5 Months, 17 Days
He had the building surrounded. I'd barricaded myself in but he had managed to break through my defence. Attempting to conceal myself had made no difference; he was looking for me and would stop at nothing to catch me. I looked around the room for some way of escaping or some elaborate piece of furniture that I could hide behind or underneath, but there was no hope for that. Being utterly vulnerable was the worst part about it; I could not even arm myself with a weapon. I heard a hoof hammering against the door and lowered my head in submission. There was no escaping this time. Light flooded into the room, blocked out in fragments only by a figure standing in the doorway. I caught sight of him from the corner of my eye and shielded my gaze with a hoof. He saw me and remained on the spot for a second, cautiously observing my reaction. Only when he judged that it was safe to approach did he begin his advance, quick hooves driving him towards me.
"Well look who we have here, then!" the voice spoke. He was a messenger for a higher power. I consigned myself to my fate and stared up at him with fearful eyes.
"Gazette. It's been a while."
"Well, you're a hard pony to track down nowadays!"
He took a seat opposite me, perching himself and looking around the café. "Do you come here often?" he asked. "The place looks like a graveyard. Where are the waitresses?"
"I come here to think," I explained, and Gazette chuckled, pointing a hoof towards my head.
"That was always your biggest problem. You think too much."
He noticed that I was drinking from a coffee mug. He sniffed the aroma and realised that it was still hot. "May I?" he asked, and despite my obvious disdain I found myself pushing my mug towards him. He took a sip and pulled a face. "This coffee tastes like a rat's ass. Is it imported or something?" He pushed the mug of coffee back towards my side of the table. "Luckily this meeting won't take a particularly long time. I imagine that it will be a quick transaction and then we can both get on with our days."
"Explain your terms."
"You aren't one to waste time, are you?" Gazette smiled, lifting a briefcase onto the table that had been saddled upon his back. He fumbled with a little dial on the case and entered a few digits to crack the lock. He proceeded to press both hooves against two little clasps either side of the case. It sprang open, although I couldn't see what was inside due to the lid remaining in the way of my vision.
"I'll do most of the talking here," Gazette said. "You just need to sit there and nod your head. Can you do that for me?"
I hated submissively nodding my head, but I found myself doing it anyway. "I can try."
"Good. A lack of objection is always a good thing in business. I'd hate to have to try and haggle with you. Well, that's a lie; you would hate having to haggle with me. I am the Haggle King."
"Just explain to me the situation, Gazette."
Gazette shuffled in his seat, having not quite found the comfortable spot yet. "You seem to think that the news will be bad," he acknowledged. "On the contrary, the news is very good and could see us both nicely for the foreseeable future."
"What do you mean?"
With a confident hoof he turned the case around. Inside were neatly stacked columns of golden bits, held in place by clasps within the briefcase. I couldn't deduce how much was there from a quick glance, but Gazette was more than happy to spell it out to me.
"Ten thousand," he said. "That's the deal that I want to pass on to you."
I looked at the money. My eyes were wide with admiration. I had scarcely seen that many bits in one place before; most of the large amounts of cash that I had ever seen were in the form of cheques. Gazette noticed my interest and smiled, beaming from ear to ear. "I knew that that would attract your attention, you money-grabbing bastard. You've always been one to seize a good opportunity. I guess that's why we're friends, huh?"
"I guess so," I found myself saying, reaching a hoof towards the golden trove. Unfortunately, Gazette noticed my interest and pressed a hoof down on the lid, closing the case with a sudden click.
"I think that I should explain what's going on here first. I'd hate for you to misunderstand the situation, old friend."
His tone was unusual. I sat back in my chair.
"Let me explain how things work in this circuit," Gazette said, finally catching a waiter leaving the kitchen and quickly ordering a drink of his own. "We find these ponies," he continued, "and we make it our duty to... shed light upon them. Your girl, Rarity, was a fine catch indeed. Already she's made us some large stacks of money and caught the attention of some very important ponies. And that's where this little box of treasures comes from." He tapped the top of the suitcase with his hoof temptingly.
"Manehattan is a glorious city," he said. "And in this city there are two great powers at work. One is called Mr. Cross and the other, Mr. Orange. These guys are the whole deal: they run businesses and hire thousands of workers and have more money than they know how to spend. First things first: do either of those names ring a bell?"
I had perhaps heard mention of their names in passing, but I did not have a substantial enough knowledge of them to appear informed. "I don't recall either name," I replied, requiring more information.
"Well that's unfortunate," Gazette replied. "Allow me to elaborate. Mr. Cross doesn't actually live in Manehattan but he's one of those big entrepreneur-mogul types. I could tell you all sorts of stories about him and his personal life – boy, could I tell you some stories – but that's for a different article on a different day. The point is that this guy is an opportunist who wants to make some mad cash. And he's already spotted your girl Rarity and met her."
"He has?" I had never heard mention of this 'Mr. Cross' fellow. I liked to think that Rarity considered me a good friend and associate; why she had kept this information from me was a mystery.
"Oh yeah, lots!" Gazette resumed. "Talk about your forward-thinking guy! He's got hooves in so many pies he could open a bakery."
I did not care for Gazette's jokes; I needed to know more about what this pony had been doing with Rarity.
"Gazette, what do you know about his relationship to Rarity?"
"Nothing that I'm at liberty to say."
"Don't start getting all moral with me," I responded. "Just who is this Mr. Cross to her?"
Gazette seemed hesitant. "It's nothing, buddy," he attempted to reason. "I just think he's got a thing for her, you know? She's an attractive girl. I myself have given it more than just a passing thought. And I'll be damned if you haven't."
"I am purely professional," I retorted, finding that my heart was thumping in my chest. "What makes you think that he's got a thing for her?"
"It's just little things," he conceded, sighing. "I hear he's been treating her to all sorts of fancy things, giving her tickets to operas and shit."
"Operas?" I queried.
"Yeah, let me just check something," Gazette replied, whipping a familiar notepad out of his breast pocket, although now there were fewer clean pages left. "They were seen together on the... well... a little over two months ago, anyway. At some symphony thing."
"The Symphony of Seven Paladins?"
"Yeah, that shit," Gazette said. "I always thought those musical things were a WOFT, you know?"
"WOFT?"
"Waste of Fucking Time."
"I happen to want to see that musical," I said, but Gazette shrugged the comment off, clearly interested in returning to business. Still, I was not satisfied. "Tell me... what else has this Cross guy done to Rarity?"
"I'm not his personal secretary!" Gazette replied, his voice sounding more alive than ever. "Why not ask her? You guys are shacking up right now, aren't you?"
That was not true. "We are doing no such thing," I explained. "Your insinuations are foolish and without evidence."
"Whatever man," he replied. "I ain't judging. I don't even care what you do. Being part of a love triangle sounds about as attractive to me as old Red Rose's grandma. Remember her? Damn, she was a troll."
"Gazette!" I shouted, gaining the attention of the other patrons – few as they were – within the café. I cleared my throat and lowered my tone, which soon brought them back to whatever they were doing. "Can you give me any information about this Cross pony? It's very important that I know as much as possible." I had never met this Mr. Cross, to my knowledge, and it wasn't as if I wished to invade every facet of Rarity's life. I merely wished to know what his interest was in her, and if it was for the best to remain in contact with him.
Gazette sighed once more and flicked through his notepad, shaking his head as he glanced through the pages. Eventually his eyes settled on a particular page and he let out a little gasp. "Oh, yeah! So that Mr. Cross guy has this symbol thing. He signs all of his letters with it and stuff. It's like, a family trademark or something. Here's an image of it that I jotted down about a month ago."
He pushed the notepad towards me. I glanced it over and recognised the symbol upon it. It was an insignia that I had seen on several instances before, and in retrospect I would have considered the additional impact that this revelation had. However, my mind instantly jumped to Rarity's birthday card-letter thing a while back, which had been signed by the very same symbol. It was the card that had contained the two tickets to the Symphony. I was certain that it was the same symbol, which would suggest that Mr. Cross had been in Rarity's life for longer than I had known. I began to wonder just how many of her business meetings had been with this pony who clearly wanted to take advantage of her. Gazette waving a hoof in my face tugged me back to the present situation.
"Um... so can I put the notepad away and get back to business now?" he queried, and as frustrated as I was, I nodded.
"I don't know much about Mr. Cross," Gazette said, perhaps in an attempt to provide me with closure. "I don't care about the emotional tug-of-war that might be going on there or if they're screwing each other or whatever. I'm just the guy who puts the word out on the street, you hearing me?"
I was hearing him. And although he had implied that they had perhaps been engaging one another in perverse behaviour, I would have been kicking a dead tree to have asked him for any more information: clearly, he knew only what he had told me. I did my best to push images of Rarity and this non-identified pony out of my head – in my mind, I envisioned a large stallion with flowing golden locks – and nodded for him to continue.
"Mr. Cross isn't even important in this transaction. This money that I have right here... you see it?" He tapped the case again. "This has nothing to do with Mr. Cross. On the contrary, this is Mr. Orange's kind gesture."
"Who is this Mr. Orange?"
"He's another big-shot. A textile manufacturer mainly. He's one of the biggest in Equestria. Him and his wife are in on it together. He's a more honourable guy than Mr. Cross, that's for sure."
"Has he ever met Rarity?"
"Nope, not yet," Gazette responded, and I was inclined to believe him. Although there was a chance that he had only responded as he had to avoid another full-frontal assault of questions from me, it seemed more likely that he was being genuine. After all, how many famous ponies could Rarity have met this early into her career, especially given the amount of time that she had been spending fraternising with this Mr. Cross? I made a mental note to learn more of Mr. Orange at a later date; for now I was just glad that he hadn't attempted to sneak his way into Rarity's personal life.
"He likes her, though," Gazette said. "Her dresses, I mean."
"Has he seen them in the Rococo Report?"
"Not exactly," he responded, and I raised an eyebrow. The briefcase caught my attention again.
"Why exactly do you have this money, Gazette?" I asked bluntly. The journalist rubbed the back of his head with a hoof.
"Now don't freak out," he said, "but that day that you gave me the dresses a few months back, I didn't end up taking them all to the office. A few of them I passed on to Mr. Orange. I thought he might appreciate looking at them."
I found myself growing angry. "Why the hell did you do that, Gazette?" I shouted. "I did not give you permission to hand out Rarity's dresses to random ponies! I specifically asked you to print an article about her! That was it."
The waiter approached the table out of nowhere and left a mug of something in front of Gazette. He thanked the waiter calmly and took a sip from the drink, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on my own. "You know, that's not exactly true," Gazette said after a few moments, his voice irritatingly calm and matter-of-fact, as if he had the perfect rebuttal. He pulled his notepad out once again and flipped back to the first page. I realised soon after that his meeting with me months ago when we had first discussed Rarity's future had been the start of a fresh notepad. He scanned the page and settled a hoof upon a particular line, which he began to repeat:
"And he said in response, blah blah blah... I've been keeping a close eye on her for the past month, assessing her work and coming to some form of conclusion about whether or not it is good enough for mainstream, wide-scale distribution. Those were your exact words."
I had no sufficient response.
"You made it clear to me," Gazette continued, "that you were interested in speaking to this girl because you wanted to assess her work and see if it was good enough for mainstream distribution. So I am well within my right to contact distributors."
"Did you aid in her meeting Mr. Cross?"
"Yes, I helped arrange her first meeting with Mr. Cross," Gazette responded angrily. "Of course I did. He was one of my first go-to guys. And I also contacted Mr. Orange, because, like it or not, that's how ponies get their work out there. They get professional guys like me to show their shit to the big-leagues." He was now sitting forwards in his chair, demonstrating an aggressive side that I had never witnessed before. "Why do you even care?" he accused. "You were just there to help her get on her way, weren't you? So what is the big problem now that she's meeting these ponies? Mission accomplished: now you can get back on with your life."
Truth be told, had I taken his advice, I don't know what life I would return to. Prior to the few months that I had already spent with Rarity, I didn't remember much, only that I had been drifting without any noteworthy purpose. My eyes once again caught the briefcase of money.
"What is this? What exactly are you doing with this money and what are you trying to buy?"
"Finally!" Gazette admonished. "Business-talk! That's all I wanted from this discussion in the first place. You wanna know why I have this money? I'm a close associate of Mr. Orange. He gave me the money because he thought that I would be the best pony for the job in trying to convince you to take it."
"What am I taking it for? Discovering Rarity?"
"Pretty much."
"Bullshit. He wouldn't give away ten-thousand bits for that. I have done this pony no favours, so drop the act, Gazette. What are you giving me this money for? If anything, Rarity should receive it. Do you want me to give it to her?"
"No!" Gazette responded quickly. "If Mr. Orange wanted to give money to Rarity he could do so easily enough. He has her address and everything."
"How does he have her address, Gazette?"
"A journalist has to make his business somehow," he replied. "Judge me all you want – my conscience is clear. But returning to the money at hand: Mr. Orange is a business-pony. He understands respect for his fellow business-ponies. And, in light of that, although he hasn't specifically told me what to do with the money, I've made an independent decision to use it to... relieve you of your duties."
"What does that even mean?" I asked viciously.
"Well, I've been keeping a few checks on you and Rarity, and by the sounds of it you're getting quite close to that girl. Mr. Orange wants Rarity to remain as professional as possible. Hell, Mr. Cross wants the same. And of course, I need that to happen as well. I need all the publicity about Rarity to be good if I'm going to get a cut in Mr. Orange's upcoming enterprise. So that means that she should avoid any external distractions. It would be good for business."
"Say what you mean, Gazette," I demanded, slamming my hoof down on the table, causing his mug of tea to almost tumble over.
"The money is an attempt to buy you off," he said. "Look, at the end of the day, you've done everything that you needed to do for Rarity. The powers that be have decided that she's going to be a star. And to be a star, she needs to live and act a certain way and associate with the right sort of ponies. You understand what I'm saying, right?"
"...So you're telling me that the money is for me to leave Ponyville?"
"Bingo," Gazette said. "Mr. Orange has acknowledged your involvement in all of this and I've made a note of your... possession of Rarity, if we can use such a term."
Possession? Rarity was more than just an item to be distributed amongst these greedy devils. She had a heart and an intelligent mind, and was the greatest pony that I had met and spent time with.
"Mr. Orange is respectful," Gazette continued, his words sounding more like white noise with every syllable. "He doesn't want to take a commodity from you without giving you something in return. Once Rarity moves to Manehattan, everything will run a lot more smoothly and –"
I stood up and turned my back on Gazette. For a second I waited, his words passing me by without impression. I scanned the room for anything that I could use as a weapon: furniture or objects. Anything would work. My eyes settled on a metallic serving tray that had been left on a nearby table. I took a step towards it and lowered my head, picking it up in my teeth. Before I really knew what I was doing, I swung my head around, the tray crashing against the back of Gazette's skull. He fell to the ground, both agony and surprise dominating him, as I towered above, bringing the tray down against him repeatedly.
"Rarity is not a fucking possession!" I shouted. "She's not moving to Manehattan and I'm not going to be bought!"
In one great movement I swept the briefcase from the table with a hoof, watching it clatter over Gazette's sprawling form. He did his best to gather himself up, staring at me with blood-shot, enraged eyes.
"Say what you want, you psycho!" he howled, pointing a hoof around the café. "Everypony here has just seen that!"
I didn't care what they would do. If they found a law enforcer, I would serve my time just to watch that idiotic streak of unwavering confidence disappear from Gazette's face.
"Did this Mr. Orange guy tell you to do this, Gazette?" I growled.
"No... not exactly!" he panted. "He just gave me the money and told me to use it to convince Rarity to move to Manehattan, you know? So I thought –"
"You thought that getting me out of the picture would give her less incentive to stay in Ponyville?"
He rubbed his face down with a hoof. "Yeah... that was the plan, anyway. I mean, when we spoke like, three months ago, you were perfectly cool with this just being about business. What the hell happened to you?"
I lowered my head in shame. "From now on, stay away from Rarity," I found myself saying to the pony that I would have once called friend. "She will make her own choices about who she does business with. But you..." I pointed my hoof towards him indignantly. "Neither you nor the Manehattan media will make contact again. Do you hear me?"
He lifted his briefcase onto his back and straightened out of his suit. His notepad had fallen to the ground, but before I could confiscate it he had already noticed and placed it clumsily back into his pocket. "Loud and clear, jackass," he said, grunting from a pained limb. I took one last glance around the café – there weren't too many witnesses – and hurried quickly towards the door.
"What am I supposed to do with all of this money?" Gazette shouted after me, but I would not dignify him with another second of my time.
1 Month, 14 Days
I was taking a little trip to Trottingham. Well, not Trottingham, really, but the general area. There was a particularly noticeable building on the outskirts of Trottingham that I was going to pay a visit. I guess my reasoning was that I had become sick and tired of all of the lies. There were too many for me to count. I had so utterly lost count that I struggled now to even remember what was a lie and what was truthful. I had been lying a lot to Rarity recently: I knew that much. Being unable to work at the moment, we had a lot more time to talk to one another, and thus a lot more time to resent one another. She grew bored of my presence easily now and often pushed me out of the room whenever my small-talk became too irritating. I could hardly blame her for that; it was just as irritating for me to attempt to come up with things to speak about with her. Perhaps if she made the effort to approach a topic once in a while we would get on a lot better. But then, what did Rarity possibly have to tell me? Lying on a rusty bed for days on end did not make for riveting conversation.
Perhaps she could tell me more about the doctor that she was so fond of. He was that stallion from Manehattan; just as my luck would have it, he had gained a transfer to the hospice shortly after Rarity had been moved there. I don't know if he had woken up one morning with the intention of stalking Rarity, but like every other idiotic stallion that had ever laid eyes upon her, he just wanted a piece of her. Well I'd gotten there first and placed my flag; she was conquered territory and he was a minor, invading nation that would soon be destroyed. My pathological inability to remember his name was proof that he was utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. My focus was now on making Rarity as happy and comfortable as possible.
Well, not my focus at that exact moment, because, as I say, I was on a train heading towards a very specific destination. Looking back on it, I guess I did not have just cause for doing what I intended to do, but then again, I didn't really see the need for just cause when I had abandoned most of my usual inhibitions and restraints. Looking after Rarity, I had a lot of time to think, and when I returned home at night – I spent most of my nights at the boutique and returned to the hospice early in the morning – I had a lot of time to read when repeatedly unable to sleep. Amongst reading over art books, I had located and read over Rarity's birthday letter. I had it in my pocket whilst on the train, although I had already committed it to memory:
"To my dearest Rarity,
I know that you told me not to concern myself, but I simply could not live with myself without providing you with a gift on your birthday. I remember that in passing you mentioned during a discussion recently that you wished to see the upcoming performance of the Symphony of Seven Paladins at the Royal Canterlot Hall, but that acquiring tickets was especially difficult. It just so happens that I have come into the possession of two tickets myself, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to go with me? It would be a frightful bore without you.
Have a wonderful birthday~"
I had established that the sender of the letter had been none other than Mr. Cross. Having recognised the insignia written at the bottom of the letter, I had approached Rarity on the matter not too long ago and she had explained that it was indeed Mr. Cross who had taken her to see the Symphony for the first time, and that around that time she had spent a lot of time with him. We had had a chance to discuss my initial meeting with Mr. Cross on the train many months ago whilst heading to Manehattan to pick up a present for Rarity, and the mare that was with him at the time. Based on my descriptions and the name – Clemency – Rarity did not seem to at all know about this pony. It certainly wasn't his wife, despite the fact that he had called her by that name. His wife's name was Florence, and I had met her briefly after attending the Symphony with Rarity months ago. It was definitely a different pony. And whilst I wouldn't normally concern myself with such things, Mr. Cross had in the last couple of months became a nuisance that had to be stopped.
He wasn't the sort of pony that could take 'no' for an answer, and, after finding out that Rarity had been working for Mr. Orange, he was none too pleased. At first there had been letters, which I had disposed of accordingly. A couple landed in Rarity's hooves, but they were so indignant that she hoofed those into the bin herself. My solution to the predicament had at first jokingly been to smash the windows of The Glass House, and Rarity had laughed at this gesture, perhaps not understanding how serious I was. Anyway, Mr. Cross had eventually moved from letters to other means of disgracing Rarity; it was his opinion that if she would not work for him, he would do his best to make sure that her reputation be ruined. Mr. Orange had taken his own measures to try and stop this, but things had turned suitably sour in Manehattan regarding Rarity.
I don't know what had compelled him to do such a thing, but Mr. Cross had decided to write terrible things about Rarity, none of which could be true. Of course, he hadn't risked his own reputation in order to create sensationalist news; he had recruited one of the best bullshitters in the business. I had been utterly appalled when I had read Gazette's name at the bottom of the article regarding Rarity. Having been under the impression that he was working for Mr. Orange mere months ago, I had no idea why he had joined Mr. Cross' side, but I did know that this article was a terrible concoction of some of the worst lies in history. Not only did they incriminate Rarity, but they were also there to disgrace Mr. Orange. I had the article with me as well; I had not left home unprepared. In an attempt to make the trip go faster, I pulled the article out and scanned it. There had been more than one article, but I believe that this had been the first one published and the most ludicrous:
"Falling Star: Secrets and Lies"
It was named as such because Rarity was, in Gazette's mind, a star who had fallen from grace. How amusing.
"Everyone knows her as Rarity, and over the past six or seven months she has been dazzling us with her dresses and designs. Some were naming her the next best thing, whilst others claimed that she invented a brand new form of modelling. But Miss Rarity is no more prodigal than I myself; a mere imposter to a throne that should be reserved for greater artists."
There was only one mention of me in the article, and I scanned to find it. It was brief but present all the same:
"How can a pony that is supposed to represent the up-market world of the elite be such a thing when behind the scenes she lives in Ponyville with a ridiculous obsessive who she screws on the side?"
His language was hurtful and demonising. But that was not the only reference to non-existent love-making within the passage.
"The most hilarious thing about the business partnership between Mr. Orange and Rarity is that they are clearly having an affair. Whilst both remain tight-lipped, an inside source suggests that Mrs. Orange has left her husband in the wake of this adulterous revelation." This was, of course, a lie: Mrs. Orange had left Mr. Orange, as far as I had gathered, due to a business disagreement. Rarity did not come into the equation; all she did was make lovely dresses to make the world smile.
The most hurtful part of the article, even more-so than the elaborate sex-life that Rarity did not possibly lead, came later into the passage:
"I write this article without any bias or personal judgement. A source that I have contacted about his recent business with Miss Rarity, none other than renowned business hot-shot, Mr. Friesian Cross, had this to say: "I did not know that Miss Rarity had it in her, and yet I saw all of the tell-tale signs. She had an affair with Mr. Orange because she thought that it would benefit her business. And hats off to the young lady, because it certainly did; right now her dresses are selling across Equestria like hot-cakes. Unfortunately, the daft mare does not seem to realise that her dresses are being branded as the mark of the whore; already, stocks and shares in Mr. Orange's business are, according to up-to-date statistics, falling immeasurably. I wish her the best of luck in sleeping her way to the top."
I found it difficult to put into words quite how furious I was upon first reading Mr. Cross' comment in Gazette's article. I could not believe that an old friend of mine would publish such a thing, and that a stallion that was supposed to be kind towards Rarity would say such lies. The alleged affair had broken out just over a week ago, and I had not the heart to tell Rarity about the lies that the outside world were saying about her. Even Mr. Orange had stopped sending letters and had not been to the boutique since the news had leaked; no doubt he wished to avoid giving her the heart-ache that lies can spread.
The train eventually arrived at the platform and I disembarked. This area was familiar to me from quite a long time ago, but it had been a while since I had been here. Something had been plaguing my mind for a while now; something that I had forgotten for months but now had the chance and incentive to resolve. I whistled for a stagecoach and one approached within seconds.
"To the Morgans Estate," I said, and they seemed only momentarily hesitant. I gave them directions at any rate, as the Morgans Estatewas hardly a place that many ponies went to. It had been isolated for quite some time now, through my own actions, and I dreaded to think what cobwebs would await me upon returning. I had always despised spiders. They say that spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them, but to me I will never be able to put a hoof anywhere near a spider.
Some time passed and we arrived at the gates. They were still as I had left them. "Pardon, sir," one of the ponies pulling the coach said. "Mrs. Morgans has been deceased for some time. Folk don't live there no more."
"Thank you for the ride," I responded, hopping off the back of the coach and waiting outside the gate until the cart pulled away behind a mass of trees. The area surrounding the estate had always been overgrown, but now it had become excessively wild with flora. I turned to the gate, stepping in thick weeds as I did, pulling the latch across. I had not worried about locking the gate, for if anypony broke into the Morgans Estate while I was absent, I had pretty much given them permission to take anything that I had not already taken with me. The path to the door had been ruined by the growth of plants and ugly pale flowers. The fountain on the outside of the manor had rusted over. How long had it been since I was last here?
I attempted to open the door but it was understandably, and, quite unsurprisingly, still locked. I looked down at the weak slab of stone just in front of the door and lifted it with a hoof; the key was waiting there, exactly where I had left it. I fumbled with it into the lock and forced my way into the house. The door was partially blocked by a large stack of letters – more than a hundred, I wagered – that had been posted during my absence. Leaving the door open to let some light and air into the stuffy, ancient home, I picked up one of the slips of paper from the top of the pile. It was just a random leaflet about nothing in particular, but it was dated more than a year ago. Thankfully, ponies had finally given up trying to send stuff to this home: it didn't often get read whilst I was here; in my absence, there was even less chance of it being opened.
I dropped the leaflet and walked through into the vast dining area. I drifted by the long wooden table into the kitchen, and then around into the study room. From there I fumbled with a golden doorknob and entered the library. It was all exactly as I had left it, only greyer. I opened up the windows and lifted the blinds in as many rooms as I cared to venture through. I did not bother going upstairs, as it always scared me when I was younger to venture up there alone and, as infantile as it may now seem, I was still a little afraid that something ghastly would be lurking up there waiting for me. I returned to the letters and fumbled through them, starting at the bottom of the pile this time. My hoof touched a mottled-brown envelope with a very particular insignia on the back of it. I knew that I recognised that symbol; it had been familiar months ago at Rarity's party, and it was even more familiar now that it was right before me. I pulled out Rarity's birthday letter and put the little insignias up against each other; they were identical, distinguishable only by the fading of the ink in the older of the two. I opened the letter and began to read it. The handwriting was noticeably similar to that in Rarity's birthday message:
"To the owner of the property,
Mrs. Morgans passed away and you have now inherited this property. Congratulations. This is not the first letter that I have sent asking for your response and yet none have been answered. Forgive my rudeness, but if you are reading these letters then your ignorance is outstanding. You are currently in the possession of one of the most sought-after properties in the county of Trottingham. It serves no great purpose to you, other than being a large home, but to me it is a part of heritage and must be preserved. I am willing to purchase this home from you for the tidy sum of one-hundred and fifty-thousand bits." The letter went on in such a way. I dug a little deeper and found several other letters all written by Friesian Cross. Some were addressed to my Aunt, and, upon realising that she had passed away, had changed their focus to address me, the subsequent owner of the home. I vaguely recalled reading letters like these when I had first inherited the home, although back then they had not concerned me. But it was clear now that the same stallion that had been torturing Rarity of late had also done the same to my Aunt. No doubt her death had been caused by this monster. He had to pay.
I closed up the manor, leaving the key in its rightful place beneath the slab, and left the area, heading back towards the town. In retrospect I should have asked the stagecoach to wait for me but I had overestimated how much time I would be spending there. I had envisioned that all sorts of nostalgia would overtake me, but instead I just felt infuriated and desired revenge against Mr. Cross for everything that he put ponies dear to me through. His list of offences was growing by the day. I recalled that Mr. Cross had properties all over Equestria, but that he did not primarily live in Manehattan despite spending much of his time there. The only other major location around these parts with quick train-access to Manehattan was Trottingham. If Mr. Cross lived here, he would be getting his just desserts sooner than he would think.
I located an information centre by use of stagecoach carriers once more, and this time asked that they remain whilst I went inside. The mare behind the desk was beautiful and gave me a lot of information; I guess she served her purpose well by being both informative and good to look at whilst she provided said knowledge. I had asked about a Mr. Friesian Cross and if he lived around these parts; by adopting my most regal accent I managed to convince her that I was a distant cousin. By naming his wife – Florence – I sealed the deal, and she managed to locate for me where his home was. It was a relatively small manor in comparison to the luxurious homes that he owned in Manehattan, but I guess it wasn't unusual to want a quaint and cosy place to sleep. I had not quite formulated my plan yet, but I knew that it involved going to Mr. Cross' home.
The stagecoach appeared reluctant to take me, but they drove me as far as they wished to go before complaining that it was private land. By the sounds of their fearful voices, one would believe that Mr. Cross ruled Trottingham with an iron hoof, which was, of course, impossible. His manor entered my view after a little while of walking; it was slightly more difficult to find than it perhaps would have been, as the sun was beginning to go down and I was never very good at navigating in the dark. At several points I tripped and landed in the dirt, but I gathered myself back up and continued. His home had a gate like the Morgans Estate, but this one was locked with a large padlock. I tapped it with a hoof, but it wasn't about to spring open without some form of key. I looked around the outer wall of the manor and soon located a tree that hugged the stone barricade. I managed to gain a footing in the branches and somehow pulled myself up and over the wall. For a King holed up in his fortress, he sure wasn't very good at resisting invasion.
I dropped down on Mr. Cross' side of the wall, approaching his home. A couple of lights were on within, most likely illuminated by candlelight alone, but I reasoned that either ponies were still awake or that they had fallen asleep recently. I took a deep breath and approached the front door. I knew that it would be locked without even trying to open it, and, after attempting to uproot the stone slab immediately in front of the door, I reasoned that he wasn't hiding a key under there. I guess I was just crazy that day, but I didn't feel like returning to Rarity without something to show for my day. She was probably wondering where I was. If I ever found the courage to tell her what I did that night, she would be incredibly surprised by my behaviour.
There were some little statues nearby. I couldn't make out through the darkness what they were exactly, but they appeared to be pony-shaped and about the size of a stuffed animal. Only, they were made out of thick stone. I lifted one in my hooves clumsily and located a nearby ground-level window. Crashing through would be unwise if it would wake up the ponies within. Then again, I had no other option right now. I hurled the statue at the window and the glass shattered like an infant falling through thin ice at a frozen lake. I gritted my teeth and forced myself against the wall of the manor, holding my breath and closing my eyes tightly. I expected to be found out. There was no way that those within could not have heard the noise. I even picked up another statue, just in case Mr. Cross showed up for me to whack over the head.
But time passed and no pony came to investigate. I wondered if anypony was even home, but the lights from within proved that it was currently occupied. Perhaps Mr. Cross was a heavy sleeper? I approached the window again and used a hoof to cave in further parts of the wounded glass. Smashing Mr. Cross' property was just as fun as I had envisioned. Being careful not to cut myself, I pulled my weight through the gap in the side of the house and fell into Mr. Cross' domain. Shards of glass cut into my hooves, but the wounds were minor and I was soon able to walk out of them and brush away any remnants of glass that had dug into my body. The room was dark, but I could see a candle and managed to successfully light it with a little pot of attached oil. I balanced the candle on my back and looked around the room. It was just a typical study room. I approached the door and opened it slightly, peeking through the gap. The main hallway was lit by candles on the walls, although it was only a dim light and I couldn't imagine that any pony was around if they hadn't heard the window smashing. I made my way out into the hall and looked to the right; a large door was there, which was clearly the front door. Approaching it, I unbuckled the locks from within. There was every chance that I would need to make a quick getaway from this place.
Mr. Cross' home was undoubtedly beautiful, but before heading up the marble staircase to his bedroom I could not resist having a look around his home. I searched the downstairs and located a living room with a lit fireplace, although the burning of the logs was starting to die down. He was a brave pony indeed, leaving a fire on into the night. He had, however, put up a metallic guard in front of it, to at least prevent spitting embers from burning his home down. I located a wine cabinet and poured myself a quick drink. I then proceeded to leave the drink on the cabinet and instead took the entire bottle with me over to the fireplace. I sat in front of it in order to warm myself upon a comfortable armchair, perching with my legs hanging over the edge. I watched the dancing flames as they ate away at the last few logs. The fireplace hissed as I pulled out Friesian's villainous article, tearing it up into neat strands and throwing them into the flames. They blackened and crisped off almost instantly. I swigged the bottle and observed his birthday letter to Rarity for a moment longer, although it was soon on the fire as well, the thick, tar-like ink leaking into the squealing fire as his words melted away.
"You aren't going to hurt again with your lies," I said to myself as the fire died down. "Your time is up."
2 Months, 6 Days (Ibid.)
"I just need to make sure that you are aware of the situation."
"Yes, I understand."
"Do you truly understand what I am saying to you?"
"At best, Rarity has another month, maybe two."
He looked confused by my reaction. I wasn't panicking or anything. It was so unlike me not to get myself worked up, but I guess I just didn't really believe what he was telling me. Rarity having a couple of months to live? It was the most ridiculous notion. When we had first been told that she was desperately ill, we had struggled to cope with the news. I was still finding myself becoming enraged every now and then and requiring the need to vent my frustrations. I had done so a couple of days ago, and I still felt bad for what I had put the staff of this place through. But the pony opposite me was different; I did not care for what I put him through. He was obnoxiously forward and projected himself as a pony who could demonstrate false sentimentality at the blink of an eyelid due to years of training in the field. What was his name again?
"We should continue this conversation with Rarity present," he said, hinting towards the door. I nodded and followed him into the room, taking a seat beside Rarity's bed. She had awoken and was propped up against the crisp white pillow, hooves crossed. Most would have thought that she had adopted such a position in order to warm herself, but I knew that it was because she always wished to maintain an air of authority. She wasn't vulnerable.
"Rarity, how are you feeling?" the doctor asked, and Rarity smiled towards him.
"Oh, I cannot complain..." she muttered. "Although this pillow is giving me frightful backache. Would it be possible for me to have an additional pillow?"
He grinned back at her. "Of course. I'll get some more pillows for you." I thought that he would call for the pillows after finishing our conversation. Instead, he left the room instantly after her request had been made, leaving me standing beside Rarity looking like a fool. I reached a hoof out towards the corner of her pillow and squeezed the edge. It was flat; I don't know what they had stuffed inside it, but it certainly wasn't griffin feathers like Rarity's back at her boutique.
"You don't need to make do with these pillows," I said to her. "I'll go home and get your pillow from your room."
Before I could leave, however, the doctor returned with two pillows dangling from his mouth. He placed them carefully into Rarity's lap and she moved forwards to touch them. They certainly appeared to be softer than the wafer-thin pillow that she currently had. I quickly snatched the pillows from her lap and wedged them behind her back. She shuffled and found the most comfortable position, thanking me for my efforts. The doctor smiled towards us both, although in his desperation he managed to catch one of Rarity's hooves in his own.
"It is important that we discuss options," he found the words to say. I sat beside Rarity's bed and he towered there next to her resting form, speaking down to her as if a parent to an expectant foal.
"Rarity, I have looked extensively into the possibility of treatment, but for your condition it would be a time-saver at the very best."
"How much additional time would it grant us?" I interjected, feeling a thick mass developing at the front of my throat.
The doctor sighed and shook his head. "A minimal amount," he explained. "It would be uncomfortable for Rarity and it would not help her state in any meaningful way."
"So what are the options?"
He was a good actor – he seemed genuinely saddened. "We make Rarity as comfortable as we can for the remaining time that she has."
"That is not a list of options!" I shouted, rising from my chair to my maximum height – I was taller than the doctor. "Our 'option' is singular! We wait for the inevitable?"
"I understand that this is tough for you..." he attempted to reason, "but I cannot offer much advice."
"You could start by coming up with a better list of things that we can do!" I challenged. "The treatment will buy us some time! We need to get that started right away, and then we can think about how we're going to fight this-"
"No..." spoke a voice most regal and divine. I looked down to Rarity, who was shaking her head defiantly. "I do not wish to become an automaton to be pumped full of drugs and medicines."
"Rarity..."
"I have come to terms with what will happen," Rarity said, finding courage from somewhere that I could not possibly locate, but would one day wish to find in myself. "I have known of the current state of my health for some time."
"Since you collapsed in Manehattan," I nodded, but she shook her head and stared down at the blanket resting over her body. "No... longer than that."
The doctor seemed interested in Rarity's words. He waited patiently as we had our discussion, evaluating and assessing us and making mental notes by our every word.
"How long?" I mouthed.
"Maybe two months," she said quietly. "A little longer, perhaps."
"Why did you not tell me?"
"I visited a doctor in Manehattan," Rarity said, clearing her throat and finally making eye contact with me. "He told me that treatment for my condition was available, but that I would have been immobile for many months in hospital whilst undergoing said treatment."
I attempted to speak, but Rarity was in no frame of mind to slow down. "I had orders to fill. I was offered the contract between Mr. Orange and Mr. Cross. I could not give up on my career."
I felt the rage growing inside me again, but my anger was substituted through tears. "Of course you could have!" I shouted. "Your career means nothing... nothing means anything if you're dead!"
"That's why I was working so hard!" she shouted back. "I needed to make sure that Mr. Orange had access to all of my designs and methods and that his workers could imitate my style to satisfaction."
"But why, Rarity?" I asked in bewilderment. "Why was all of that so important?"
"Because..." Rarity whispered. "I knew that that was my one shot... and if I am to be remembered in death then I will, without doubt, be remembered for the beautiful dresses that I make."
I was floored by her words. I had known that she had been working herself to the bone recently, and that her career came before everything else, but she spoke as if she had a deadline to meet before death. Her words were sickening, but through no fault of her own; I could not fathom how she had been keeping all of this inside of her for so long.
"You could have waited..." I found myself rationalising. "Mr. Orange. He would have understood –"
"No," she reasoned, her head rocking from side to the side. "Mr. Orange would not have waited. He is a businesspony. For a deal to be made, he needed specific deadlines to be met. I could not burden him by spending months in recovery." She closed her eyes and sat back into the pillow, arching her back into its warm embrace. "In this industry, you only get one chance," she explained under her breath. "Right from the very beginning everypony told me that. All of the ponies that I met in Manehattan were certain of it."
I returned to my own seat. My legs felt weak from Rarity's words.
"It was my dream..." she said to me, lifting a hoof to my face and staring into my eyes with her brave blue orbs. "You knew that my dream was everything to me. And I have now realised my dream. Mr. Orange has everything that he needs from me to see my work become famous across Equestria. I will be shining soon."
"But you won't be there to see the light..." I said, tears welling up in my eyes.
She brushed her hoof across my face and, without any trace of doubt, smiled. "I don't need to be," she said. "I know that I finally made it. That is all that I need in order to die peacefully."
I am not ashamed to say that I wept. I must have appeared as a fool, but I left her bedside and rushed out into the hall, assaulting the nearest wall with my hooves and drenching my face and clothing with tears. I could not begin to visualise Rarity's death, and her own, almost uneventful description of it was too much for me to cope with. Dying peacefully had such a sense of finality to it; I still believed at that time that she could recover. I wasn't there for long before I felt a hoof touch my shoulder. It wasn't a white hoof, and so it did not belong to Rarity. I looked back from the corner of my eye. It was the doctor. And as much as I would have resented his hoof touching me under regular conditions, I appreciated his gesture in that moment and remained there, my head resting against the wall.
"When you are ready, come back inside," the doctor said to me dismissively, although he remained standing there touching me. I took a deep breath and faced him. I must have looked a sight, but he must have seen it all before, for he showed no look of disgust.
"How can Rarity just sit there and talk about herself dying as if it's the most normal thing in the world?" I hissed loudly despite the previous warnings about such a thing. "Why isn't she fighting for survival? How can she just lie back and let this happen?"
The doctor hushed me with his soothing voice. "Listen," he said, and his words seemed to sound less rehearsed than normal. "From what I gathered within the room, Rarity has had months to come to terms with this. It is natural that you would take this as a shock, having only just found out her intentions."
"A shock?" I howled. "This is Rarity's life that we are discussing here! She can't just lay down and die... it can't happen! It doesn't make sense!"
Again, his tone was intended to hush me.
"This is a terrible circumstance," he said. "I understand that watching Rarity in this position is difficult. But you must acknowledge that she is handling this remarkably well."
I dried my eyes with a hoof, watching the doctor through my blurred vision. I did my best to retain my grand voice but my words came out quiet and small. "How is she not scared?" I gulped, my throat aching. The doctor looked back towards Rarity's room and sighed.
"Do you genuinely believe that she is not scared?" he questioned me, and I wasn't entirely sure how to respond. He closed his eyes and let out a deep exhale. "I have been doing this for thirteen years," he continued, "and during that time I have seen many ponies going through the same situation. Some ponies struggle throughout the entire ordeal; during these occasions things are at their very worst. Days go by with hurt and hate filling the room. The months are arduous and those involved end up hating one another. Relations and lovers turn against each other as nopony learns how to cope."
He hinted towards Rarity's door with a subtle nod. "In there is a pony who is terrified, but she does not wish to let that fear conquer her. Would her crying make the situation better? Would her screaming grant you the closure that you need to know that she is suffering?"
I could not find the words to respond.
"Rarity is dying," he said bluntly, his words burrowing into my head, "and there is absolutely nothing that can be done. When I mentioned options do you, I really only provide you with two, and both are in relation to how you handle this."
He pulled his hoof from my shoulder, holding it out in front of himself. "Your options are either to spend whatever time that Rarity has left hating her and causing her to hate you, or you can do your best to let her know that she is loved."
He paused and stared directly at me. Thoughts were spiralling through his mind. At last he settled on a single question: "You do love her, don't you?"
I swallowed and growled, and found myself nodding without hesitation.
"Then you need to make sure that Rarity is not alone through this," he spoke. "Don't let her waste away in resentment and agony. Her choice has been made. It is up to you to stand by her choices."
He turned away from me. "Get back in there and help her," he said, his gaze fixed ahead. "She needs you."
He took his leave of us for a while. I checked my reflection in a shiny surface, of which there are many within these sorts of places. I straightened out my clothing and brushed away as many tears as I could before opening the door. I watched her from the doorway. She was lying on her side facing away from me. Her form was small. One of her pillows had fallen to the floor. I sighed and approached the foot of her bed. She sensed my presence and looked back at me, her lips puffed out and her eyes red and bloodshot.
"Have you come to scold me?" she asked, and I shook my head slowly.
"I've come to be with you."
"Are you furious with me?"
"Rarity..." I mouthed, lowering a hoof to pick up the fallen pillow. I moved to the side of the bed and climbed up to lie behind her, lifting her head gently and placing the soft pillow behind her as a cushioned support. I arched my body and wrapped my hooves around her from behind, pulling her close to my chest. I breathed in her hair and her skin and kissed at her face. "I can't be furious..." I said, my voice cracking from the weight. "I just..."
I don't think that words were of importance at that moment. I felt her tense body begin to relax to my presence and I just stayed there with her, holding her tightly and refusing to let go. "Let me in," I whispered into her ear, and despite slight reluctance she nodded in acceptance. "Whatever happens," I said as she began to sob into the nearest pillow, "we're not going to fall apart because of this. Whatever we need to do we'll do. I'll be here the entire time. I promise that you won't wake up without me. You won't be alone. Never alone." My words were spoken quickly through kisses and gasps. She did not object, and just remained there shivering and crying despite my presence. As we lay there random images, most of them unrelated to Rarity's current situation, managed to worm their way into my head. By trying not to think about anything other than Rarity, I found myself doing the exact thing that I vowed not to do. I hated how my mind actively sought to sabotage itself.
The whine of her cry began to subside some time later and I was able to lift myself away from her. I was thirsty and knew that Rarity would be as well when she awoke once more. I moved one of the big pillows to rest against her back in my place so that she would not notice my absence as much. "I'll be back in a minute," I said, planting a soft kiss on her horn, although I don't know if she heard my words or not. "I'm going to get us something to drink."
I slipped out of the room and looked around for somewhere to get a drink. I managed to find a small café on the interior of the building and ordered a couple of drinks to take with me back to the room. They hoofed two coffees towards me and I turned to leave, forgetting that even in this institution money was required. They pressured me to pay, but I had no bits on me and almost found myself ready to attack them. But a familiar hoof moved beneath my eyes and slipped some coins to the pony that had served me. It was the doctor. "I'll get that," he said. "Don't worry about paying."
He stood there for a moment or two, perhaps awaiting a response. "So how is Rarity feeling?" he asked eventually. "I was about to head back to the room to check in on her."
"She's fine," I nodded. "She's resting right now."
"It's good to get a lot of rest," he said, smiling. "Did you think about what I said?"
I looked him up and down. He really was nothing special. What use was a doctor in Rarity's condition? It was his job to make ponies get better; his inability to even attempt to help Rarity proved that he was useless. "I'm going to be good to Rarity," I found myself saying, leaning a little closer to him, "but through no efforts of yours. I am going to be good to Rarity because she deserves it, and because she is mine to care for. I don't need you to tell me how to look after the pony that I love."
I expected him to respond in a shocked way. I wanted him to feel the power of my words. But he simply blinked and retained the exact same homely expression. "I am sure that you will do everything in your power to help her," he said. "Should things become difficult, don't hesitate to ask."
"Neither of us need your help."
"I think that you should let Rarity speak for herself just this once," he replied, patting me on the shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have another patient to see."
He pulled away. I watched him go, attempting to find the words to refute his own, but finding myself unable to come up with anything to say. He was a malicious character indeed. I balanced the coffee and returned to Rarity's room, still pondering over what I could have responded to the doctor with. Rarity had awoken during my absence. She was still perfectly capable of using magic, it seemed, as she was levitating a pencil and jotting things down on a notepad. With her sitting up there wasn't a lot of room for me to get into the bed with her, so I contented myself to sit on the small chair beside her. I watched her scribbling away at the paper, placing the coffee beside her bed. "What are you writing?" I queried, but she didn't respond and I found myself growing concerned. I asked several more times in slightly different forms over the next couple of minutes, but she seemed immersed in her note. When she eventually finished writing she tore the first page from the notepad, folding it several times and levitating it towards me.
"This is a letter," she said. "I need you to send this letter to Mr. Orange immediately. His address can be found in my address book underneath the desk at the boutique. This is a very important message. I really mean it."
I eyed the note for a moment, reaching up to pluck it from her arcane spell. "Don't read it," she made a point of adding. "It really needs to go off right away."
I slipped the note into my breast pocket. "What else?"
"These are some things that I need," she said, tearing the second page from the pad. "Just a few things from home. You have permission to enter the Inspiration Room in order to retrieve items five, seven and thirteen. Everything else you can find in the back-room, the bathroom or my bedroom. Stay in the Inspiration Room only for as long as you must and do not touch anything. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
She tore the third piece of paper from the notepad and slipped it beneath her pillow. I watched her action curiously. "What is that?"
"I'm going to hang onto this one for a little longer," she said. "When the time is right you can read it."
I attempted to question her further, but she had no intention of showing me whatever she had written. Not yet, at least. "Can you send the letter off now and bring me the items on the note?" she questioned instead, and I nodded to assure myself as much as her. "I'll get right on it." She smiled and moved back against the pillows; the same irritating one from before slipped off of the bed, and I bent down to pick it up, placing it neatly behind her head once more. Using her magic she opened the door. I walked towards it slowly, both of the notes held closely to my heart in my breast pocket.
"I'll be back soon," I said to her, stopping for a moment longer.
"I'll bring more pillows with me."
1 Month, 14 Days (Ibid.)
I placed the bottle back on the cabinet. I'd had enough to drink. The fire had completely died down now, and so I struggled to make my way around the room without bumping into things. I found myself back in the hallway of Mr. Cross' home, once more at the foot of the marble staircase. Although the building had looked unassuming on the outside, the interior had been decorated with the sort of pomp and decadence that one would come to expect of Mr. Cross. At the top of the staircase was a painted portrait of Mr. Cross himself. Photographs were now the popular image of choice, and so Mr. Cross' insistence on having an archaic painting in his lair seemed curious. My eyes met those of the ghastly painting; small mounted lamps either side of the frame illuminated it eerily and gave me a good view of Mr. Cross, or at least the image of himself that he wished to portray.
The painting itself was exactly what I would have imagined of Mr. Cross and was hardly painted to a realistic ideal. He seemed grander and more welcoming in the image; they had made his eyes wide with hospitality rather than narrow and critical. His moustache stood out as his greatest feature; comically large upon his face and appearing to suck in the rest of his facial features. I could not help but wonder what Mr. Cross would have looked like in the absence of that enormous moustache. I felt tempted to tear that part of the painting out of the image, but I could not find a dagger in my pocket that would allow me to accurately do so. At the bottom of the painting my eyes caught the insignia that Mr. Cross liberally flaunted; it was impossible that he had painted himself, but beside the insignia was a little scribble of a signature. I managed to identify an 'F' and a 'C', and shrugged to myself; he had obviously commissioned somepony to make an inaccurately complimentary image of himself. At the top of the stairs I turned to the left. I had no idea where his bedroom would be, and would now have to stealthily navigate his hallways.
As my hoof met wood at the top of his staircase a floorboard creaked, and I wondered if every staircase suffered from the same whining top step. Nearby I noticed a light flickering; on a little table in the corridor was a small lantern that had been left on with a low-flame burning from a minimal deposit of oil. No doubt it was there in case he needed to navigate during the night, perhaps in order to use the bathroom. I took the lantern in my mouth and approached the nearest door. I opened it with a hoof, but quickly identified that it was indeed the bathroom. I noticed three other doors on this side of the building – going right at the top of the staircase would take me to other rooms – and I approached them one at a time. The first room seemed to be a study of some kind, as I spotted within several bookshelves, a globe and a telescope that was pointing towards the window. A small desk had a map splayed out over it. Red marks had been made at particular points on the map, although even with the light of the lantern I could not deduce what they were in relation to. The map read 'Manehattan plans', which would perhaps have meant more to me had I been there to sabotage Mr. Cross' business plans. That was not, however, why I was in his home at that moment.
My eyes drifted to something else of interest within the study. There was an issue of the Rococo Report, but it appeared to be a different edition to the one that I had burned in Mr. Cross' fireplace. I saw Rarity's name on the front cover and a caption hinting at a story about her within on the tenth page. I opened the article and squinted to read it. I placed the lantern on the table in front of me, which provided just enough light for me to be able to read the words that had been printed. The article had not been written by Gazette this time, I made a note of immediately, but another pony that went by the name 'Black Burst'. His style read differently to Gazette's as I pooled over the article.
"Miss Rarity, sources reveal, is currently in hospital undergoing medical treatment. Although her current whereabouts are unknown, in the wake of her collapse in Manehattan sources have indicated that she must be nearby."
I looked further down the page, bypassing a recap of the current situation that the media regarded Rarity to be in. At least this pony remained more objective than Gazette; he wrote in a more matter-of-fact manner. My eyes paused on a particular sentence.
"Should Miss Rarity's whereabouts be made known, any news should be delivered immediately either to the Rococo Report or to Mr. Friesian Cross."
As the article went on, I was able to infer that Mr. Cross had close affiliations with the Rococo Report. Whilst his position within the Manehattan media network wasn't familiar to me, he was certainly working alongside them regarding the current Rarity situation. And this proved to be a particularly troublesome revelation, as they were now attempting to find out where she was, no doubt hungry to feed upon any information that she could provide that would incriminate her further. I had promised myself that I would shield Rarity from these lies. I flipped the article back to the title page and noticed that the date was a couple of days ahead. I had remembered that Gazette had mentioned to me that stories were generally run in the Rococo Report every week. Perhaps this was an early copy that had not yet been distributed? The last copy that I had picked up from the shop mere days ago had been dated earlier than this. It was probably too late to stop the Manehattan media from releasing this copy and the article, but I could still make Mr. Cross pay for his contribution to it.
I withdrew from the study, taking the lantern in my mouth once again, and approached the next door in a hurry. I opened it as quietly as I could despite my furious state and, to my elation, I heard from within the calm breathing of a living resident. I was beginning to think that nopony was home and that my efforts had been for nought. As I hovered in the doorway, I was now given a choice. I knew that I could turn back, but I could not bring myself to do such a thing. I had come too far now. I left the door open slightly and placed the lantern outside the room, allowing a small slither of light to enter. There was a large double bed in front of me, dressed up fancily with elaborate drapes. I took a deep breath and approached the bed, squinting to make out the sleeping figures.
Only, it was one figure, not two. And as I moved closer, I observed that it was not Mr. Cross, but a sleeping mare. I half expected it to be that mysterious Clemency mare, but she did not have the same style of mane, and nor was said mane the same colour. I could tell that much, even in the dark. On her bedside table were an assortment of items, not least a pair of glasses, but also a brush for one's mane and a necklace.
This mare before me appeared at the time to be Florence Cross. I had met her only once before at the party following the Symphony of Seven Paladins that I had attended with Rarity. At the time she had been dressed up in all manner of fancy clothing and make-up, and looked as any pretentious aristocratic type would. But here she seemed different; as she snoozed into the pillow, she seemed utterly at peace and inarguably cute. Her blonde mane had been let out of its bunches, allowing it to flow all over the bed, and she had curled up slightly in her sleep in order to embrace a plush-toy pony between her front hooves. She seemed rather too young, now that I thought about it.
I think my mind was perhaps playing tricks on me. She could not have been that young, and I blamed the lack of light within the room for my assumptions about her. She was definitely alone, and I pulled away from the room, slipping out of the door and searching the remainder of Mr. Cross' house. On the other end of the manor the rooms were almost identical in their positioning, and I managed to find another room that revealed itself as a bedroom. Within I could hear another snoozing form, this one sounding less nubile and innocent. It had to be Mr. Cross. I used the same method of placing the light by the door and sneaking inside.
In this room was another double bed, but again, only one sleeping form. Strangely, it was another female. Her bedside table was noticeably less cluttered than that of my previous find, save for a lamp and a small slip of paper that had been folded in half. I picked the note up carefully in my hoof. Even in the minimal light I was able to read the note after unfolding it, as it had been written in thick, black ink and was not terribly long.
"Florence,
Will be away for two to three weeks in Manehattan. Nothing to worry about, just some business to attend to.
Much love,
F. C".
With his wife, at least, he did not use his little insignia, and actually signed using his initials. Now things were beginning to make a little more sense to me. The first pony had not been his wife, but presumably a daughter. I had never heard mention of Mr. Cross' daughter, but then again, I knew very little about his personal life. Mr. Cross, irritatingly, was away in Manehattan, by the sounds of it – I could not tell when the note had been written, but its position at the side of Mrs. Cross' bed led me to assume that it was relatively fresh. Not that it mattered much, now; before there had been daughter in the picture, things had been easier. But now that she was in the house with her mother and Mr. Cross was nowhere to be seen, I could not do anything irrational.
I glanced down. This was certainly his wife – she looked older and seemed much more familiar to me. She was sleeping in a mass of pillows. One of these pillows had fallen off of the bed during her sleep and was on the floor in front of me. I let out a deep sigh and turned to leave, but I was irritated by the presence of the pillow on the floor. It was out of place. I bent down to pick up the pillow in my mouth, placing it down on the bed beside her. I was now comfortable to leave, but the form in the bed before me began to move. My body tensed. She had rolled over, this time facing towards me. Even in the relative darkness I could see, and the shadowy means by which I had invaded her room could not save me when I noticed her eyes open; those dark, black orbs glistened with a liquid-like quality that I will never forget. She was awake, and she had noticed my presence.
"Friesian?" I heard her muffled, disorientated voice question. "Friesian... what are you doing home so soon?"
I began to panic. I could not possibly adopt Mr. Cross' tone, but I could not leave now that she had noticed my intrusion. There was a smashed window downstairs that signified that somepony had broken in. She would know that somepony had been in her home. Desperation consumed me; Florence Cross had sat upright in her bed, fumbling around desperately for the switch for the lamp. My natural instincts kicked in, and I picked up the pillow that I had salvaged from the floor with a hoof. Before I knew what I was doing, I was pressing the pillow down over her head. Her body struggled and she kicked and flailed, screaming into the material. I pressed down harder, forcing her voice to cut off almost entirely. I grunted. My eyelids tightened. Her vocals were strained and she was coughing and gagging beneath me. Still I continued to hold the pillow in place, pinning her legs down with my superior body weight. And then, after finally giving in, her body tensed against mine and her protesting hooves, that had so wildly been hammering at my back, fell limp.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." I panted more times than I could count, burying my head down against the pillow. I cried into it and gagged, choking myself. I slowly peeled the pillow back and saw her lying there, her dead face contorted but motionless. I ran a hoof across her pale body, up to her locks of fine mane. She looked as tranquil as she had whilst sleeping. I pulled away from her body, the pillow rolling onto the floor once again. I watched it fall and closed my eyes tightly, getting a hold of myself.
There was a dead body in this house now, and his daughter was still alive on the other side of the building. As fragile as I was at that moment, I was capable of rationalising, at least in my mind, what would happen next. She would wake up in the morning and find a smashed window downstairs. She would go into her mother's room and find her deceased corpse. And then an investigation would begin. I don't know how this could be tracked back to me, but there was undoubtedly something that could incriminate me. I couldn't afford for his daughter to find out about this. At least with both of them gone, it would be several weeks before Mr. Cross would return home to find his family dead.
As I hurried from Florence Cross' body towards the first bedroom that I discovered, I began to reason with myself and the situation that I found myself in. As much as I hated what I had done, it was necessary to avoid further conflict. Mr. Cross deserved having his family taken from him. A pony as terrible as him did not deserve love. I had not known Mrs. Cross. By tomorrow I would have forgotten her face. In a week, I would not remember what I had done. By detaching myself from my crime I was able to keep my sanity in check. I entered the daughter's room again and approached her bed. Smothering her mother had been easy enough; I imagined that the same practice would work here. At any rate, it would leave no marks or broken bones, and would make it difficult to establish a cause of death. If it hadn't been for that damned smashed window downstairs, they could easily have both died of natural causes. Or perhaps a gas leak. I had images in my head of burning the house down and blaming it on a freak accident as I found myself staring down at the mare below me.
She hadn't moved. She was as still as the first time, her body clutching that plush toy and her chest gently rising and falling. Her bottom half was beneath the covers, but her top half was on show and beautiful. I licked my dry lips, reaching out for a pillow that wasn't being used and picking it up, taking a deep exhale of breath. She spluttered a little in her sleep, holding her toy closer as if she knew what I was about to do. I felt my hooves trembling, ready to bring the pillow down over her head in order to suffocate her. My entire body was shaking, my throat beginning to close up with a familiar ache.
"You have to do this..." I reasoned to myself. "It's Mr. Cross' child. She deserves everything coming to her."
But Mr. Cross' child was, for some reason, refusing to die. I could not physically bring the pillow down to kill her. I could only watch her and cry. I stepped back. I could not bring myself to murder her. Whoever this pony was – I didn't even know her name – she wasn't a pony that I could harm. She was too elegant and too innocent. I dropped the pillow and rushed out of the room. I had no idea if I had woken her in the process or not. I closed her door behind me and put my head back against it, staring up and taking a deep breath. I felt a rise in my stomach but managed to keep myself from vomiting.
"What the fuck have I done?" I whispered to myself like a maniac. How could I get out of this situation? There was nothing that I could do to keep this from coming out. It would make all of the headlines and ruin me. I had gotten what I wanted in hurting Mr. Cross, ultimately, although I had never considered what the repercussions of my plan would be. If Mr. Cross had been there that night, I would have killed him, and probably his wife in the process, as she would no doubt have woken up whilst I was butchering her husband. But in becoming a murderer, I was jeopardising everything. I really hadn't been thinking straight that day, and there was no just cause for my actions.
I ended up forming a quick plan. It would hide any evidence of any of this happening and erase this entire ordeal as much as possible. I walked around the house and found every lamp, candle and lantern that I could find. Where there was oil in lanterns I smashed the glass and tipped it out onto the carpets. I found myself pouring oil into the living room, where I noticed the fireplace once again with its metal guard up. An idea entered my brain and I opened the guard, pouring some more oil into the fireplace and, using a pack of matches that sat on the mantelpiece just above the fireplace, I set the logs on fire once again. I could make this entire thing look like a terrible accident that had occurred when Mrs. Florence Cross had foolishly forgotten to close the guard on the fireplace, inadvertently causing her home to burn down during the night.
I left the living room and continued around the house. I started downstairs actually lighting a fire, using some of the matches to set fire to books and anything that I could find that was flammable. The study and the living room went up in flames quickly. I hurried upstairs. Mrs. Cross' room appeared to have plenty of items that easily caught on fire, although I stayed as far away from her bed as possible. I remained in the home setting fires off wherever I could until they were beyond being put out. I then slammed a hoof against the door of Mr. Cross' daughter's room, turning on my hooves and running downstairs. I passed the painting on the way; it had caught fire and the paint was melting, pooling at the base of the frame. The image that Mr. Cross portrayed to the world was beginning to burn away. I did not observe the painting for long; fire had now consumed the hall, but I had intelligently unlocked the door when I had first entered, and ran through the flames towards the exit. I made my way out into the open air, coughing from the effect of the dark smoke from within.
I did vomit then, although I could not slow down to recover. I ran away from the home and located the wall that I had leapt over in order to enter his estate. There was no tree on my side, but by some miracle I was able to leap high enough and somehow scramble over the wall. I landed in some bushes and rushed to the other side of the path, diving into the foliage opposite the gate of the manor. I watched as the building began to burn noticeably from the outside.
"Come on... come on..." I stuttered to myself, watching the doorway. Terrible thoughts passed through my mind; had I remembered to do my best to wake the girl? I could have done more! I could have opened the door and thrown something – anything – at her. I even felt the inclination to rush back in and save her, but my hooves kept me rooted to the ground. I was in a state of giving up when I noticed movement, and the front door of their manor home did indeed open. The mare was there, appearing as if in her teenage years in the light of the fire behind her, and she was coughing and retching. She gulped in a strained breath and ran back into the building. I assumed that she was mad; she emerged minutes later dragging a pony behind her. It was her mother. She must have left the manor momentarily in order to catch her breath before rushing right back in for her. The blonde mare pulled her further away from the building, closer towards me – so close, in fact, that she was just on the other side of the gate – and there she fell on top of her elder, breathing into her mouth and moaning. She pressed heavy hooves against her mother's chest in a desperate attempt to help her breathe once again, but I knew that she was not going to wake.
As the foundations of the building behind her immolated further, the entire structure began to crack and smash. It was doubtful that there would be any way to tell that I had even broken into the place, now that it was all going up in flames. The mare was still attempting to revive her mother. It was a horrible spectacle to watch, and I found myself looking away in the grim hope that she would stop. But she continued trying to give life back to her mother for longer than I could have counted. Minutes must have rolled into hours as she sobbed against her mother's corpse, unable to let her go. Her death had been sudden; the living mare had had no time to prepare for it. It was natural that she would take this ordeal as a shock.
I left before finding out what happened next with the young mare. She was alive, and that was enough closure for me. Although Mr. Cross' home was on the outskirts of Trottingham, no doubt a blaze as big as this would be seen from the town and ponies would come flocking soon. They would find a distraught daughter, agonised but alive, and a deceased mother, who had died for all intents and purposes by inhaling too much smoke. Things had really worked out perfectly; I may not have been able to stop Mr. Cross, but I had hit him arguably where it would hurt more. The death of Florence had been a tragedy, but if the newspapers would print that she died in a house fire, I would be willing to believe it. I left the area under the cover of darkness, avoiding the roads to the best of my ability. I could not wait to see the stories in the papers over the next few days.
Mr. Cross would have to prepare himself. As the old saying goes...
Fight fire with fire.