“Trixie…” Scootaloo’s frown changed then, and a mish-mash of expressions fought for a foothold in its place. “Come on. I’m, like, past my limit on hearing that kinda thing today. It’s a pretty high limit, too…”

“What do…?” Trixie’s eyes shot up to Scootaloo’s face. Her mouth opened, but not until a moment later did she ask, “Would you believe Trixie if she said that she was genuinely not intending for this all to come off the way it has?”

Scootaloo looked down. “Probably not, honestly.”

Mouth twisting, Trixie said quietly, “I suppose that’s fair.”

Scootaloo’s ear twitched. A few seconds, and then she looked back up to Trixie’s eyes. “What do we do now?”

“Right,” said Trixie, and she took a sharp breath in through her nostrils. “Describe to Trixie what your senses are currently telling you, if you please.”

“Um, what, like touch, taste and all?” At Trixie’s nod, Scootaloo looked to the ground and worked her hooves against it. “Um, ground’s kinda warm. Grass’s prickly.” She worked her tongue around. “Don’t taste anything. Tastes like mouth?”

Trixie sniggered.

Taking a great whiff of the air, Scootaloo went on, “Smells like grass, plus I guess a little me-sweat.” She waggled her ears. “Sounds like a breeze, and myself talking.” Her eyes roved quickly around. “Aaand looks like a fie—”

“Sorry,” said Trixie, brow raised, “breeze?”

Scootaloo nodded. “Tiny one, yeah. You can’t hear it?”

“No…” said Trixie. “A pegasus would have better eyes and ears than Trixie, she supposes, but she doesn’t feel a breeze, either.”

Scootaloo looked down at her body. Up at the tree line with none of its leaves rustling. The clouds moving slowly high up above—she pointed a hoof to them. “Wind up there, yeah? Planet stuff? That’s always going, right?”

“Hm,” said Trixie as she followed Scootaloo’s hoof up to the sky. “Possibly…” Her gaze came back down to the filly. “Humor Trixie, though. She would ask you to touch that bandanna of yours.”

Scootaloo did so, bringing her fore leg back down and nestling it up against the fabric. A moment later, she said, “Hearing it still.” She looked to Trixie.

“Forget your other hooves.” The mare came forward and tapped her hoof against Scootaloo’s. “Try focusing on this one.”

“‘Kay.” Scootaloo shut her eyes. She rubbed the bandanna, feeling the threads against her coat. She breathed deeply.

Her eyes opened, then narrowed. “That’s… huh.” She looked to the sky again, at the still-moving clouds. “It stopped.” 

Trixie brushed her mane back, saying, “Little one, Trixie believes that we have identified your earth pony sense.” She clicked her tongue. “Sort of.”


- - - - -


“Still nothing I can use,” said Scootaloo, voice empty. “I probably forgot half her explanations already, and I couldn’t get any of the earth pony junk to… y’know, work right. Tell me anything.”

Sweetie Belle corrected for the weight of the bag over her shoulder, and she leaned in. “I know it’s not what you wanted,” she whispered, “but you didn’t tell me if you were right before. If it really was bad news.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever gotten.” Scootaloo stared at the cobblestones passing by beneath her hooves. “Past that, I dunno.”

Sweetie wrapped a hoof around her friend’s shoulders as they walked.

Up ahead, the wagon clattered and shook its way along, lamppost to lamppost.

“No need,” said Trixie, strapped in at its front. “It was not your fault, little one, and Trixie believes she said as much then. Just a touch of bad luck.”

“Ah know,” said Apple Bloom from the adjacent sidewalk. “Ah’m still sorry, Miss Trixie.”

Trixie smiled, saying, “Really, what is there to be sorry for?” She stared ahead at the lights of the approaching town square. “Trixie is not ashamed to say that she was not always so perfect as she is today. It took effort, and no small number of explosions.”

“Okay,” said Apple Bloom, chuckling. She looked to Trixie, whose mane was freshly washed and whose coat had no visible interruptions. “Y’all cleaned up well enough, ah s’pose.”

“But of course.” The mare brought a hoof up and bounced her mane. “What an awful waste all of that experience blowing herself up would have been if Trixie hadn’t also come away knowing how to look good afterwards.”

Apple Bloom just smiled lightly and kept walking, shouldering past the legs of other pedestrians.

Trixie spared her a glance. “Are you alright, little one? And do you grasp what you shall be doing?”

Nodding, Apple Bloom said, “Ah’m feelin’ fine, and ah get it. It’ll just be what everypony said y’all tried doin’ in Ponyville, yeah? Challenges and such.”

“Correct, but…”

“…But it won’t be me.” Apple Bloom looked back, at where Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo were holding one another and talking. Blankly, she continued, “You and Sweetie’ll be the ones doin’ all the work. Ah just have to not mess up too bad.”

Trixie cleared her throat, saying, “It would be best to think of it more that you ‘have to act naturally’, surely. But yes.”

The group breached once more into Dappleton town square. Evening acts and sales were well underway, lit by copious lampposts placed periodically where the pathways between the spaces crossed. By flames that danced up from cooking stations and fire eaters, makeshift smithies and poi artists.

Still, many uncontested spots to set up were in sight. Trixie and the Crusaders trotted over to the closest, set between an earth pony caricaturist and an older mare hawking seaweed soup from a cart.

Out of the harness and around the wagon’s back, Trixie drew out her outfit and the group’s permit. The latter floated over and slotted itself into a frame affixed to a nearby wooden post.

“Alright, final check,” said Trixie, turning to her charges and donning her clothes. Her eyes met Scootaloo’s. “Are you certain that Trixie cannot convince you to take part, Scootaloo?”

Scootaloo just nodded.

Trixie shrugged. Eyes to Sweetie next, she asked, “You did manage to locate a costume shop before meeting back up with the rest of Trixie’s company, Sweetie Belle?”

“Yes, Miss Trixie!” Sweetie let the bag fall from her shoulder, and she pushed it forward.

Trixie peered inside. “Excellent. Shall we begin?”



“High in calcium!” called the dark green mare with the stringy black mane. She held her ladle high. “Regulates the blood! De~etoxifies!”

A hissing, popping sound rung out off to her side. She didn’t turn. “Helps maintain a healthy thyroid! Drops pounds fast!”

The ponies were walking past her cart faster than usual. She grumbled, following them with her eyes—the direction the sounds had come from. A little group had gathered at the gaudy wagon that had pulled up earlier, and she saw flames past them. She spat at the ground, turned back to her cart, and kept on yelling to passersby.

Trixie and Apple Bloom appeared from the dying flames, the former in her regalia and the latter wearing a cheap Nightmare Night vampire’s cape.

“Good evening, fillies and gentlecolts,” called out Trixie, sweeping a hoof through the air. “The Great and Powerful Trixie—”

Apple Bloom leapt forward, cutting in, “An’ the Stupendous Sweet Apple!”

“—bid you welcome to the show!”

The pair bowed to the pocket of ponies around the table-stage, then rose.

Trixie opened her mouth, but a stallion from the audience yelled accusingly, “Hey, wasn’t that filly in your crowd before?”

“Ah, of course,” said Trixie smoothly. “Valued patrons of yesterday’s performance will recognize young Sweet Apple.” She turned slightly and gave Apple Bloom a cheesy, sidelong smile, continuing, “So thrilled was the Great and Powerful Trixie’s darling assistant that she approached Trixie after the show, asking if she could participate again whilst Trixie is in town. How could Trixie refuse?”

Apple Bloom turned quickly to Trixie, seeing only an easy showmare’s smile directed out at the audience as it d’awwed. The filly’s mouth hung slightly ajar, but she blinked and faced the audience again herself, saying, “Um, yep!”

“In fact,” said Trixie, slipping into a tone of no small amount of gravity, “the Great and Powerful Trixie saw in this filly such potential—such a showmare’s spark, so much like Trixie’s own at that age—that mere participation on Sweet Apple’s part would be to rob you all of a true talent!

“No,” she continued, “this shall be the Stupendous Sweet Apple’s performance. Behold!” The mare floated out from beneath her cape a costume piece unicorn horn, off-yellow in color and with a suction cup at the base. The gathered ponies started chuckling even before the chintzy thing sealed itself to a snickering Apple Bloom’s forehead.

Trixie brought a hoof to the brim of her hat and lifted. A glimpse of her own horn, glowing, showed through, and she gave an exaggerated wink to the audience. “Now she shan’t have need of my assistance, of course.”

A murmur went through the small crowd, and smiles split most visible faces.

Turning to Apple Bloom fully, Trixie, asked, “So, Miss Apple, what spectacle shall we be party to this evening? And how might the Great and Powerful Trixie participate?” She bowed to her knees before the filly.

Apple Bloom raised her head high. “Challenges!” she intoned. Her eyes roved the audience. “Miss Trixie, ah want y’all ta find anypony with a talent, if ya please, an’ send ‘em up.” She stood on her hind legs, waggling her forehooves around mock threateningly. “Ah’ll match anypony if ah don’t plain whup ‘em!”

Laughter rippled through the audience once more, and Trixie stood, saying gravely, “One only hopes there could exist so bold a pony, after such a declaration.” She dropped a pouch by Apple Bloom and leapt down from the table, and before she hit the stone below, hooves had shot up all over.

Trixie held a whispered conversation with a nearby mare whose hoof was raised. The mare, a dark sienna earth pony in a flashy jester’s costume, climbed up onto the stage a moment later.

“Howdy, ma’am,” said Apple Bloom, waving. “What’s yer name and what’s yer challenge?”

Grinning, the mare said, “They call me Meel, sweet little miss.” From across her back she produced a set of four juggling clubs. “Tell me, now. Can you do this?”

As one, Meel tossed the clubs into the air. She reared onto her hind legs, and as each club fell, she caught it expertly in the crook of an ankle and sent it back up. The crowd whistling and cheering her on all the while, she moved between increasingly more complex patterns of cascades and showers.

With a flourish, she sent one last club high up while the other three were falling. Two she caught in her ankles, one apiece, and the third’s handle landed squarely in her chomping teeth. Finally, the last club landed handle first between her eyes, and she balanced it there. Another whoop went up from the crowd.

“Amazin’,” said Apple Bloom, her eyes shining. She stood up herself and held her fore legs out. “May I?”

Meel stacked the clubs up, and she passed them over with an exuberant nod.

Without hesitation, Apple Bloom threw them into the air. When the first fell back down, she nudged her hoof up to meet it—in the same moment, her costume horn and the club shimmered purple. The club shot up, spinning so fast that it looked like a solid circle.

The same happened with each of the other three, and the whole set flew up and back down. Then off to the side, boomeranging back. Zigzagging, looping-the-loop, even orbiting one another, all while the audience cheered.

All the clubs in the air at once and heading back to her, Apple Bloom balanced on one back hoof, outstretching the other and her forehooves. Upon each hoof and her nose, she intercepted and balanced a club by its handle. The gathered ponies hooted and hollered, and with a radiant smile, Apple Bloom kicked the clubs back up one more time—they met in the air and came down as a stack, and they and her horn glimmered again.

“Thank you!” said Apple Bloom, bowing to the audience and to a laughing Meel. She passed back the clubs.

Meel made to hop down, but Apple Bloom called, “Hold up a sec, Miss Meel!” The filly reached into the pouch Trixie had dropped, drawing out two gold bits and putting them in a fold of the jester’s costume. “Great work.”

Smiling ever brighter, Meel bowed herself and vacated the stage. Down on the ground, ponies in the crowd scrambled to give her bits of their own.

“So,” yelled Apple Bloom, “who wants ta try ‘n top the Stupendous Sweet Apple next?”


- - - - -


Sweetie Belle levitated the permit back out of its frame and came over to the wagon. To Trixie, counting bits into the coin pouch with Apple Bloom, she asked, “How did we do?”

“Over seventy bits of profit, little ones.” Trixie stowed the pouch and ruffled Apple Bloom’s mane. “Trixie begrudgingly admits that that routine goes over markedly better when the performer is the adorable dark horse.”

Scootaloo said from the sidelines, “So we’re leaving tomorrow?”

Trixie nodded and set about strapping herself in. “Right after breakfast. Trixie also means to pick up some supplies on the way out of town.” She looked to Apple Bloom. “Do you still aim to build props, little one?”

“Yeah, but…” Apple Bloom frowned, meeting Trixie’s eyes. “Miss Trixie, can ah ask… Where’d ya get so good at lying?”

Blinking, Trixie started, “Whatever do you…” She blinked again. “Ah, the bit about your role in the show?”

“Mhm.”

Trixie waved a hoof. “One key to a solid lie is forethought.” She finished strapping herself in with a sigh. “Trixie has been in that very situation before, with a past lovely assistant who’d been a plant in the audience the previous day.”

Trixie turned to the pathway, continuing, “Come now. It has been a remarkably long day, my apprentices. What say we get ourselves some dinner and some sleep?”

The Crusaders followed dutifully after the departing wagon.


- - - - -




1 Sweet Apple Dr.
Ponyville, EQS  2403
9/19/1428

Dear AJ

I miss home. You didn’t say how long it took you to miss home after you left sis, but it was at least more then a week right?

I’ve been trying to bring up going home to Sweetie and Scoots, but I think they think I’m just complane  a winer. Or maybe just Scoots does, still though. I think the two of them are having fun and don’t want to stop.

I’m having fun too, but it dosen’t keep me from missing Sweet Apple Acres. I hope I’ll be back soon.


Sincerley, Apple Bloom






44 Longstride Street
Ponyville, EQS  2403-367
September the 19th, AM 1428

Dear Rarity,

Hi, again. And I’m sorry, again. I know you must still be worried, even if you got my last letter by now.

I found out yesterday that I don’t like being on a stage, or at least not by myself. You know there’s a lot of things I’m scared of, but most of it doesn’t keep me scared for ten straight minutes. Do you ever get scared when everypony’s paying attention to you? They must pay attention all the time. Everypony knows you, and loves you so much.

I’m happy to say that I’ve been learning a lot more than new things I’m scared of. It’s just been days, but I already feel like I know more about magic than I learned all last year. I can’t wait to show you! I bet you’ll be impressed.


Love,
Sarah “Sweetie Belle” Bellany Gem






3 East Fields Path
Ponyville, EQS  2403
9/19/1428

Dear Rainbow Dash,

Hey Rainbow! Man, I should’ve sent my last letter to you.

So I’m on an adventure now! It’s not as cool as any of yours yet, but I bet it’ll still be great. I’m hoping for some monsters.

So hey, you know how I keep asking you to teach me flying stuff? I found  I hope I haven’t been bothering you too much with that. When I get back, I promise I’ll hold off on that a while.

Also hope you don’t mind if I keep sending you letters.


Awesomely yours,
Scootaloo