Heather Rose

by Admiral Biscuit

A Proper Heath

A Proper Heath
Admiral Biscuit

After the final bows had been given, the curtain closed, and the audience's hoofstomps faded. The two black-clad stagehooves breathed a sigh of relief: opening night had gone flawlessly.

They shared a high-hoof before trotting down the stairs, eager for the stage manager to give them their release for the night. Visions of removing their sweaty black shirts and unwinding in one of the nearby taverns danced tantalizingly before them, so the last thing they wanted to see was the face of Proper Prim. Unfortunately, that—and the rest of the unicorn—was waiting for them at the base of the stairs.

"That was the worst set-dressing I've seen in years!" She didn't even wait until their hooves had touched the hallway floor. "The farmhouse flat was too far stage right—didn't you see the spikes on the floor? The split-rail fence was backwards, and it wasn't even supposed to be on stage in scene four. And don't even get me started about the flowers!"

The two stagehooves shared a glance and wisely kept their mouths shut. They didn’t want to get her started about the flowers.

"Nothing? Argh!" Proper Prim yanked her glasses down and glared at the hapless ponies. "It's Hinny of the Hills, not Hinny of the Middenheap. When ponies come to see the play, they want to see proper flowers—fresh flowers. They want to smell them. They want the scene to evoke an open heath, not a heap of compost! I don't want to know where you found those flowers, but I want fresh flowers on stage tomorrow—I want flowers so fresh that one of the actors gets stung by a bee."

"There aren't any in town—it's some noble's wedding."

"Yeah. We looked. This was the best we could find. Maybe next weekend—"

"Next weekend? Next weekend, the house will be closed, because the critics will have all panned the show." Proper Prim rubbed a hoof across her forehead and sighed. "I'll get the flowers . . . you're going to be spending all afternoon arranging them. G'wan, get out of here!"

The two stagehooves didn't need any further prompting; they trotted past the set designer before she could find something else to gripe about.

---

Bright and early the next morning, Proper Prim had boarded the first train to Ponyville. If you want the right flowers, she'd thought, get them from the source. Her muzzle was stuck out the window, her head on a swivel as the the train made its way across the hilly terrain in the direction of Ponyville.

This was hardly her first trip there; much of her set design had been inspired by the traditional Ponyville landscape. She'd spent days prowling the roads around town, studying the color of the homes and the nature of the fallow fields. It had been a pleasant change from the countless hours she'd spent cooped up in the library researching the set for The Honorable Gate.

Just as the train began slowing for the Ponyville station, it rounded a gentle curve, and there in front of her muzzle was the field of her dreams. The heather was in full bloom: a lake of purple blossoms swaying dreamily in the gentle breeze, wafting their heady scent into her coach. For just a moment she thought of jumping out of the window, but luckily for her bones, sanity reared its head, and she remained seated.

There was a mare in the field, and she was sure that if she started asking around at the train station, she could find the field again. After all, this was a small town, where everypony knew everypony.

• • •

From her vantage point, she could have been anywhere. Looking to the north as she was, the field of heather spread in front her, waving cheerfully in the gentle breeze. Ponyville was on her left flank, and Canterlot couldn't quite be seen unless she turned her head right; from her vantage point, there was nothing but nature to be seen. Some ponies might have been bothered by the solitude, but Heather Rose wasn't. Sure, she liked spending time at the market and spa, and she liked gossiping with other mares as much as anypony else, but it was moments like this that made her feel complete—there was nothing ponymade to be seen, only her and her namesake flower.

Her gardening trowel forgotten at her hooves, she just watched her field live. Bees buzzed from the flowers to her hive, doing their part of an age-old dance that would continue long after ponies were gone.

A distant chuffing caused her to look towards Canterlot in irritation. This interruption was routine—trains came by all the time. There were already four a day, and she’d heard that soon there would be another two. That was too many trains for her liking.

She wasn’t opposed to the concept of trains, and indeed, they were convenient when she wanted to visit her family back in Canterlot, but they were just too loud and too sooty. As often as not, the fine ash from the smokestack settled on her field; judging by the way the wind was blowing, today would not be an exception.

She caught the blur of faces peering out the windows as the train roared by, although they went too quickly for her to recognize any of them. Sometimes she wondered who they were and where they were going—and whether they were curious about her, too.

Heather Rose turned her head as the smoke cloud dissipated and settled on her field, briefly masking the scent of the flowers. She hoped it wasn’t thick enough to bother the bees.

She bent down and picked her trowel back up. The weeds wouldn't uproot themselves, and while the heather could fend for itself, it needed a helping hoof to reach its full potential.

• • •

Proper Prim’s mission proved somewhat more difficult than anticipated; whether the result of an honest error or somepony with a weird sense of humor, Prim found herself directed towards the home of a skittish mare who bore a passing resemblance to her. After convincing Daisy that she was not, in fact, a long-lost sister, Prim finally got accurate directions to the heather field on the outskirts of town.

She suppressed a grimace as she knocked on the door of the small house. She could imagine the inside already—rustic would be generous, while ready to be condemned was a real possibility. Of course, nopony answered the door, and Prim flicked her tail in annoyance at her stupidity. It stood to reason that the owner was still out standing in her field: she’d seen her there when the train passed.

Prim took one brief look at her clean Canterlot hooves, and then walked around the house towards the field of heather. Taking care to follow the narrow winding paths through the field, she made her way to the lone earth pony.

The slight breeze must have been blowing in her direction, because she was deep in the field before the earth pony took notice of her, which gave her a good chance to get a look at the mare.

Her mane and tail were a deep rosewood, and—to Prim's mind—rather disheveled. Certainly a contrast to her own manestyle, but about what she'd expect from a farm mare. However, her light magenta coat looked well-groomed, and she even had a sprig of heather for a cutie mark.

"Hello!"

Heather Rose snapped her head around at the sound of the voice. It wasn't somepony she knew, and she spent a moment taking stock of her visitor before answering. The stranger had a carnation pink coat and a lime-green mane pulled back in a loose bun. For an instant she thought Daisy had gotten dressed up for a dance, complete with a fake horn and black-framed glasses. Then the moment passed, and she realized that this was a complete stranger, who was standing in the middle of her field.

She didn't like her already. It was rude to walk in somepony else's flowers.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh, I hope so." Prim pushed her glasses up her muzzle. "I think—I think you may be uniquely qualified to help me." She took a few steps towards Heather Rose and stuck out a hoof. "I'm Proper Prim—Prim to my friends."

"Heather Rose." The extended foreleg was reluctant, and covered to the fetlock in mud.

Nevertheless, Prim bumped it lightly. "I'm a set designer for the Canterlot Community Theater. We're doing a production of Hinny of the Hills. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

Heather Rose nodded slowly. "Wasn't it playing in Manehattan last year? I heard Rarity talking about it at the spa."

"Yes!" Prim smiled. "We were lucky to get rights so soon after they completed their run."

"Did you come all the way out here to tell me about your play?" Heather Rose gave Prim a confused look. "That's nice of you, but—"

"No, of course not." Prim made a sweeping motion with her hoof. "Listen. When one thinks of Hinny, one thinks of the hills and dales covered with heather in bloom." Her ears drooped. "But when they see our production, all they'll see is some sorry wilted weeds that my useless set crew probably found in a dumpster behind a restaurant. It won't evoke anything from the audience, except perhaps pity for Hinny when she sings 'Paradise for Two'. What I want, Miss Rose, is actual heather in bloom. And I want a lot of it."

"A lot?"

"A lot. Let me be perfectly frank: I want my stage to look like your field."

The two mares looked across the field. Heather Rose tried to imagine it reduced, and constrained by the wings of the stage, while Prim saw a simpler artful vision which would make ponies think beyond the confines of the stage.

They stood that way in silence for a minute, the only sounds the quiet drone of bees and whispery rustling of leaves, before Heather Rose broke into a smile. "Come back to the house; I'll make us tea."

• • •

While her host was in the kitchen, Prim glanced around the room. Despite its slightly bedraggled exterior—which, to be fair, was hard to avoid in a half-timbered house with a thatched roof—the interior was spotlessly clean. Almost too clean for a farmhouse. It wouldn't be believable on stage.

Heather Rose, too, was spotlessly clean. She'd rinsed her hooves obsessively on the back stoop, even using a stiff bristle brush on the bottoms to get the stubborn dirt around her shoes and frogs. When she’d finished and proffered the brush, Prim had wordlessly followed suit, then allowed herself to be escorted into a sitting room.

While she was waiting for her host to finish in the kitchen, Prim looked around the tidy room. A framed sepia photograph on the wall caught her attention, and she walked over to get a closer look.

It was a fairly conventional pose, with a mare and stallion bracketing their filly. The stallion was wearing a jacket which looked to be about one size too small for him, while the mare was more demure, and wore her blouse with an ethereal grace. The filly, who was unmistakably Heather Rose, had been caught mid-squirm by the photographer. Of more interest was the building in the background—even from across the room, it had looked familiar, but the address plaque beside the door sealed the deal.

"You're from Canterlot," Prim said as Heather Rose returned, a salver loaded with tea, cream, rock sugar, and biscuits balanced on her back.

"Yes." She reached around and set the tray on the table between them. "But I moved here after primary school. I thought Canterlot was too fake." Her ears fell as she realized what she'd just said, but Prim just let out a hearty laugh.

"My dear Miss Rose, you've hit the nail right on the head. But what better place for a playhouse, eh?"

"Rosie—it's Rosie to my friends."

"Of course." Prim waited until Heather Rose had poured them each a cup of tea. She watched her new friend's motions carefully: it wasn't even a conscious behavior. While Prim would never claim to be an actor, she often had to seamlessly blend into shindigs and hobnob with nobles to secure funding for a show. They always wanted to know what their bits were being spent on, and the surest way to get a polite 'no thanks' was to commit some social faux pas. So she watched, and when her turn came, she added the rock sugar, poured the cream into her tiny cup, and drank it without stirring, just as Heather Rose had.

At first sip, it was dark and bitter, but as the cream and sugar dissolved into the tea, the flavor changed. Much like meeting a new pony, Prim thought. Heather Rose had sweetened into Rosie, and the two made easy small-talk as the two took their tea together.

They didn't discuss business until the cups were empty, but Prim already knew that they would reach a deal together, and they did. Proper Prim went back to the train station in the company of a blue stallion, who was hauling a cart full of fresh-picked heather—she could attest to its freshness, since she'd just helped pick it. Heather Rose found herself many bits richer, with the promise of more to come during the show's run.

It was, Prim thought as the train began its climb to Canterlot, a very successful day: not only did have her flowers, but like any small-town deal, they had also parted ways with personal gifts. The unicorn was six complimentary tickets poorer, and a dozen bottles of heather ale richer. Prim intended to put one of those to good use after she'd finished redecorating the stage, since she couldn't trust the stagehooves to realize her artistic vision.

---

The show that night was a huge success—she'd even heard weeping during Hinny's heartfelt solo. It would have been just the perfect end to the perfect day . . . except the stagehooves set the fence backwards again.

Author's Note:

Special thanks to AShadowOfCygnus and metallusionismagic for pre-reading.
Special thanks to AShadowOfCygnus for coverart
Proper Prim is an OC created by Trombrony98

Comments

[MrZJunior]

not only did have her flowers, but like any small-town deal

I think you are missing a "she" in there.

Good story, it sounds like a nice place for a B&B.

[Fana Farouche]

The Honorable Gate

Assuming this is a reference to The MIkado, I immediately thought of the CMCs. Good God, can you imagine having to direct those three? Great, now I have G&S on the brain and I keep thinking of Fancy Pants in The Pirates of Penzance. Seriously, ponies doing G&S, I would give a limb to see that.

...out standing in her field...

not only did she have her flowers

As MrZJunior, below, has already observed.