Two weeks later, Rarity stepped back from a final mirror she had hung and took a slow turn to survey the room. An exhausted but broad grin took over her face. For the first time, she managed to lose herself in her realized vision.
The showroom was a dream come true, reborn as a wide, airy space just begging to be filled with displays of clothing. Pale purple and pink rugs had replaced the thin, drearily-patterned carpet. The brilliant oval mirrors, which tricked the eye into thinking the shop was larger than it was, now surrounded a large, richly painted dais. Opposite that, where Rarity stood, were lines of smaller mirrors above vanities with shelves ready to display the latest cosmetics samples. Spacious dressing rooms were partitioned with heavy, luxurious purple fabric anchored to the floor and ceiling. She had quite simply outdone herself.
And despite all that, an anxious thought squirmed into her head like a termite through wood grain. What if it’s too gaudy? What if ponies want something more modern and minimalist?
As if in answer to her doubts, the gloom suddenly increased, and Rarity shrank back in a moment of confusion. The sun was going behind the clouds, and the room sank into darkness. The mirrors, which had done so much to amplify the natural light coming in, turned gray and cold. All of the colors suddenly seemed muted and lifeless, and Rarity’s shoulders slumped. Despite weeks of near-constant work, the old hall was clinging to the dim shrouds of its old ways like a disgruntled grandmother.
And there was nothing she could do about it. Now that all of the wall hangings were in place, the lamps were nestled snugly inside expertly crafted niches in the fabric around them, backed by mirrors, and surrounded by decorative metal. Even so, as long as she couldn’t replace the fixtures with mantles, she didn’t dare light them anymore. She had taken precautions, but even the heavy fabric could catch fire if exposed to an open flame.
I suppose I’d better get on with it, she thought numbly. Winter was passing, and she needed to fill the shop with clothes before Winter Wrap Up. That was her next task. She had a mountain of sketches and concepts, but the thought of stooping over her sewing table for another day made her neck ache.
If only I could replace the lights, she thought, grinding her teeth.
A loud knock made the front door rattle on its hinges, and Rarity yelped slightly in surprise. Stepping closer to the door, she could just see the shadow of a misshapen head through the glass. Puzzled, she walked across the room, slid the lock away, and gently pulled the door open. On the other side stood a tall Unicorn with a sallow yellow coat, like the color of old newspaper, and a stringy, rust-colored mane that was mostly hidden under a cheap hat that looked like it had been intended to mimic a Manehatten fedora. He wore a brown suit that seemed to have been tailored to stretch his shoulders at the most painful angle possible and a tie in exactly the shade of orange that Rarity thought ought to be banned from fashion altogether.
“Miss Rarity?” he said in a voice that Rarity could only compare to the sound of dry pasta snapping.
“Speaking,” she replied slowly. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Fine Line, assistant treasurer of the Canterlot Historical Society,” he replied, tapping a thin, rectangular tag pinned to the lapel of his suit. “I’m here in regards to your inspection.”
“Inspection?” Rarity’s voice was guarded. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You received a notice recently in regards to your application. You recall applying for one of our Historic Preservation Grants in relation to your...” He paused, frowning as he glanced around Rarity towards the interior in a way she didn’t like. “...development, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” Rarity said carefully. “But the grant was approved some time ago. I’ve already received the funds, and I haven’t received any notice since.”
“Yes, well,” Fine Line sniffed, “I happen to have a copy here with me.” He levitated a short memo printed on thin paper out of the briefcase at his side and passed it to Rarity. It did indeed bear the seal of the Canterlot Historical Society and the signature of the society’s president, Past Keeper. Rarity recognized both from her previous correspondences. It also detailed an invocation of clause seven of the conditions of her grant, which gave the Society rights to conduct inspections at their sole discretion to ensure the property was being maintained to their standards.
“As you’ll note, it is stated clearly that we take no responsibility for the failure of a small town’s postal service to deliver our missives in a timely manner. At any rate, we have reason to believe that our funds are being misused.” He glanced past Rarity again, as if trying to appraise something behind her.
“And what reasons are those?” Rarity demanded, her muscles tightening.
“As a pony of interest, we’ve been doing a bit of checking into your records,” he said, tapping his hoof irritably against his case. “It seems that in addition to applying for our grant, you’ve also applied for the Rich Historical Relevancy Grant. As it happens, we’ve had several dealings with Barnyard Bargains Inc. in the past, and their interests have usually proven to be quite at odds with our own. I’m sure you can understand our concerns, and I don’t think I need to mention that extensive renovations of historic properties are in clear violation of the terms of our grant. It is the ‘Historic Preservation Grant,’ you know.”
“All of my plans to renovate the Old Town Hall were clearly outlined in the proposal I sent,” Rarity countered. “If the society had any issues, I expect they would have been addressed prior to approval.”
“Be that as it may,” Fine Line pressed, “if you fail to allow a comprehensive inspection of the property so that we may ensure our guidelines are being adhered to, the Society will have no choice but to revoke the grant.” He stepped forward just a few inches, crowding Rarity as he looked down at her. She refused to budge. “At your most immediate convenience.”
“I don’t much care for the way you’ve been addressing me,” Rarity snapped. “And I don’t think much of your notice either. You expect to show up under downright suspicious circumstances and simply be invited into my home?”
“You’ve made this home a protectorate of the Canterlot Historical Society,” Fine Line sneered. “We have as much of an interest invested in it now as you do. And that gives us rights.”
“I have a mind to report you right to the local constabulary,” Rarity retorted.
“By all means.” He shrugged. “Invite as many of your local yokels as you want. I will still conduct this inspection, and I would advise you to stop trying to weasel your way out of it.”
“Weasel—” Rarity sputtered. “You know what? Fine. Look around all you want. And as soon as you’re done, I’m informing the constabulary of every minutiae of this visit, so you had better find yourself on the next train to Canterlot the moment you’ve exhausted your intrusive curiosity. And you and your society can expect a very thorough complaint for this incident!”
“We’ll see,” he said, practically pushing past her as she let him in. He regarded the decorated showroom with an upturned nose and lips pressed into a thin, deprecating line. Looking down, he pushed and tugged at the new carpet with a hoof as if he were trying to rip it. “This is new?”
“Yes,” Rarity admitted angrily. “As I outlined in my proposal—”
“And how have you secured these curtains?”
“With wall anchors and—”
“So you’ve damaged the original walls with hardware larger than small nails.”
“No more than—”
“And what about the fixtures? Your proposal states they’re original.” Fine Line moved over the one of the metal brackets in the wall. “Have you modified any of them?”
“No, the shops have been sold out of the stock I need,” Rarity said. Fine Line seemed unimpressed.
“You’ll have to discontinue their use. They’re a clear safety hazard to this property.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Rarity snapped. She felt her chest swell with anger, and she was barely suppressing an urge to punch him.
“And modifying them is out of the question,” he said, turning away and raking his eyes over the dais as he searched for something else to criticize. “As one of the few things you’ve left undamaged so far, it is of utmost importance they be left alone.”
“Excuse me?” Rarity all but yelled at him. “And what exactly do you expect me to do for light?”
“That’s not our concern. All that matters to us is that historical properties remain in as close a condition to their relevant periods as possible, unspoiled by... shall we say, the kind of shortsighted business owners Filthy Rich tends to indulge.”
“Now, just a moment,” Rarity said, stomping a hoof. “Your society has several provisions that allow for modifications and updating when matters of safety are involved and where the building has already been modified in the past. If anything, I’m bringing it closer to its original state!”
“Your proposal does not provide any proof of that,” Fine Line said dismissively, walking into the kitchen. “In order to justify all this, you’ll need to procure evidence of how the building has been altered in the past. As it is, you appear to have simply had your way with the place, and the Society simply will not stand for that. Now, let’s see if the upstairs has suffered as badly as everything else I’ve seen.”
* * *
It only got worse after that. After condemning everything she had done to the upstairs rooms, Fine Line had left her with a ready-made notice that fully revoked her entire Grant. When she protested that a significant amount had already been spent in startup costs, he had flatly replied that if she couldn’t repay the Society’s money, the courts would be more than capable of settling the account—probably, he added, by auctioning off her assets.
Rarity was left in her new showroom trembling with helpless rage. Her mind was spinning, unable to settle on an idea long enough to analyze it. This would ruin her. The only stipulation that offered any sort of hope was that she was allowed one week’s time to either gather the necessary funds to repay the Society—an impossibility so absurd, it made her want to laugh, cry, and scream at the same time—or to appeal their decision and provide evidence that all the changes she had made were justified and necessary. As she looked around the room, shrouded in gloom that smothered the colors of her new design, the necessity of what she was doing seemed laughably obvious. What she didn’t know was how to convince a Society of stuck-up Canterlotians obsessed with keeping every doornail unchanged of that.
“You want evidence,” she spat in a trembling voice. “Oh, I’ll give you evidence. I’ll give you so much evidence you choke on it, you moldering bureaucrats.”
With that in mind, she yanked on a coat, hat, and boots, not caring whether they matched particularly well or not, and slammed the door so hard on her way out that she left a wandering, slanted crack in the lower left corner of the door’s window pane.
Go on, disapprove of that too, Rarity thought. She set out through town at a firm trot, paying little attention to anything around her until a familiar voice broke through her reverie.
“Hey there Rarity!”
Rarity let out an audible groan before she could stop herself. Of all the ponies she could have run into, this was the last one she wanted to deal with right now. Swapping her exasperated expression for one she hoped would at least pass for neutral, she turned and faced Pinkie Pie as she bounced up to her.
“I’m glad I caught up to you!” she said. “I just went over to your shop to see you, but you weren’t home, and I thought, ‘oh no, if she’s not home, I can’t give her the letter, and if I don’t do it now, I’ll probably forget again,’ but then on my way back, I saw you and I thought, ‘Gaaaah, that must be Rarity! I can totally give it to her before I forget,’ so—”
“Pinkie,” Rarity broke in flatly. The effervescent voice was threatening to bring another headache on. “What do you have to tell me?”
“Oh. Right! Here you go,” Pinkie said, totally unperturbed. She reached up and pulled a battered envelope out of her mane, which she then passed to Rarity with a smile. “Minny’s office got this a while back by mistake. I think the post office forgot that there’s someone living at the old gallery now, which isn’t that surprising, since up until recently everything related to it has either been sent to Town Hall or Minny’s office...”
Rarity didn’t hear the rest of what Pinkie was prattling about. The envelope was very clearly from the Canterlot Historical Society, and a quick glance inside confirmed her suspicion that it was indeed a twin to the one Fine Line had presented her with that morning, detailing in no uncertain terms that she should expect an inspection in three weeks’ time.
No need to report that odious prig, I suppose, she thought, grinding her teeth. Pinkie was still jabbering in the background, but after Rarity fixed her in a withering glare for a few moments, even she seemed to become aware that something was wrong.
“Uh... Rarity?” she asked, her smile flickering a bit. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long to get that to you. It’s just that Minny’s been so busy with all the homes she sold recently, and—”
“Do you have any idea how important this was?” Rarity growled. All the rage Fine Line had left behind was rising up again and just begging for an outlet.
“Um... really, really important?”
“Really— Really— Really important,” Rarity spat. “Did you know I was surprised with a very unpleasant visit from the Canterlot Historical Society this morning? Well, thanks to you, I had absolutely no time to prepare for it. And do you want to know something else?” Rarity threw the letter down and crushed it into the mud with her boot. “Because of it, I might just lose a huge chunk of my funding, and everything I’ve worked for will be completely destroyed!”
“I... I didn’t think...”
“Of that, I have absolutely no doubt!” Rarity snapped, raising her voice and stamping on the letter again. A splash of mud struck Pinkie, and she backed away a step. “In entire weeks of sorting files and playing in bakeries, you didn’t once think that it was important that this got to me—one of your clients, for Celestia’s sake—in a timely manner, did you? Was it really so hard to just walk by and stick an envelope through a slot?”
Pinkie opened her mouth to say something, but snapped it shut when Rarity pointed a threatening hoof at her. “I don’t know where your supposedly legendary organizational skills were, but in the future, I hope you show a bit more discretion before you run another client’s life into the ground.”
Rarity spun, taking a few deliberately firm steps away before adding, “And you can be sure Mortgage will hear about this.”
She didn’t bother to look back at Pinkie as she strode away. When she had gone a short distance, she let out a long, pained sigh. She had hoped she might at least feel better after taking out some of her anger, but instead she only felt ill. At least it was justified.
She then noticed that it was a little quieter in the market than normal, and she turned to see a number of ponies staring at her, Applejack among them. The farm pony stood by her stand, watching Rarity with a dark, concerned frown.
What does she know? Rarity thought, ignoring the stares and walking determinedly onward. The marketplace was soon left behind, replaced by the winding roads and countless thatched cottages of the northern side of town. Ahead of her, the snow-laden branches of the library tree loomed up at the end of the road. For what must have been the hundredth time, Rarity wondered idly who had fashioned the huge oak into a living text repository, and what their involvement with Ponyville had been. That would have to remain a mystery, however. The tree’s history was not the one she was interested in.
As the red, arched door opened before her, the hoof-written “open” sign whacked lightly against it and a trio of small bells jangled over her head. Behind a massive desk with neatly ordered stacks of paper weighing it down, an elderly Pegasus looked up and smiled quickly as Rarity closed the door behind her. She had a coat the color of spring grass and an unruly mass of white mane clinging to her head. Rarity thought it might have been the tension instilled in her throughout the day, but she thought she saw something guarded in the librarian’s expression that had never been there during her previous visits.
“Hello there Rarity.” Her voice was pleasant and soft with the faintest hint of a country accent, aged by the faintest crackle that, ironically, had always reminded Rarity of stiff pages in an old book. She stood up, and her left ear fell forward limply as she trotted around the desk. “What brings you here this fine winter day?”
“Hello Ms. Dog-Ear,” Rarity answered. Like everypony in Ponyville, Rarity never felt right addressing the librarian casually. Ms. Dog-Ear was one of those eternally elder figures that would always be addressed formally, no matter how old anypony else got. Rarity smiled wearily as she pulled off her boots by the door, and the old librarian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Everything all right, Rarity?” she asked. Rarity paused in hanging up her coat, then let her shoulders fall and sighed.
“I wish I could say it was. To tell the truth, I’ve really had a rather wretched day.”
“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that,” Dog-Ear replied, smiling sympathetically. “Can I get you anything? If you’re here for the new catalogs, I’m afraid they haven’t come in yet...”
“Actually, I need to do a different kind of research today. Did mother mention that I moved into the Old Town Hall?”
“Yes... yes, she did,” Dog-Ear said slowly, putting a hoof up and twitching her ear back up. “Of course, I guessed you were planning on setting up shop somewhere. Didn’t think it would be there, though. Hay, I remember when that place was getting built. One of the first buildings in Ponyville, and by far the biggest at the time. Things change, I suppose.”
“A little too much for some ponies’ liking,” Rarity said, and Dog-Ear turned sharply back to her.
“How do you mean?”
“I seem to have found myself on the wrong side of the Canterlot Historical Society,” Rarity explained. “I was hoping I could find enough information about the history of the Old Town Hall to prove that I’m not doing any real damage by renovating it. Do you have anything that could help?”
Dog-Ear seemed to relax a little as she fell into her element. “Well, I don’t know how much of it will help... but I know I’ve got some old articles that reference the hall. Remember a fair bit myself too, before... well, before I got old.” She laughed.
“Wonderful,” Rarity said, giggling a little herself. “The microfiche machine is downstairs, yes?”
“That’s right. Just... hang on a sec. Why don’t you let me go down and sort some things out for you first. Bit of a mess down there, you know. It doesn’t see much use, and I can find some of what you’re looking for faster than you can. Why don’t you fix yourself some hot cocoa and follow me down when you’re ready?” She gestured to a little table that was always stocked with free refreshments for the library patrons. A mirror in a dark red frame hung above it, and Rarity moved to the table just in time to see the reflection of Ms. Dog-Ear glance back at her before disappearing down into the library’s basement. Rarity scrutinized the mirror a moment longer, an odd sense of déjà vu passing over her before she shook it off and focused on the steaming beverage pots in front of her.
It seemed incongruous, but Ms. Dog-Ear had always put the comfort of her patrons above the security of her books. She had probably had to replace more texts than the average librarian, but she usually laughed when asked about it.
“Books are replaceable; the folks who come here aren’t,” she always said. “If some uptight little filly wants to come in here and guard the books like they’re Celestia’s own foals, well, she’s welcome to it once I’m cold and feeding grass.”
Rarity smiled as she inhaled the bittersweet fragrance rising from the now-warm cup and turned to head down to the basement. As she descended the dim steps, she noticed the bright, gently hissing mantle lamps that illuminated the stairs with a pang of envy.
When she reached the ground floor, she found the librarian turning on the hot, painfully-bright lime-lamp beneath the microfiche reader. It was an ugly box with a huge array of lenses leading to an oval window, now glowing brightly with light. Beside it were several folders containing bits of dark film, all of which were meticulously labeled and dated.
“There you go, Rarity,” Dog-Ear said, twitching her head and bringing her ear back into position. She then picked up one of the packets, leaving the rest on the table. “Those are from when the Old Town Hall was first being built. They built the new one eleven years later, so you might want to check around then as well.”
“Perfect,” Rarity said, setting her cocoa down. “Do you remember what it was used for in the years after?”
“Oh, this and that,” she replied slowly. “Several businesses came and went, but the place had gotten pretty run down by then. Ponies were more interested in the northern part of town in those days. Ponyville was booming, and everyone wanted it to grow away from the borders of the Everfree fast as it could. Can’t really blame them there!” Her ear flopped over again, but she ignored it as she resumed her walk upstairs.
“I suppose not. Oh, by the way, I was talking about the hall to the pony who runs the apple stand in town,” Rarity continued.
“Applejack?”
“That’s her. She mentioned it used to be an art gallery. Do you remember anything about that?”
Ms. Dog-Ear’s wings fluttered as if startled, and she dropped the packet she was still carrying. She stooped and grumbled to herself as she scooped it back up and tucked it out of sight beneath the wing. “...Yes, I remember,” she finally said. “Used to be owned by a young painter named... well, I don’t think I recall.”
She looked down, examining the step in front of her. “I do know she was the last pony to try to make something of that place. That was back in... 959, I think.”
“What happened then?” Rarity asked, looking at the librarian curiously.
“Didn’t do well. Not much of a surprise, small town like this. She closed up shop a few years later. No one was interested in the place after that.” She sniffed as if in annoyance, then looked back down at Rarity. “You be careful with that cocoa. Those films aren’t as easy to replace as books.”
“Not to worry, ma’am.” Dog-Ear nodded and left Rarity to her work.
* * *
Three hours later, Rarity had a veritable goldmine in the notes she had piled next to the microfiche reader. No fewer than four businesses had come and gone in the time since the hall had been built, and each of them had altered the property extensively. None had done so more than a restaurant that hadn’t even opened in the end, but had managed to strip down the entire exterior to its current, bleak state before abandoning the project. Then followed a few years in which it sat empty, and Rarity had skipped ahead to a relevant article from 959. It appeared to be the last chapter in the hall’s history before her own began in the present.
Incoming Artist Causes Excitement
Miss Toola Roola, a landscape artist of some apparent renown in Equestria, has announced she will be opening a studio in Ponyville’s Old Town Hall. Many residents have expressed their enthusiasm for the idea, and many will tell you that it is a sign that our town is continuing to grow into a place ponies are proud to call home.
“For a well-known artist to establish themselves here is indicative that Ponyville’s culture and industry continue to shine,” our illustrious mayor told the Express in an exclusive interview. “We’re all looking forward to having Miss Roola as a valued member and contributor to our great community, and the board approved her proposal and purchase unanimously.”
Yet despite all the fuss, not much is known about the artist herself. Although an aura of some mystery is to be expected of any great artist, Miss Roola did consent to speak with the Express briefly as she surveyed her new home last Thursday afternoon.
“I recently lost my father, may he rest in peace, and the family home was just too big and gloomy to keep to myself. I’m the only one left of our once-large family, you see. So I’ve taken all that was left to me, and I’m hoping for a bright, clean start here in Ponyville.”
We here at the Express are confident that we speak for everypony in conveying our condolences, as well as our eagerness to welcome her to our town.
Rarity scanned back to the top of the page, where an ancient photograph showed Toola Roola in front of what would become her gallery. The old building was a sinister silhouette in the background, its walls darkened to total blackness by the inadequacies of the old camera. Toola herself smiled at the camera in the foreground, and although the colors were impossible to discern in the old picture, Rarity felt her suspicions were unequivocally confirmed: this was the pink Earth Pony whose portrait lay in her basement, and who, presumably, had painted the rest of the disturbing pictures forgotten down there.
“If that’s the kind of thing she painted, then it’s no wonder she didn’t do well around here. ‘Well known landscape painter’ indeed,” Rarity said to herself.
She continued searching, but found no other mention of Toola Roola. The only references to the gallery appeared more than ten years later in advertisements for general auctions. They listed items such as antique dressers, mirrors, tables, and other pieces of antique furniture up for sale to “maintain property in custody of the city.” Rarity supposed the artist's notoriety must have faded after the initial fuss, and that she had eventually closed the gallery and moved on without so much as a farewell note, leaving Ponyville without high culture once again.
Regardless, Rarity had what she needed. She extinguished the lamps before gathering her notes and heading upstairs.
“Find what you were looking for?” Dog-Ear asked, looking up from her desk.
“I think so,” Rarity said with a tired smile. “Thank you so much, Ms. Dog-Ear. You really don’t know how much this could mean to me.”
“Well, I hope everything turns out alright for you.” She walked with Rarity towards the door. “And I can’t wait to see what you do with the place. Celestia knows it deserves to see some happier times again.”
“I certainly hope so too. By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to remember what became of that artist after she left Ponyville? It’s just that the hall happened to have entire basement full of what I assume were her paintings, and, well, I’d just as soon be rid of them.”
There was no mistaking the way Ms. Dog-Ear froze this time, her hoof on the handle of the door. She looked at Rarity with a shocked expression, and she had gone slightly pale. “Those things are still there?”
“Well, yes, as it happens,” Rarity said, confused by the reaction. “There’s a photo the Express took when the artist arrived in Ponyville, and there’s a self-portrait of her down with her other works.”
“I thought those would have been auctioned off. They sold everything else...” Dog-Ear muttered, almost as if to herself more than Rarity. She glanced back into the room, her gaze lingering on the mirror above the beverage table for a split second longer than anywhere else. Then she looked back at Rarity and smiled. “If you’ve seen those paintings, I doubt I need to tell you why they didn’t sell well here. Honestly, if I were you, I’d just toss them. I don’t think you’ll get much for them anywhere, certainly not enough to be worth the trouble.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Rarity gasped, donning her coat and boots. “They’re hardly to my taste, certainly, but I couldn’t just throw somepony’s art in the trash!”
“She’d be older than I am, if she’s still around somewhere,” Dog-Ear said, a slight edge of exasperation in her voice as she opened the door. “If Toola cared about them, she’d have come back for them. Just do yourself a favor and trash them.”
Somewhere behind them, a sharp snap rang out through the library, as if something had fallen and broken somewhere, though the sound was brisk, isolated, and unaccompanied by any sound of scattering shards. Rarity glanced back, unable to see where the sound had come from.
“What was that?”
“I’m sure it was nothing,” Ms. Dog-Ear said, but her voice had turned clipped and hard as she looked behind herself. “Left a glass in the wrong place I expect. Now, I think you should go, Rarity.”
“Ms. Dog-Ear? Is something wrong?” Rarity asked, frowning as she was ushered out the door. Something Ms. Dog-Ear had said was bothering her, but she couldn’t pin down what.
“Nothing, nothing. Just a little more tired than I thought, and you’ve got work to do. Come back soon!” And with that, the door was shut. Rarity stood there for a moment, puzzled and a little alarmed by the librarian’s sudden change in demeanor. Hesitantly, she turned around and started walking south towards home. Looking back, she saw Ms. Dog-Ear through the window. She was sitting at her desk once more and reading through something. As Rarity turned away, however, she realized what had been bothering her. Ms. Dog-Ear had mentioned Toola Roola’s name, though she had said earlier that she didn’t remember.
That’s odd, Rarity thought. I guess she must have remembered. Putting the incongruous behavior down to an old mare’s idiosyncrasies, Rarity resumed her walk and started thinking about how she would phrase a scathing appeal to the Canterlot Historical Society.