> Carousel
>  by Thornquill
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1 - Homecoming
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sight of Ponyville had never made Rarity feel so miserable. As the train swept through its final curve towards the little town, the dark spire of Town Hall rose to prick the overcast sky, as if to draw down even more of the little icy specks of sleet that were muddling the view. The landmark was indisputable confirmation that she was finally home.

All of her disappointment and shame, which she had managed to push away during the journey, returned in a rush. Her heartbeat quickened painfully, and a stiff, anxious pressure rose in her throat.

She looked away from the window as Ponyville drew closer, sniffing once before blinking away the hot tears threatening her makeup. Her parents would be waiting for her at the station, and she felt like she already had plenty to answer for. No need to complicate things even more with a show of emotion. That would only send her mother off on a binge of hovering, comforting, and generally smothering her for days.

Rarity quickly checked herself over as the train began slowing to a fitful halt. She had her saddlebags, a gauzy scarf, and a light hat which had seemed far more practical in the almost unseasonably warm Manehatten weather. I should have known better! she reprimanded herself. The village’s lead weatherpony, an old mare named Hoarfrost, always brought winter to Ponyville early, calling in extra cloud cover and causing the temperature to plummet before Cloudsdale had even started making its annual rounds. Rarity couldn’t stand how the local population had tolerated it for so many years. As a filly, she could remember thinking that the entire town seemed to either love the dead cold just as much as Hoarfrost or else just didn’t want to make an issue of it.

That’s Ponyville for you. A town full of ponies either too meek to shake up the status quo, or too stupid to realize it needs shaking up.

By contrast, the heat and hubbub of Manehatten had been like a dream come true. But like all dreams, it had turned out to be a very short-lived one, and now she was being forced to wake up again. She glanced ruefully at the copy of the Manehatten Times she had bought at the Grand Central Station to occupy her for the trip home.




Seam Stress Steals Show


Manehatten’s pride blew critics away at the 996 Pony Panoply Promenade, once again raising the bar in modern couture.

“The clock’s counting down, and everypony is starting to push the envelope in anticipation of the Millennial Summer Sun Celebration,” Prim Hemline, one of the show’s sponsors, told our reporters.

“Though it’s still four years away, it will be a once-in-a-lifetime event, and every designer from here to Baltimare knows that now is the time to make their mark. There won’t just be photos of the dresses worn at those events in the magazines—they’ll be in the history books.”



Grayscale photographs sprawled over most of the front page, showing proud mares and stallions strutting with practiced poise along a fashion runway, showcasing a dazzling array of sweeping gowns and severely trimmed suits. Even poor photography couldn’t detract from the perfectly cut lines, the expertly-creased pleats that seemed to magnify power and wit—exactly what discriminating buyers from Canterlot, Fillydelphia, and Manehatten wanted.

“Making a mark,” Rarity whispered as she dropped the paper back on the bench. “I’d have settled for working the production line.”

As the train finally shuddered to a halt, she stood and made her way to the door.

“Miss? Excuse me, miss?” a voice called out behind her. “Did you forget this?”

“Oh, I’m finished with it, you can just...” she said, expecting that they were referring to the abandoned paper. As she glanced back, she saw the conductor, whose gray cheeks were buried beneath monstrous muttonchops, holding up a sleek black portfolio. “Oh... yes, I’m sorry. Thank you.” She accepted the portfolio with her magic and stepped out onto the cold, damp platform.

For a moment, she just stood there, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering as she looked around. Down the road, she could see the tree that housed the town’s library and the first of several small shops and homes that lined the northwestern edge of town. The streets were noticeably emptier than usual, however. She supposed the sleet had driven everypony indoors to their warm quilts and hearths. As it was too early for the lamps that lined the streets to be lit, the empty, soggy lanes were left dim and lifeless as they wound between walls whose colors had been drained to muted tones of dead browns and lifeless grays.

“ ‘Welcome home, Rarity,’ ” she groused in a mocking imitation of her mother’s voice, feeling the heat of tears rising again. “ ‘So good to see you... so soon... how was your trip?’ ‘Oh, just wonderful, mother, thank you for coming to pick me up...’ ”

She was interrupted by several purple and blue trunks being hefted down from the train and deposited unceremoniously on the platform in a series of wet thunks. She didn’t think she was imagining the way the damp boards suddenly seemed to sag beneath them.

“Where are these going, miss?” the conductor asked, breathing heavily as he stacked the sixth one onto the pile.

“Oh, my parents should be coming with a coach soon,” she replied, glancing around the deserted streets again and biting her lower lip. “Could... could you please put them under the roof for now?”

“Right away, miss,” he said, gesturing to the other two ponies with him.

After the luggage was out of the way, he blew a sharp note on a brass whistle and closed the door of the coach behind him as the engine responded with a deep, echoing blast of its own, and Rarity watched as it slowly began to heave itself away.

She turned and regarded the empty streets again. For a little while, the only thing she was aware of was the cold air in her nostrils and the tiny plip of sleet periodically hitting her hat. She scratched one foreleg with the other, then gave a short sigh of resignation.

Now what?

She stood like that until she realized her mane was starting to sag with the damp. She shook herself and walked sluggishly to the protection of the overhanging roof, dropping her portfolio on the ground and turning away from it. The clock above the station door showed 4:37. She’d only spent seven minutes at the station, but it already felt like thirty. She sat down on the ground beside her trunk and, with nothing else to do, stared into the soupy gray expanse as she waited.

At 4:51, her parents finally trundled up to the station in a hired carriage. The sleet had transitioned to a bitter, semi-solid spray, and Rarity grimaced as she realized the poor Earth Pony pulling the carriage was probably getting soaked through the badly-fitting oilskin coat he wore. She hitched a tired smile onto her face and waved as they pulled up.

“Oh my goodness, sweetheart, you must be freezing!” her mother exclaimed, hopping down from the carriage almost before it had stopped moving and sending up a large, muddy splash.

Rarity winced, cringing away as her mother trotted towards her, an inevitable, crushing hug bearing down on her with muddy hooves. Her father followed a little more reservedly, shielding a tiny filly bundled up in one of his forelegs from the sleet as Rarity tried her best to avoid any mud from her mother’s embrace.

“Oh you poor thing, you’re positively soaked! I’m so sorry we’re late! I can’t believe you had to wait for us in this cold, but you know your father. I swear, I haven’t been less than twenty minutes late since the day we met!”

Her father rolled his eyes, and Rarity gave him a small, knowing grin behind her mother’s back; they both knew Cookie Crumbles hadn’t been on time once since the day she had been born.

“We’d better get these things loaded up and get you home.” Her father said. “Your mother’ll have a hot meal ready for you in no time.” He levitated one of the large trunks, wincing a little as it wobbled towards the carriage, while the carriage pony hefted another.

“Oh yes, I’ve had bread baking all day, and I have just the soup to go with it. I thought I’d try putting it inside the bread like they do in all those fancy Manehatten restaurants. Did you get to eat at many of those? Oh, I just can’t wait to hear all about your trip on the way back!”

“Of... of course.” Rarity’s smile wavered just a touch.

“I think we’d better let our little girl rest some first. She’ll have plenty of time to tell us everything later,” her father said, seeming to pick up on her reluctance as the last of the luggage was placed and the carriage’s suspension sagged another inch. “But wait’ll you hear what Sweetie Belle’s been up to while you were gone,” he continued, lifting the bundle he still held, where Rarity’s little sister was sleeping soundly.

Her mother’s eyes lit up as she and Rarity moved quickly to the carriage. “Oh, she’s just been adorable, and I know she missed you, Rarity; she’s been so fussy ever since you left! And she’s been getting more active by the day, you should see her...”

And that remained the topic of conversation for the duration of the ride to her parent’s home—to her home, Rarity corrected herself. Cookie regaled her with every tiny detail of her little sister’s diminutive adventures during the five days Rarity had been away. Listening was a compromise, but one Rarity was still grateful for. As long as her mother was talking about Sweetie Belle, Rarity could put off talking about Manehatten for a little longer—hopefully until a warm house and warmer food could make it a tiny bit easier to do so.


* * *


The house was indeed warm, and the soup was almost tolerable, though it did soak through most of the bread before it had a chance to cool. If there was ever a mare who proved baking and cooking were two different arts, it was Cookie. Yet despite Rarity’s hopes, none of it was enough to lift her mood. Throughout the evening, a frown descended on her face every time she dared let her mind wander, which happened more and more as the long train ride finally started to take its toll and her eyelids grew painfully heavy.

“Thank you so much for dinner, Mother. It was delectable, really,” Rarity said, smiling genuinely at her. “But I think I should go to bed, or I’ll have bags under my eyes for a week.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sweetheart,” her mother replied, hugging her tightly before shooing her towards the stairs. “I made sure to clean your room and the bathroom before you got here. Just let us know if you need anything!”

“Sleep tight, marshmallow,” her father called from the table, his warm grin beaming up at her.

“Thank you. Goodnight,” Rarity called back.

The warm light of the living room vanished as she ascended into the unlit upper level. She didn’t bother lighting any of the brass lamps set into the walls; the clouds had finally thinned a little, and squares of blue-gray moonlight slanted through the windows and guided her down the long, narrow hall toward her bedroom. She had just enough energy to pull her makeup kit from her saddlebags and remove what little she had bothered to wear that day. As desperately as she wanted to lie down, she knew she’d regret it in the morning if she left mascara and eyeshadow on overnight. That done, she stepped heavily into her room and gently kicked the door shut behind her.

Everything had been moved. Her mother always tried to put things back in their places when she cleaned, but she usually got most of it mixed up. The sheets smelled of detergent, and they were cold and brittle to the touch as she pulled them back. Her father had piled the trunks wherever he could find space. They crowded the floor and even obscured the window that looked out over the still, gray water of the pond their house sat beside. The trunks were filled with nearly every outfit she had ever put together, all packed up in the hope that one would prove suitable to be shown in Manehatten. She knew she would have to unpack them all tomorrow.

I should probably throw out a good deal of it, she thought sadly. Some of it’s just old and taking up space. It was foolish to pack it all, but one never knows...

She heard muffled, high-pitched wails downstairs. Sweetie Belle was fussing again. Rarity hoped she would not be kept up half the night, or she really would have bags under her eyes all week. Her gaze roved around the dark corners of the room. Moonlight reflected from a glass-framed diploma, and she felt the tightness return to her chest. It was dated C.E. 994 with a gold-leaf seal from the University of Fillydelphia stamped neatly above Rarity’s signature.

She pushed herself into the chilly sheets with less care than usual. She felt her hoof bump against something that nearly slid off the short, single-pony mattress. Glancing up, she saw the black square of her portfolio perched precariously on the edge of the bed.

Father must have left it there. The portfolio held photographs of the best designs she had made, as well as detailed drawings of her favorite creative concepts and her most ambitious ideas. She had even included designs she had sketched out but couldn’t yet pursue because she lacked the equipment or the materials.

She looked at it for a moment. Then she kicked it to the floor from beneath the covers. It fell with a muted thud and flipped over once, coming to rest with some of the pages bent beneath it. Rarity turned away and shut her eyes.

She was home. She had no job, no professional contacts, and no idea of what to do next. She was back to living with her parents in little, out-of-the-way Ponyville, the fashion capital of nothing.

She had never felt like more of a failure.


* * *


The next morning found Rarity sipping a hot chai latte while looking absently out the window of the local cafe. The maddening sleet had finally stopped sometime in the night, but the blanket of clouds smothering the sky only seemed to have grown thicker and heavier. The temperature had fallen to a biting chill that penetrated even the heavy purple-and-silver sweater she had donned for the day.

Fluttershy sat across from her, cradling a steaming cup of a musty-smelling green tea blended with bitter goji berries. Rarity looked away from the window, set her own cup down, and dabbed away a thin band of froth the tea had left on her lip. “And that was it. I didn’t get anything more than vague half-promises from a few secretaries, and I wasn’t able to get any more interviews before I had to come home.”

“Oh Rarity, I’m so sorry,” Fluttershy said, her mouth drawn into a pitying grimace. “I can’t believe so many of them would just cancel your interviews like that.”

“Cancel is an understatement,” Rarity said, staring into her cup. “Stiff Collar’s staff pretended to have no record of an appointment at all. They said he was engaged in all-day meetings and couldn’t possibly arrange anything. And then, of all things, Stiff Collar himself happened to pass me in the lobby on my way out, and I overheard him talking about taking a client out for golf and lunch.”

“Oh my goodness... that doesn’t seem right...” Fluttershy said quietly.

“Business is business,” Rarity replied, trying to affect a brisk tone. “Flawless Stitch and Thread Tread were wonderful though, and I still can’t quite believe Seam Stress herself gave me an interview. But it was the same answer each time: ‘Your work shows wonderful potential, but we’re really looking for somepony with more experience’.” Rarity snorted lightly and shook her head. “A polite way of saying they weren’t impressed if ever I heard one.”

“So, what will you do?” Fluttershy asked.

“I don’t know, Fluttershy.” Rarity sighed and looked back out the window. “I mean, I suppose I’m not terribly surprised. Going to the big firms was a desperate gamble to begin with. It’s just so much harder to find design firms in other cities. Manehatten really is the fashion capital of Equestria. Unless you count Canterlot of course, but Celestia knows I won’t get anywhere near there for years.”

“I’m sure something will come up. Maybe something will open up here. I know your parents weren’t looking forward to seeing you go so far away.”

Rarity glanced back at Fluttershy, a fond smile playing across her face at the unstated implication. She hadn’t been looking forward to leaving Fluttershy behind either. Rarity knew many ponies in town, but Fluttershy was the only one she had ever found close rapport with. There was no one else she could “talk shop” with. While her parents indulged her, it was hardly satisfying conversation, and it usually ended with something like, “oh, that’s nice sweetheart. Erm, pass the flour, wouldn’t you?”

Fluttershy, however, listened. She didn’t just let somepony talk—she took in every word as carefully as she took in the little birds she cared for in her cottage every winter. Just like she was listening to Rarity now.

“I know, darling,” Rarity said, hiding her smile behind another sip of her chai. “But unless you know of any design firms that happened to set up shop here in the week I was gone, I really don’t know how much more I can do here.”

“I understand.” Fluttershy’s eyes betrayed a hint of sadness as she smiled back. “This really isn’t a town for ponies with... well, careers. At least ones like yours.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit of an understatement. The closest thing we have to a fashion outlet is old Bridlebit’s Tack Shop, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t want my expertise.”

“Um, no,” Fluttershy giggled. “I doubt he does.” She took another sip of her tea. “Still... I wish I could help more. I don’t think I know enough to tell you what to do.”

“I don’t think I do either, Fluttershy,” Rarity sighed. “I don’t think I do either.”


* * *


Rarity wandered aimlessly after she left the cafe. She had asked Fluttershy if she would like to take a longer walk, but Fluttershy had apologized and said she needed to get back home. Shivering, Rarity wondered if Fluttershy had just thought it was too cold to stay out. If so, she could hardly blame her. Under normal circumstances, Rarity would hardly linger outside for longer than absolutely necessary, but the only other place she had to go was home.

Home to sketches and mock-ups that had gotten her little more than an extremely expensive sightseeing trip and some stressful conversations. Her mother would be there, popping in every ten minutes and asking if she needed anything or trying to strike up a conversation with the latest gossip from the older generations in town. Little Sweetie Belle would probably be making noise too, and any chance Rarity might have of figuring out where she had gone wrong or where to go next would be thrown out the window.

So she wandered, her sweater and hat soaking up the cold like a sponge in an icy lake, her too-thin scarf flitting to and fro like an antsy spirit in the breeze. The day’s drier weather had brought shoppers creeping from their homes into the market, but she noticed them only as gray shadows as they passed in front of and around her. She wished her comment to Fluttershy about Ponyville’s fashion had been in jest, but as she looked at the muted bustle around her, she realized just how bad the issue had always been.

There really is no market for fashion in this town, she thought. Even now, when the bitter weather demanded all but the hardiest ponies don some kind of protection, all she saw were ghastly, utilitarian coats and hats from the Tack Shop—chunky, formless things made from heavy black and brown cloth with dingy, puffs of fleece peeking out beneath. Here and there, she saw pale imitations of decent fashion purchased from the shelves of Barnyard Bargains. They were cheap, badly-made things, and she guessed they didn’t do a very good job of holding the cold at bay, judging from the way the ponies wearing them shivered and grimaced with every breeze.

And little wonder, Rarity thought. The fittings are loose approximations at best. You’d think Filthy Rich believed we all had the exact same body type or something. She thought back to the owner of the cab her parents had hired yesterday, and wondered if his ill-fitting oilskin was another victim of the production lines Filthy Rich employed to mass-produce the stuff. I should have offered to tailor the fit for him. Nopony deserves to be out pulling carriages in gear like that.

She followed one of her favorite walking routes which took her out of the marketplace and into the village park. The grass had gone brown after the Running of the Leaves, and black, spiny tree limbs stabbed nakedly into the sky like the legs of monstrous spiders in their death throes. A fountain had frozen over, leaving dirty water solidified into a shapeless mass at the bottom of the chipped stone bowl. 

She carried on past it, climbing a low hill midway to the forest that offered a view of town that was normally much more pleasant. The town cemetery was built there, and she usually passed through it before cutting through Whitetail Woods to circle town and arrive back home. As she passed the thin rods of pitted, wrought-iron fencing that enclosed the graveyard, she was surprised to notice she was not alone. A pink Earth Pony stood in one corner of the cemetery, her head bowed over a small gravestone. Rarity turned away respectfully and looked out over the town. Ponyville was laid out below her in an achromic huddle, the large windmill spinning listlessly as a ponies drifted in and out of sight among the buildings. 

“There’s just no color,” she said quietly to herself. “There’s no use for my kind of talent in this place. I don’t belong here anymore.”

The only response was the hiss of the wind through the barren boughs of the nearby trees. Somewhere nearby, dead leaves rustled as they were blown away.

“Still,” she continued, “It’s hard to believe it’s just because there’s no demand. There have to be at least a few ponies who would buy a bit more discriminately, given the chance.” She could think of a few without even trying: Fluttershy; the Riches; the owners of the finer shops; the mayor and her staff. She even knew for a fact that many of those same ponies ordered garments from suppliers in Manehatten and Canterlot because they needed finer couture than anypony in town could provide.

“Something really should be done...” She mused with a thoughtful frown. As she considered it, her heart clenched with the apprehension she was beginning to know so well, but at the same time, there was a familiar little hook in her head: the mental tug she felt when inspiration struck and insistently pulled her towards the realization of a new idea.

Ponyville had no fashion market. That either made it a town that was hopelessly devoid of demand... or a town with a ravenous, famine-induced demand that was just waiting for the right merchant to come in and sate it with creative vision. Her mind wandered back to her university economics courses, the ones she had barely managed to slog through with passing marks. She remembered the case studies she had chosen for her papers, stories of now-famous boutiques that had started with nothing more than some sweat and a sewing machine at just the right times to fill markets with clothes they had desperately wanted.

She could think of a thousand reasons it was a bad idea, even a profoundly stupid one. Whatever the case studies said, those other ponies had definitely possessed more resources than she did right now, such as startup funds, a cheap, reliable source of materials, perhaps wealthy family with spare storefronts and warehouses to gift them. They also always seemed to have an inborn knowledge of exactly what to do with those resources, the business savvy of a Manehatten skyscraper’s employee population packed into one brilliant, multi-talented mind.

But even so, her mind wouldn’t stop flooding with the possibilities. As if reliving her walk through the market, she saw the once-vague forms of the ponies there in perfect detail: a stallion strolling by in a parka so overlarge, his limbs were awkwardly splayed and he had to manage a funny little waddle to get by. In a flash, she had mentally replaced it with a trim, crisp pea coat, giving him a flair of casual formality to accentuate his refined jawline and manecut.

She remembered a mare by the baker’s shop wearing a pitifully thin, bright-orange autumn wind-breaker that clashed violently with her pink hair, her two foals clad in outfits that suited them just as poorly. She sized them up in her memory, her eyes flitting about as she gazed at nothing in the cemetery. 

The filly, blue like her mother but a little paler. She was hanging back at the window, so probably a little demure, shy even, but what a heart she must have behind those riveting green eyes. Something gray accented in red to bring those out—a little swing coat, maybe with matching hind boots.

The colt, the one rearing up and leaning on the window, oh, he’s the rambunctious one, isn’t he? Something close-fitting with a strong, synthetic outer shell, nothing less would do. And the mother, wouldn’t something like the princess-cut frock I have put away in one of my trunks look fabulous? Though, maybe in a different color.

Rarity saw all of this and more. Little traits of all the ponies she had seen jumped out at her and practically cried out to be accentuated by textiles while measurements and details snapped into place on pattern sheets flying through her mind.

It was an absurd idea, and she tried to dismiss it as something she couldn’t even think of attempting without a great deal more experience or education on her resume. Nevertheless, the possibility wouldn’t leave her head.

Well... I suppose there’s no harm in looking into it a little more. Perhaps I can drop by the library soon and see if there are any articles on this sort of thing.

That decided, she turned and started towards the back gate of the cemetery. As she left the graveyard behind, she noticed the other pony had also left at some point. Seeing no sign of other wayfarers on the familiar path through the thickly-clustered trees of Whitetail Woods, Rarity passed into the shadow of the trees, and the cemetery was soon hidden from sight. Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly noticed the heaps of mud-brown leaves that sent waves of a sopping-wet, spongy smell to her nostrils with every step. The innumerable trees finally strangled the incessant breeze, leaving the air still and clear. Rarity’s mind, however, was becoming increasingly cluttered with ideas. One by one, impossibilities turned into questions she just might be able to find answers to. Hay, if Thread Tread could do it, then why not...

The rasp of damp leaves sliding over each other disrupted her train of thought, and she shook her head a little in annoyance, refocusing on her questions. Hayseed, all the things I’d need to do. I’d need a shop, for starters. There’s just no way I could do anything sharing space with two parents and a growing filly.

Another heap of leaves was disturbed by the wind nearby, and Rarity huffed in annoyance. There was something especially distracting about that sound today, something that her mind wanted to puzzle out. But there were more important matters at hoof, or at least more interesting ones. Still, as she glanced about, expecting to find peace and renewed focus in the motionless branches, she only found herself unsettled. Aside from her own shuffling hoofsteps, it was totally silent. The animals had all either migrated or prepared their burrows in preparation of the oncoming snow. There wasn’t a breath of wind to be felt or a hint of motion to be seen.

There was nothing to stir the wet leaves that suddenly rustled somewhere behind her.

Rarity turned and glanced back, brow furrowed in confusion. The path leading away from her was empty and barren. Nothing moved there that she could see. The circumstances, however, were giving rise to a paranoia that she felt unwilling to casually dismiss. Despite the obvious answer that there were probably still a few animals active during the winter, her imagination was putting shadowy figures where they didn’t belong, and sensing someone watching her who wasn’t there.

She resumed her pace, glancing around every few steps. The thin path vanished into obscurity ahead of her, and the forest’s dense growth and detritus cluttered the ground around it. Thin trees clogged the space with jagged, barren boughs that stuck out across the empty spaces like entwined knives, but at the very least, one thing seemed clear—the forest around her was empty.

Leaves rasped softly, accompanied by a thin, friable creak. Rarity’s ear twitched to the sound, and her eyes followed an instant later. A single low-hanging branch, about ten feet away from the edge of the path, was quivering gently, as if a bird had just taken flight.

She turned homeward again and continued at a trot. This isn’t Manehatten, she told herself. This is Ponyville, for Celestia’s sake. Nothing happened in Ponyville. A lady could take a thousand walks in its darkest and most deserted areas for decades and never come to harm. She was safe. She ignored the leaves she could hear behind her. It was animals, birds, a stray breeze that was merciful enough to leave her frigid and shivering body alone. Nothing more.

But when the twig snapped, she couldn’t help herself. She swung her whole body around, eyes piercing the dim light for the source. For a moment, she still saw nothing but the familiar path through the woods. Then, about thirty feet away and a few yards to the side of the path, she saw a tree’s outline that bulged a little ways off the ground in just such a way that looked like a head perched atop a long neck. It looked like it was leaning ever so slightly away from the trunk, and the shadows fell in nearly the right spots to give the impression of indistinct eyes looking at her beneath an ear-like twig.

“Who’s there?” Rarity called, impressed that her voice sounded as stern as it did. The pony-shape didn’t move. Rarity took a step towards it. Then another step. And two more. It didn’t move, but the sense she got from those eyes—no, the eyes I’m imagining, she told herself—intensified. She felt like a foal that had wandered into a very high-end shop and suddenly met a very unfriendly shopkeeper who knew she didn’t belong there—who wanted her to get out.

Rarity backed away, glancing around before bringing the strange, shadowy shape back into her view. It continued to remain perfectly still, and as she neared the next bend in the path where it would be difficult for her to see it any longer, she had almost convinced herself that she had been spooked by nothing more than an oddly-shaped chunk of bark.

But you aren’t sure, her mind seemed to say.

Don’t be absurd. There was no reason to venture off the path. It’s muddy enough out here as it is. Despite herself, she continued walking as quietly as she could, but she heard nothing that would indicate anything was following behind her. After a few minutes of careful listening, she picked up her pace to a brisk trot and kept an eye out for the cottages at the edge of Ponyville. She was looking forward to getting out of the woods and into the warmth of her parents’ home.

As she left the tree line and stepped onto the hard-packed roads of Ponyville, she couldn’t help but continue to keep her eyes and ears trained for any sign of something amiss, but she noticed nothing. Her house was just down the lane, and she quickened her pace in anticipation of a warm fire and maybe a mug of hot chocolate to relax with as she mulled over the ideas that had come to her.

But as she laid her hoof on the freezing iron of the door latch, her ears twitched as the strange feeling anxiety returned—the feeling of being noticed and then carefully watched. She looked around her and saw a few ponies going about their business, but none of them were looking at her. Then she glanced back at the edge of town, where the beginnings of the forest path were just visible. She couldn’t see anything clearly at that distance, but she thought she could just make out the faint shape of a pony standing just behind the first trees, looking right at her as she stood at her parents’ door.

Rarity shrank back for a moment, then hurriedly let herself in before firmly shutting out the cold air and anything that remained out in it.
> Chapter 2 - Old Town Hall
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the weeks went by, winter came to Ponyville in force. Even on the rare sunny days, the temperature never rose high enough to melt much of the snow that blanketed the ground. Drifts rose slowly but surely as plowers worked daily to keep the roads relatively passable. Rarity never went out without high, heavy boots and a long coat to protect herself from the muddy slush, but that was the extent to which she allowed the weather to hinder her. She visited the library, Town Hall, the more well-to-do of the town’s merchants, and had even gotten an informational interview with Filthy Rich. Though she kept her inquiries generic, rumors always moved fast in small towns, and she had already begun to receive pointed inquires in the marketplace about whether she was thinking of starting a business in Ponyville.

She deflected the increasing curiosity, but the truth was that her heart was now almost completely set on it. Running her own fashion line had been a distant, almost-mythical goal for her—something that happened after years of climbing industry ladders, not barely out of University. The more she researched, however, the less insane it seemed. To her surprise, her father in particular had been especially enthusiastic about the idea from the moment she had first hinted at it over dinner.

“You know, Rarity, setting up shop by yourself was the only way it was done back in my dad’s day,” he had said cheerily. “I remember how confused he was when I wanted to pack up and join a sports journalism firm in Manehatten. He thought I ought to stay here and take over the Ponyville Express. I still wonder every now and then what would’ve been different if I had gone that way instead.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have met, for starters,” her mother had called from the kitchen, a teasing edge to her voice.

“And that’s the one thing I’d never change,” her father replied firmly. “But seriously, marshmallow, there’s no pony in Equestria who can hold a candle to your talent, and if you decide you want to go it alone, we’ll be behind you one hundred percent.” He mussed her mane at that point, and as she fought him off, she had laughed in a genuine manner for the first time in what felt like months.

After that, time had become something of a blur. Her desk was piled with notes and letters, the most recent being quotes from the bank and a few other prominent parties. She had firmly ruled out building a brand-new establishment. There was simply no way she could afford it, even with the surprisingly generous grants for incoming businesses available through Town Hall. Purchasing a location and re-purposing it, however, was surprisingly within her resources.

And so, with a wealth of optimistic, though by no means definite information, a bright but cold winter morning found her making her way through the frozen sludge to the local realty office. Located at the northern end of town, the office was a low, broad cottage that had, like so many businesses in town, probably been converted from a dedicated home into a combined office space and apartment. There were flyers taped to the front windows that displayed grainy photographs of homes for sale in town, and all but one were stamped with “offer pending” in red ink. Rarity couldn’t help but wonder if her endeavors might be shut down merely by a lack of available real estate, but she pushed the thought aside before squaring her shoulders and heading inside.

The first things that greeted her were the tinny tolls of a cluster of bells hung above the door, followed immediately after by strains of classical music distorted by the fuzzy whispers, gentle pops, and faint metallic echo of a gramophone. The second was the smell; as soon as the door opened, a warm breeze was sucked out into the cold past Rarity, carrying currents of cinnamon and cloves in such concentrations that they stung her nose. The third, which assailed Rarity’s senses just as she began to notice the rich, warm patterns of upholstery on the dark wood furniture, was a bright pink Earth Pony who, presumably in the excitement of having somepony enter the office, had cleared the reception desk in one spring and yanked Rarity inside with a hoofshake that would rattle Celestia herself.

“Hi there!” the pony chirped in a high-pitched voice that reminded Rarity unpleasantly of Sweetie Belle. “Welcome to Mortgage Realty, your one-stop-shop for all your property needs!”

“Er... hello,” Rarity said, finally extracting her hoof from the pony’s two-hoofed grasp. She had the vague sense she’d seen this mare somewhere once before, but couldn’t quite place it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss...?”

“Pinkie Pie, but you can just call me Pinkie!” she replied in the same chipper tone. “And you’re Rarity! I’m surprised you don’t remember me. I chipped in to help with your mom’s foal shower for your little sister, so of course I remember you!”

“Uh...” Rarity couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever be around this mare and not remember her. She had made only a token appearance at the foal shower though, so she thought perhaps she had simply missed speaking to Pinkie.

“Now, you’re here because you need a super terrific new store for your incredible new dress shop!”

“I... wait, how do you know about—”

“Pfff, don’t be silly, everypony in Ponyville knows you’re going to be opening an awesome store for dresses and suits and all kinds of fancy-shmancy ‘haute couture’,” Pinkie Pie explained in a staccato barrage, confidently and primly murdering the pronunciation of haute couture into something that sounded more like “hawt coucher.”

“Pinkie? Did somepony come in?” another voice with a slight Canterlot accent called from the other room.

“Yes ma’am!” Pinkie called back. “We have a prospect!”

“Now, really, Miss Pie,” Rarity sputtered. “I’m just here to—”

“Oh, lovely! Be a dear and offer our guest some tea or coffee, won’t you? I won’t be but a minute.”

“Sure thing! Want any tea, Rarity?” Pinkie asked, snapping her bright blue eyes back to Rarity. “I just made the most dee-licious spicy chai. It’s the perfect thing for these chilly, pre-holiday gloomy days!”

“Er, yes, actually, that would be lovely,” Rarity said. “Thank...” Before Rarity could finish, Pinkie was out of the room and disappearing down a hallway with a few bounds that brushed her enormous frizz of a mane against the ceiling. “...you.”

Rarity glanced around, taking full stock of the room for the first time. Finding a heavy tray for keeping outdoor shoes by the door, she shed her filthy boots and left them to dry before walking farther into the room. Although the outside looked like a fairly typical country cottage, the interior had been remodeled and furnished in an old-fashioned Canterlotian style. The stone walls had been paneled over with dark wood polished to a golden gloss, overstuffed furniture was upholstered in pale greens and golds, and a fire burned bright and hot in a slightly incongruous white stone hearth. Although it was charming, the sudden heat and crowded nature of the room made her feel a touch suffocated, and the heavy odor of winter spices wasn’t helping. Even the music, which she now recognized as Hayctor Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, sounded slow and stifled in the thick, hot air.

“Ah, hello, hello!” the owner of the other voice said, trotting out of what was probably her main office and closing the door behind her. “Sounds like my receptionist already welcomed you, but welcome anyway! Minimum Mortgage, pleased to meet you.” She was a middle-aged Earth Pony with a steel-gray coat and a mane and tail of dusty blue, which age had streaked with vibrant silver. She wore severe-looking octagonal spectacles with gray wire frames, but the smile beneath them was so mild and kind, she looked like she could be somepony’s favorite grandmother—though aside from the graying hair, she didn’t appear very old.

“Rarity. Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Mortgage,” she said, intending to shake the other’s hoof gently, but instead finding her ankle wrapped in a firm hold and shaken with vigor.

“Oh no, for Celestia’s sake, just Minny will do,” she replied, rolling her eyes and laughing. “Otherwise we’ll be here all day.”

“Would you like the tea in the office?” Pinkie asked, emerging from the hallway and carrying on her back what appeared to be a complete silver tea service that would have been at home in a noble’s drawing room several centuries ago.

“That would be lovely, Pinkie. Please, Rarity, come in and warm yourself up. Then you can tell me what we can do for you. Pinkie, would you be so kind as to take our guest’s coat and scarf? Hang them on the rack by the door, there’s a good girl.”

“Yes ma’am!” Pinkie chirped, and Rarity gratefully allowed herself to be relieved of her garments, which had already become stifling. Although the office was furnished in much the same way as the reception area, Rarity was pleased to note that there was no additional fireplace.

“Can I get you anything else, dear?” Minny asked, sitting at her desk and busying herself with the tea service. The way she said “dear” reminded Rarity of her mother. “I’m sure there are some fresh pastries out there; Pinkie’s always bringing in some kind of little treat to share throughout the day. I swear, I’ve gained ten pounds since she started here.”

“No, thank you,” Rarity said, sitting in one of the large, overstuffed chairs opposite her. “Your assistant is certainly energetic.”

“That’s an understatement,” Minny said with a smile that conveyed a kind of ongoing, amused shock more than anything. “She’s a lifesaver though. When I hired her eight months ago, I was two months behind on paperwork and had no filing system to speak of. That’s my weakness, shamefully—never could quite get organized. Four weeks in, she had everything caught up and built me a new filing system from scratch.” She passed an ornate, bone-white porcelain cup and saucer to Rarity. “Now then, what’s brought you to us today?”

“Well, I’ve been doing some research, interviewing local merchants, and the like,” Rarity said, gently stirring a cube of sugar into the tea. “I’ve been exploring the possibility of getting my professional start here in Ponyville, and the next step is to see what might be available in terms of shop space now or in the future.” She paused, taking a sip of the tea. The sugar hadn’t taken the bitter edge off the spice, but no trace of a grimace crossed her face, “Though, judging by the flyers in the window, I may not be in for much luck. I know it’s a small town, but...”

She fell silent as Minny waved the comments off, steam rising from her scalding tea and obscuring her eyes behind fogged glasses. “Oh, those are residential properties. I doubt you’d be interested in them. They’re all on the outskirts of town and nowhere near the market. But there are options, particularly in terms of undeveloped land. Might I ask what type of business you’re looking to start? Strictly confidential, of course.”

Rarity hesitated for just a moment, then replied, “A fashion outlet.” She set her cup down and looked directly into Minny’s eyes. “Retail for fine, modern, made-to-order and custom-fitted designs. I’ll be developing all of the new lines and managing production myself, so I need a showroom, dressing rooms, space for a workshop... and it wouldn’t be amiss if I could live there, instead of at my parents’ home in the west end,” she finished. She watched Minny’s eyes for any sign of scorn, amusement, or mockery. She had watched the expressions of everypony she’d spoken to for such indications of judgment. She wasn’t sure why she kept expecting it, even feared seeing it. Minny, for her part, showed only intrigue.

“The difficulty is,” Rarity continued, “I really don’t have the funds to build everything from scratch. I was hoping for something like the shops surrounding the marketplace that have the flats above the store...” she trailed off when she noticed Minny pursing her lips.

“None of those are for sale or let, I’m afraid. All the businesses there are quite well-established. However...” she tapped her hoof on the desk, a gleam coming into her eye. “How’s your budget for renovation?”

“Well...” Rarity said slowly. “All I have are rough estimates. I really couldn’t say for sure, though I’ve been budgeting to re-purpose and redecorate the interior of anything I might find.”

“Oh thank heavens, I love it when I get somepony who thinks ahead,” Minny sighed happily, and stood to walk over to one of the wooden filing cabinets along the wall. “You and I are going to get along famously. With that said, I’m afraid if you’re not in the market for undeveloped land, we might have a hard time of it. But, if you’re willing to look just a teensy bit out of the box,” she glanced and Rarity and smiled conspiratorially, “I think I might have just the thing to interest you.” She dug through rows of manila folders, then pulled one out triumphantly. “Aha! Here she is. Have a look.”

Rarity took the offered folder and pulled out the contents. She stopped, however, when she saw the first photograph. In a town like Ponyville, there weren’t exactly many unfamiliar buildings, but even a newcomer would have been likely to recognize the building shown.

“Old Town Hall?” She asked. The photo was older than the ones posted on the window outside and had surely been taken with poorer equipment. The camera looked at the building straight-on, like someone had been photographing a specimen instead of a house they wanted to showcase and sell. A glance at the documents within soon made sense of that anomaly—all were labeled not with Minny’s branding, but the official seals of various offices of the City of Ponyville.

The building itself was an ugly, rotund thing, distinctly different in every sense from the architecture and decoration of most of Ponyville. It was set apart from most of the homes surrounding it, left almost alone at the very edge of the south end of town. In all her time in Ponyville, Rarity had never once seen it in use or heard anypony talk about it. Growing up, she always had the idea it should be the subject of idiotic dares and stories from her fellow schoolponies, but like the adults, foals seemed content to pretend it simply didn’t exist. It was like an old, dilapidated shed in somepony’s backyard—an eyesore, but completely uninteresting and without use. She couldn’t remember the last time she had given it a second thought.

“Is this a joke?” Rarity asked, raising her eyebrows at Minny.

“Well, I know it’s not much to look at right now,” the realtor explained, picking up her tea again. “But I think if you give it a look, you’ll find it’s exactly what you’re hoping for.”


	* * *


Minny quickly took Rarity’s lack of enthusiasm as a sign that unflattering photographs and her word alone were not going to hold Rarity’s attention for long, so she wasted no time in persuading Rarity to accompany her to see it directly. Since Rarity had already committed her day to checking out the possibilities, she assented. She was happy for any reason to escape the sweltering warmth of Minny’s office.

“It’s actually one of the oldest buildings in town,” Minny explained as they trotted down the slushy street toward the south end. “But maybe you already knew that. The only buildings still standing that were here before it are the Apple Farm and Barnyard Bargains. The town outgrew the old hall at some point, so they moved everything to a new, bigger facility that became the Town Hall we know today. I really can’t blame them; you could probably fit the old one inside the new and still have filing space. But they modeled the new hall after this one as an homage, and I’m sure you’ll notice the elements of Gilded Age architecture present in both. And there she is!”

Minny pointed as they turned a corner in the marketplace, looking down a long, straight lane that led right to the edge of town, terminating at the doorstep of the Old Town Hall. It loomed over the marketplace even at that distance, more like the dark mouth of a tunnel than a physical building. The circular walls were built of some kind of dark, unpainted wood, stained almost black in some places by years of only basic upkeep. The grimy glass of the severe, square windows flanking the door reflected no light and opened into even darker depths behind the gloomy walls.

A circular roof of blackened, splitting shingles swept upwards to the walls of the second level, a turret whose smaller rectangular windows swept a watchful, almost sinister gaze over the entire town. It was capped with another conical roof whose sagging overhang was supported by square, dark, wooden pillars that surrounding the upper windows. The roof itself swept up to a crown that repeated the tiered, pillared pattern of the lower levels. The building had probably been considered ornate when it was built. Now, it was a shallow imitation of the opulent, almost cake-like tiered towers that had defined the Gilded Age more than eighty years ago. Any charm it may have had was worn away long ago.

“As you can see, it’s really not that far from the business district,” Minny said, leading Rarity down the road towards the old hall. “Just a few blocks. And with it commanding the view of this entire street, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble letting ponies know you’re here.”

“It’s certainly... noticeable,” Rarity said grimly. “I can’t imagine why another business hasn’t snapped this one up.”

“It wasn’t allowed,” Minny said, possibly missing Rarity’s sarcasm. “It’s been in the care of the town government for decades. It was only last year that I and the solicitor’s office were notified it was being declared bona vacantia. That’s fancy-talk for ‘well-and-truly abandoned,’ dear.”

“It was left unclaimed?” Rarity asked.

“Precisely. After the city government offices moved, a few businesses came and went before it was left unoccupied. I haven’t bothered looking into the circumstances. They only told me that in thirty years, nopony’s stepped forward to claim any right to it, and that opens it up for auction. If you’re curious, I’m sure I can look into the details for you.”

“Hmm,” Rarity hummed noncommittally. They reached the end of the road, and the hall now seemed taller than Rarity had ever remembered noticing before. Even with only two levels, it was certainly one of the tallest buildings in Ponyville with those exaggerated roofs, and the spire was probably visible from almost anywhere in town. Is it really so much a part of the local landscape that none of us notice such a dark, ugly thing stabbing up into the sky anymore? One eyebrow raised in obvious skepticism, she instead asked, “And what makes you inclined to think that this place would suit my needs?”

“Well, let’s just take a look and see,” Minny said, fishing a monstrous bulk of jangling keys from her coat and stepping up to the door. Like the windows, it was square and seemed taller than most doors around town, and it had a dark glass window framed just above a comfortable level. Minny took an obscenely long time sorting through the keys, and Rarity was starting to shiver by the time she finally found a large, chunky key and fitted it into the lock. She had to fight with it a little, but finally the lock ground open and released the door. To Rarity’s surprise, it opened with only a short, almost warm groan of protest, and Minny led her into the dark interior.

“I wish I could tell you it would be like stepping into another time,” Minny said. “But I’m afraid that over the years, almost everything that was left inside was auctioned to antique dealers to cover the cost of looking after it. But I have had it inspected, and I can assure you that the town did a fair job of keeping everything in good condition.” Huge protective linens fell to the floor with thin, squealing rustles of protest as Minny pulled them away from the curtains they protected. As she drew the monstrously thick curtains back from the looming windows, gray light fought its way into the room  and brought the majority of the first floor into view. Somehow, the high, vaulted ceiling was left undisturbed in total darkness.

Even with the sickly light, there was not much to see. The huge, featureless room took up most of the ground level and was almost entirely empty. There were piles of linen that had probably protected long-gone furniture piled in various places, an ancient, scarred desk against one wall, a few chairs that Rarity wouldn’t trust to hold up their own weight much longer, and one long piece of furniture still draped in white that, by the look of it, might be an old-fashioned chaise lounge.

“There’s a staircase through the nook just back there, and also the door leading to the kitchen,” Minny explained, stepping farther into the room. The floor was carpeted, but it was covered in so much dust that Rarity had to look in her own footsteps to see the color. It was a horrendous mess of red, gold, and blue, laid in ornate fleur-de-lis patterns that had, in decades past, perhaps resembled tasteful design. “After the offices moved, one of the subsequent owners remodeled it and installed all of the necessary fixtures for comfortable living. The ice box is gone, but I think you’ll find they made those old ovens and stoves to last. So that’s one item off your wish list. And just look at this spacious main room!” She turned in a wide circle, looking into the dark reaches like a filly moving into her first big house. “I don’t know much about clothing stores, but I bet you could find a way to turn this into a wonderful showroom.”

It has the necessary space, at least there’s no doubt of that. Rarity looked around the dust-and-detritus-riddled space and tried to see something in it. For a moment, all she could see was the decay, the filth, and the ugly woodwork. Then her eyes narrowed as she thought. It was almost like sizing up a client. Colors, shapes, space... what’s interior decorating but dressing up an old building? Draw out its best features and hide the rest. Balance aesthetics with practicality.

Details started fading into place before her eyes, almost as if they were being painted onto the empty space in front of her. Pale ponnequin models laden with dresses would line the front walls; racks of designs would be ready for perusal by customers circling the room; there could be a raised dais with batteries of mirrors for custom fittings. To the left, artfully arranged curtains could cordon off stations for makeup and jewelry. Another set of hangings and she would have luxurious fitting rooms ready for her most discerning future clients. Colors flashed in her mind, and she tried every one of them on the walls, just like choosing a dress from a rack. Reds, golds, blues, no no no, too garish... green, heavens no, not with these walls... light and airy’s the way. We’d need to make everything feel open.

She shook her head, and the vision drained away. “I can’t believe it, but... it has potential...” she said slowly. “You said there’s a kitchen? What about a bedroom and workshop?”

“Right this way,” Minny said, her smile widening as she headed to a dark stairway hidden in the far wall. “It all depends on your preferences. There is a basement, but it was probably intended for storage, so it isn’t all that spacious. However, the upper floor is very roomy, and with some work, you could divide it up into several quite useable rooms. Though, I hear artistic types sometimes fancy the studio approach. You could certainly save cost that way.”

They went up the stairway into a short, narrow hall. There was a closet on one side and what Minny said was a luxurious, if slightly small, bathroom on the other. The bedroom door faced them at the end of the hall.

“Watch your step,” Minny warned. “I probably should have brought a light. There are windows in the room, and you’ll notice light fixtures have been placed quite conveniently throughout.” She gestured to a sconce in the hall. It was an ornately worked metal fitting with a frosted glass cover and a little valve barely visible just beneath. “By the way, those are original pieces from the period, dear. Thankfully, it never became necessary to start gutting the place. I’m afraid they are the old type, just simple flame jets really. But it’s very simple and cheap to swap out the jets with incandescent gas mantles, just like you’d find in any modern home.”

She opened the door and led Rarity into the second level. “Just a moment dear, let me get these windows and give us some light.” She crossed to the opposite wall where one huge window and a few smaller ones dominated the wall. When lit, the second floor was almost as barren as the first, and it somehow managed to stay even darker with the windows open. Square pillars circled the room, holding arched, angular beams beneath the conical roof, which receded away into total darkness above them. From somewhere in that cavernous shadow, an ornate chandelier hung on a chain, the other end of which was fastened into place on the wall beside the door to allow it to be easily lowered and lit.

It was certainly roomy, Rarity couldn’t deny that. The circular room had space for a desk five times the size of the one at home, shelves for fabric, storage for accessories, mirrors, and...

She turned and saw the only other piece of furniture that had survived the various auctions throughout the years: an enormous, princess-sized, four-poster bed made of solid, dark wood with little decorative accents in gold filigree and a rich, purple canopy and quilt. Minny was standing beside it, smiling at Rarity’s gaping expression.

“Something told me you’d like this little bonus,” she said. “While not original, it’s definitely from the same period, probably an inheritance from a wealthier family. I know at least one dealer’s been eyeing this piece like a hawk for it to finally end up on the auction block. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to disappoint her, but I would at least replace the mattress with something a touch newer.”

Rarity nodded vigorously. She couldn’t imagine what kind of craftsmanship had gone into a mattress decades ago, but she suspected a lot more metal would have been put in than was reasonable. She was about to speculate on this out loud when she heard a sharp, metallic clack from downstairs, and the short groan of a door opening echoed up the staircase.

“Did you hear that?” Rarity asked. Minny tilted her head in confusion. “...I think somepony else is in here; I just heard the door downstairs.” She glanced toward the dark hallway and the stairs falling away into blackness beyond. Her ears were arched forward, grasping for hints of noise from below. She couldn’t be sure, but in her mind, she questioned whether there wasn’t just the faintest repetitive thump of hooves treading across the old carpet, heading towards the stairs, looking for the ones who had disturbed the coverings over the windows and let in the light.

“Oh, I bet it’s the basement door,” Minny grumbled, breaking Rarity’s intense scrutiny and trotting towards the hall. “I’ll have a look just to be sure somepony hasn’t gotten curious about us, but lots of city workers over the years have reported coming by to inspect things and finding it hanging open. It’s either gotten warped with age or the latch is sticky. I can’t believe they never bothered fix it. Luckily for you, dear, it should be an easy repair if it bothers you.”


* * *


Rarity allowed Minny to show her the rest of the place with guarded enthusiasm. The bathroom Minny had said was small was twice the size of the one she currently shared with her mother, father, and Sweetie Belle, and it was filled with fixtures she had only seen in illustrations of historic nobleponies’ homes. A bit inefficient, to be sure, but she had nearly swooned with giddy delight at the sight of the elaborately fashioned, solid copper tub. The kitchen, which doubled as the washroom, was equally antiquated, but since she doubted she would ever do any elaborate cooking, it would probably serve her well enough.

As Minny had cautioned, the basement wouldn’t be good for much other than storage. The ceiling was so low she could feel her mane brush against it, and aside from the unfortunately empty wine racks that lined one wall, there was nothing else down there but stacks of old paintings and some lumber piled against the walls. With the amount of space that could be used for work on the upper level, however, it was no loss.

As she left, she sized up the exterior exactly as she had the showroom. As ghastly as it was, it wasn’t impossible that with a little paint—or a lot of it—and some simple remodeling, she could make it something that would draw ponies’ attention and wonder again. In fact, she thought, I bet I could make it a crown jewel of the town, a fixture of elegant beauty that demands adoration.

But there was still so much to think about, and she had forced herself to tell Minny as much when they parted ways. Minny didn’t push the matter, which Rarity was grateful for. Yet one more piece of the puzzle had turned out to be a lot more promising than she had dared to hope it would be. It was looking more and more like opening her very own boutique was a real possibility.

I suppose it might be safe to have a little fun and think of a name for it, she mused. What harm could there be in that?
> Chapter 3 - Housewarming
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rarity fell into the old couch with a whooshing sigh. She closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her foreleg gently across them. Every limb seemed to breathe with her as she finally let her muscles relax, although she could feel an aching in her back and neck that she knew was going to hit her even harder tomorrow.

When she opened her eyes, she could barely see the dimly outlined boards in the ceiling above her. She couldn’t wait until she could get most of that covered up, but the house’s natural darkness was doing a decent enough job of it for the time being. Outside the tall front windows, the sun was just barely fighting through a suffocating barrier of clouds which seemed to be dragging it below the horizon so they could settle over the night sky in peace. And inside the Old Town Hall, Rarity was about to be the first pony in thirty years to call it home for the night.

Rarity had never been the most patient of ponies, and when Minny had put that final bit of possibility tantalizingly within her reach, Rarity hadn’t been able to get the hall out of her head. She had constantly been daydreaming ways she might be able to renovate it and turn it into the talk of the town. Often, she became so restless that she would start sketching concepts for the building instead of the dress designs she would fill it with.

“Might fill it with,” she had corrected herself, but despite her determination to approach the idea carefully, deep down she already knew she had made up her mind. It wasn’t ideal, but when was anything ever quite ideal? She knew that it would take work, sometimes long nights’ worth of it, but she had never allowed that to intimidate her in the past.

The real kicker, however, had come a little over a week after she had visited Minny. It had been a rare beauty of a morning with unfiltered sunlight cascading through her bedroom window. Her mother had made green tea and Rarity’s favorite cranberry pastries for breakfast before she had even come downstairs. After breakfast, Rarity felt the first inklings of that little itch in her mind, the nagging urge to shut everything else out, and create. So she had taken her tea, gone to her bedroom, and warmed herself up to her work by going through the fashion magazines and periodicals she had bought in Manehatten, but hadn’t yet had the heart to look at.

And then, just as she had started to sketch, her mother had come in. “Oh, hello mother,” Rarity said, her pencil freezing in the middle of its arc. Her shoulders had tensed, causing her mind to derail from the page in front of her completely. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh no, nothing, I was just wondering if I could get you anything.”

“Oh, thank you, but no, I’m fine.” Rarity turned back to her desk.

“Alright then. ...Anything I can do for you today? Maybe spruce up for you in here a little bit?”

“Really, I’m fine mother, and the room doesn’t really need it. I’m just going to work on things for awhile.”

“Oh for sure, you go right ahead, sweetheart,” her mother had said, and Rarity had hoped that would be that. But her mother didn’t go away. She had lingered, moving a little farther into the room and looking around, like she was trying to find something just out of place just so she would have something to fix. Then she moved a little towards the door, stopped, and then come over to the desk.

“Whatcha working on?” she had asked, and then Rarity knew she would be getting no work done that morning. Her mother was in one of those moods where she just wanted to be in the same room as Rarity and have something to talk about. Rarity’s frustration was always tempered by sympathy in these events; she couldn’t blame her mother for just wanting to spend a little time together. Unfortunately, Cookie never seemed to grasp that this made it thoroughly impossible for Rarity to stay “in the zone.”

And after Rarity spent the morning indulging her mother in idle conversation, she realized she would be losing entire days’ worth of work every week this way for as long as she was still living under her parents’ roof—probably more as Sweetie Belle grew and became more and more demanding.

It was time to leave the nest. In fact, it was overdue. And there she was with the best chance in two years of unemployment sitting in front of her, and she was hesitating. No, it was time for her to stop waiting for some idyllic dream, roll up her sleeves, and seize what she had by the horn. The next day, she went back to see Minny.

The rest was history. There were countless papers to sign and ponies to negotiate with and details to log with various offices, but Minny had been a star at guiding Rarity through all of it.

“I’ve also found a few more grants to alleviate the startup costs,” she had said when Rarity told her of her decision. “Since the Old Town Hall is a something of a historic property, there are a number of financial incentives you can apply for that are designed to help carry historical landmarks forward.”

She had then given Rarity some very inexpertly-designed informational booklets. “This one’s from the Canterlot Historical Society. They work to help keep properties from being lost to new development. And this one’s actually local, the Rich Historical Relevancy Grant.” Minny had rolled her eyes at that. “It’s one of Filthy Rich’s pet projects. Something about making sure old fogies obsessed with the past don’t bog down the local economy by keeping businesses out of useful buildings.”

“But won’t treating it as a historical property limit what I can do with it?” Rarity asked. She couldn’t imagine trying to run a lively design firm out of something that looked like a ghastly relic from another era. If it had been a competently-built and well-preserved example of the Gilded Age, maybe, but as it was...

“Oh, you won’t have to worry too much about that, dear,” Minny said. “It hasn’t exactly stayed untouched over the years. Far from it, really. I doubt Rich will care one way or another, and so long as you pitch it to the Canterlot Historical Society that you’re restoring it to its original beauty, I think you’ll be fine. Mayor Mare will give you an endorsement for them too, I’m sure of it.”

And to Rarity’s surprise, she had received both grants, giving her more than she had estimated to get started with. And so, a week later, her parents had helped her move in. She didn’t have much in the way of furnishings, having been constrained by the limits of her small bedroom at home, so she would need to find ways to make the huge place feel like home, and ultimately like an established business. But for now, everypony who had helped her had gone for the day and left her alone in her new home.

Home. She was home. This was home now. And despite its current disheveled state, Rarity couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect.


* * *


Rarity tapped the steaming cup in front of her idly. The table she sat at was littered with rough sketches, most of them accentuated by vibrant grease-pen markings in almost every color combination imaginable. Pursing her lips, she shook her head and shuffled them back into a stack, then laid them on the chair beside her. She glanced up at the cafe’s clock. It wasn’t like Fluttershy to be late, but she was running almost ten minutes behind.

I doubt it’s anything to worry about, she thought, taking another drink from her cooling tea. Probably something came up with the animals. I hope she can still make it, though. Rarity was itching to bounce her ideas off somepony, and if she had to wait another day or two mulling over options by herself, she thought she would drive herself mad.

Just then, the door swung open and two ponies trotted inside, hurriedly shutting it against the icy draft that had followed them in. Rarity looked up and smiled when she noticed that one of them was Fluttershy, and she waved until she caught her friend’s attention. The other mare looked over as well and followed Fluttershy as she started to make her way over to Rarity.

She had an orange coat and pale yellow hair, and Rarity recognized her as the apple farmer who normally ran one of the stalls in the marketplace. Rarity recalled trying to make small talk with her on the rare occasions she had purchased produce for her parents, but the farmer had always seemed to be of a rather brusque disposition and not much for casual chatter. As she and Fluttershy came up to the table, Rarity realized with an anxious pang that she couldn’t recall the mare’s name.

“Hello Rarity,” Fluttershy said. “How are you today?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” Rarity replied with a wide smile. “I think it’s finally gotten a little warmer out there too, don’t you think?”

“Warmer? Shoot, I swear old Hoarfrost is making it colder every darn day,” the other mare said with a shake of her head. Unlike Fluttershy, who wore a pale green scarf and matching earmuffs Rarity had given her last year, the farmer wore only a battered stetson hat. 

Another potential customer, Rarity sang in her mind. She had a brief vision of a rustic-styled gown in green and brown—not her usual work, but it might suit the mare—before discarding it and refocusing on the conversation.

“I’m Applejack, by the way. I think I know you from around town, don’t I?” she continued, sticking an unshod hoof towards Rarity. Remnants of the gray slush that coated the road dripped from it, and Rarity carefully hooked her own around the clean part of Applejack’s ankle.

“Rarity,” she replied, feeling a surge of relief that she didn’t have to pretend to remember Applejack’s name. “Yes, my family’s frequented your apple stall for years, though I haven’t often accompanied them.”

“Much obliged to hear that all the same.” Applejack tipped her head with a wide grin.

“I took the liberty of ordering your usual, Fluttershy. Won’t you sit down, Applejack?” Rarity invited, gesturing towards the table. “I’m sure we could find another chair if you’d like to join us.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’d best be on my way. I was just heading back home from Fluttershy’s.”

“Applejack was visiting one of my collies who just had the cutest litter of puppies,” Fluttershy said. “She’s thinking of adopting one for the farm.”

“Been years since we had a good herder around,” Applejack agreed. “Poor old Brandy was the best pup you could ask for, but she lost the heart for it after... well, it’s been awhile, is what I mean to say. Besides, I figure it’d be good for AB to have another energetic young critter to run around with.”

“AB?” Rarity asked confusedly.

“Apple Bloom, my baby sister.”

“Oh, you have a little sister?” Rarity asked. “What a coincidence, I have as well. Her name’s Sweetie Belle. You wouldn’t believe the pair of lungs she’s been endowed with. I actually just moved out to get a little more peace and quiet.”

“Yeah, they sure can raise a ruckus when they’re that age,” Applejack said with a chuckle. “Where’d you move to?”

“The Old Town Hall. I’m planning on turning it into a fashion outlet of sorts.”

“Town Hall?” Applejack asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “You mean in the center of the market?”

“No, the smaller building down at the end of South Market Street,” Fluttershy explained. “That used to be the town hall until they built the new one.”

“Oh, that place! Is that what that used to be? Hayseed and Granny always called it the old gallery.”

“Old gallery?” Rarity asked curiously. “Whatever for?”

“Don’t know. Hayseed does some maintenance work for us on the farm, and he mentioned he took care of that place for the town for awhile. He was always threatening to quit and move away over it, so I was right glad to hear someone else had taken it on. I guess that’s you.”

“Quit? Why would he say that?”

“He just didn’t like it. I assumed it wasn’t much of a good job, being paid for by the town and all. But you gotta make ends meet somehow.” Applejack shrugged. “So, you’re turning it into a clothing store? I just might pay a visit myself. We got whole closets full of old stuff what needs fixing and replacing, and little AB’s going to be growing through outfits like nopony’s business.”

“I’d be delighted,” Rarity said, beaming.

“I’ll look forward to it then,” Applejack said, nodding. “Well, I’d better get back. It was real good to meet you, Rarity.” Turning to Fluttershy, she said, “You let me know when those little pups are ready to head out on their own, alright?”

“Of course,” Fluttershy answered with a soft smile. “See you later, Applejack.”

“Well, she seems quite pleasant,” Rarity said after Applejack had left the cafe.

“Oh yes, she’s very nice,” Fluttershy replied, sitting down opposite Rarity. “I’ve been helping her family with their animals ever since I moved to Ponyville. I hope you can help with their clothes once you open. She’s not really into fashion, but they’ve been having a hard time of it these past few years.”

“Oh, I’m certain we can work something out,” Rarity said, tossing a strand of her mane back. “Any local patronage will be a tremendous help getting started. I’m going to have a lot of expenses to recover in the next few years.”

Noticing Rarity’s sudden frown, Fluttershy asked, “Is everything ok, Rarity?”

“Oh, yes of course, darling. It’s just so much to think about. I have to try not to worry about the future too much, or it starts to get to me. This really is quite the risky endeavor, and I don’t think I could bear to face my parents if this doesn’t work out. They’ve done so much already.”

“I’m sure it will all be fine,” Fluttershy said with total sincerity. A waiter walked up and placed a fresh cup in front of Fluttershy, who thanked him and sniffed the earthy-smelling tea with relish. “So, you said you wanted my opinion on something?”

“A few things, actually,” Rarity said, pulling out a list that was heavily marked with dozens of lines scrawled in careless cursive, and almost as many frustrated scratches obliterating them. “I just can’t settle on a name,” she grumbled, nursing the half-empty cup. “You should let me know if any of those give you any ideas, but to be honest, I don’t think I’m happy with any of them. I thought of ‘Rare Designs,’ but it seems a bit uninspired. ‘The Art of the Dress’ is a bit too long, and I can’t imagine making anything catchy out of it for marketing materials. ‘Ponyville Couture,’ too plain, ‘The Threaded Gem,’ too kitschy...”

She tossed her quill aside, leaned back with a stretch, and sighed. “Honestly, I’d like to reference the design of the building and its Gilded Age origins somehow, but I really can’t think of anything. When you think of those times, you think of spring gaiety, embellishment, high society with a dash of outdoorsy sportsmanship...” She looked back at Fluttershy, who was looking at her attentively, but hadn’t said anything. “I’m so sorry, I’m boring you already, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Fluttershy said sincerely.

“What do you think then?”

“Well, these are... nice,” Fluttershy said hesitantly. “But I agree, they don’t seem to quite fit you. I’m not sure I have any ideas, though.”

“Not a problem,” Rarity said, sweeping the list away and into the stack on the chair beside her. “I know something will come to me. Instead, you should tell me what you think of these color schemes. I’ve got it narrowed down to five or six, but I need an objective eye. Tell me how you think these would look at the end of the road leading to the marketplace.”

Fluttershy looked over the papers in front of her, holding up each one and squinting at it before laying it aside. “I think I like this one the best,” she finally said, tapping one with a color scheme of pale blues, purples, and pinks accented with gold. Rarity smiled.

“You know, I rather think that’s the best as well,” she said, sweeping the page up with satisfaction. “It just sings of cultured frivolity, does it not? Oh I cannot wait to get the interior done, you have no idea how dreary it is inside...”


* * *


Rarity trotted happily out of the cafe and into the marketplace. After the stress of moving and all the paperwork that came with it, she had hardly realized how much she had needed to get out and talk with somepony. As she passed the brightly clashing hues of the stalls, she amused herself with imagining different, perfectly-tailored outfits for each pony she passed.

Then she turned down the south road, and her trot slowed to a reluctant walk. Her house sat at the end of the gentle incline, its sharp lines and dark windows looking almost malignant in contrast to the lively scene she was leaving behind. It looked more like a military watchtower than anything, daring more than inviting ponies to approach it on the street. Rarity shuddered, but threw the feeling off. There was no more room for intimidation. She had taken the plunge. She had to make it work, and she could not allow the threat of failure and its consequences to slow her down anymore.

She believed that was the source of her trepidation until she came to the doorstep and laid a hoof on the frosty latch. But the moment she touched the cold metal, she was struck with the oddest sensation that she had forgotten to knock, as if she stood on the doorstep of a particularly unfriendly neighbor and was about to commit the unthinkably rude act of just waltzing in without permission.

Well, it is a new house, Rarity rationalized. It would simply take time to get used to thinking of this as “coming home.” She huffed and tried to lift the latch.

It was locked. Rarity frowned and jostled it firmly. The lock rattled, but refused to move. Rarity’s jaw dropped slightly in an angry, confused frown. She hadn’t meant to lock the door before leaving for the cafe. This was Ponyville, after all. There was hardly any threat of burglary during the daylight hours, and like her parents and neighbors, she usually indulged in the admittedly questionable habit of leaving doors unlocked when she went out. That was just the kind of town they lived in, and everypony viewed it as a sign that it was still the small, safe place they had been raised in, and not some busy, poorly-run city.

And yet, as she felt in the small pockets of the coat she wore, her confusion mounted as she grew increasingly certain that she didn’t have her key with her. Her mind launched into questions as to how she could have managed to lock the door from the outside without the key. It has to be the old lock on the latch. It must have gotten stuck or something when I shut the door. That had to be it. The lock had somehow managed to become engaged when she left, locking her out automatically.

That, however, meant that her best bet for getting back inside was through the back. She would have to wade through the unplowed and very, very deep drifts surrounding the walls. She gave the door a frustrated kick, growled, and turned away just before she heard a faint, almost imperceptible snick, followed by the groan of the door.

She turned back and stared at the entrance to her home. The door had swung inward a few inches, just enough to see inside—or for somepony to look out, she thought before suppressing the idea.

“...Well, what is the point of locking you at all if you’re just going to open on your own?” she demanded. The door, apparently, wasn’t inclined to answer. She strode inside and contemptuously kicked it shut.

As she stepped farther inside, she shivered as she felt strangely enveloped by the place. The air felt thick and heavy, almost oily. The huge, horrible curtains seemed to strangle whatever light came in even when they were as open as Rarity could get them. “They’ll be the first to go,” she grumbled to herself as she laid her coat across the couch. She trotted into the kitchen, the only room in the house where she could get good light to work by without lighting the lamps. Sitting at the table, she pulled a stack of pamphlets, catalogs, and ordering forms towards her and started going through them.

As the afternoon wore on into evening, however, the dimness inside began to intensify. She still wanted to get a few things accomplished before turning in for the night, so she decided it was a good time to try lighting the lamps. She stood up from the table with a groan and stretched her stiff muscles. She had gone to bed so early the previous night that she hadn’t bothered with the lights, but lighting the countless fixtures around her shop would be a routine she would need to get used to as quickly as possible.

She looked up at the ceiling and the four chandeliers hung at regular intervals throughout the room. They were larger versions of the one that decorated the room—her room—upstairs. It bothered her that there weren’t five or six like there ought to have been; everypony knew that proper Gilded Age architecture abhorred anything occurring in counts of four, as it evoked squares and broke the art nouveau theme present throughout. Whoever had tried to mimic it when building the Old Town Hall had been a poor student though, with all the square doors and windows that were more reminiscent of the Victorneighn period than anything else. It was something Rarity intended to correct as soon as possible.

Disregarding the flicker of annoyance, she focused on the fragile, dust-grimed chains concealed in the chandelier’s foggy crystals and tugged on them with her magic. They squeaked like startled mice as they lowered an inch or so, pulling down thin, skeletal levers and raising similar chains fixed to the opposite ends of the lever. Rarity arced her ears toward the nearest chandelier, and heard the faintest hiss of gas slithering through the delicate brass veins concealed amid the intricately decorated limbs.

Rarity sighed in relief. She had been assured her home would be reconnected to the Ponyville Gasworks by her move-in date, but one could never be sure with public services, and she dreaded the idea of spending any amount of time without so simple a modern convenience as light.

With a dry rasp, a flame snapped to life at the tip of the long match Rarity held in her magic, and she lit several others before gently floating them towards the frosted glass globes at the end of the chandelier limbs. She could have used magic to light the lamps directly, but she was far more comfortable with levitation than any other form of magic, and this was already far easier than lowering the chandeliers one by one and lighting them as an Earth Pony would have had to do. Dozens of loud pops accompanied bright flashes within the glass as the flames caught, and Rarity moved the matches down the lines until golden light filled the room.

Unfortunately, the naked flames of the old lamps illuminated the ceiling far more than the floor, and the room was left in woefully dim light even when the sconces around the walls were lit. The center of the room was practically left in shadow, far from the walls and chandeliers as it was. The flames flickered and swayed behind their cold glass shields, making the light flow and intertwine with the shadows they cast in a slightly dizzying display.

Still, it was light, and it would do for now. Rarity repeated the process in the kitchen and upstairs bedroom, where she would be doing most of her work that night before going to bed. As she lit the final lamp in her room, she looked out through the open windows and wondered what Ponyville was thinking as the Old Town Hall came to life for the first time in decades. The village had been happy to forget about the old, dark husk of a house, but now it was suddenly alive and casting its fiery light out of the windows and over the rooftops, as it to proclaim, “I’m still here.”

Even now, Rarity could see she had generated a little interest. The few ponies who were passing by on their way home slowed down or paused at the end of the walk that led to her door, tilting their heads curiously. If they had company, they would converse and gesture towards the old hall before moving on. Rarity didn’t mind. Let a little curiosity settle in, she mused. Word will spread from Minny and the others I’ve talked to. Let them nibble on rumors for a little while, and then I’ll draw them in with a spring sales floor they’ve never seen the like of.

She giggled to herself a little, imagining the coming transformation and the reaction of the town. It would be magnificent.

...It will have to be.

The streets grew quieter, and the last of the evening stragglers seemed to have found their way home as the twilight darkened into the obscurity of night. Rarity shook her head, realizing she had been daydreaming again.

“Really Rarity, you’re not going to get anything done if you can’t stay focused just a little longer,” she scolded herself. She was about to close the heavy curtains when a shadow moved at the end of the lane in the deserted marketplace. She paused, curious, as a pony walked into view and came to a stop among the closed stalls. She could just barely see it in the light that bled into the street from nearby windows. It turned its head back and forth with long pauses between the movements, as if it was looking for a familiar landmark but wasn’t finding it.

Then it turned towards her, and although she couldn’t possibly see its eyes at this distance, she thought she could imagine them settling on the bright windows of her home—on the smaller, second-story panes that shone out like little lighthouses—and on her, standing in the open with the light revealing her.

The flames in the lamps shuddered with an audible flutter, either caught in a draft the globes hadn’t quite protected them from, or briefly choked by a hiccup in the gas supply. The light dimmed and spasmed briefly before the flames returned to a stable burn. Rarity shivered with them. She didn’t know why, but she did not like the idea of that pony looking at her. It was still standing there, looking down the road, looking at her—No, at the house, not at me, she told herself.

It turned its body and started walking down the street, its chin slightly upturned as if keeping its focus on the upper windows.

Rarity backed away to the side of the window, not wanting to be noticed as she watched, but still curious to see what the pony was up to. There was something disquieting about the way it walked. She couldn’t put her hoof on it, but it moved in just such a way that it gave the impression of a slight full-body limp, as if something in its proportions or musculature hadn’t lined up quite right, and its gait couldn’t help but betray the imperfection. Every now and then, it seemed to stumble a little, or it would pause and shiver violently before continuing on. As it got closer, Rarity thought she could understand why: despite it being the beginning of an early winter night and the temperature dropping well below freezing, she began to see that the poor creature below wasn’t wearing a scrap of clothing. She let out a little gasp and put her hoof to her mouth, pity welling up in her heart.

What in Equestria are they thinking? Oh my, I have several coats tucked away in the boxes downstairs, I should—

The pony came to a stop at the end of the street, standing in the shadow of the last house across the way from the Old Town Hall. Its gaze had deviated to the lower level, and its head rocked slowly one way and then the other as it examined the house, as if puzzled by something. Now that it was so close, Rarity thought it was an Earth Pony, pink in color, though the darkness made it hard to tell for sure.

Pinkie Pie? Rarity thought, her brow furrowing in confusion. What’s she doing here? Something from Minny, maybe?

As if sensing her inquiry, the pony raised its head again, and this time, Rarity had no doubt that it was looking right at her through the window. Rarity stepped back in front of the window. It felt like she was stepping into a cold draft that was slipping through the room. She waved, trying to smile, but it felt wooden and phony. What was it about the pony’s stare that was making her breath shudder a little as it passed her throat?

The pony didn’t wave back. It simply stood there, staring, and Rarity started to feel scared. She couldn’t make out the pony’s face, but the feeling she got was like when she had been a filly and been caught by her mother mangling the new curtains, and having no doubt after merely glimpsing her mother’s face that she was the object of a terrible rage. This was worse, though. This was what it would have felt like if there hadn’t been any motherly love or affection tempering the anger: an unbridled, unreasonable wrath.

Rarity drew back quickly from the window, her breath coming hard and fast. Her legs shook a little, and she had to firmly tell herself to calm down, measuring each new breath with increasing deliberateness. She shook her head and grimaced with the ridiculousness of what she had just felt. Pinkie hadn’t been able to see her, that was all—she just hadn’t noticed her wave. She would go down and ask why Pinkie had come, and maybe share a cup of tea before sending her on her way.

Or, Rarity thought, recalling the boundless energy of the Assistant Realtor as she stepped into the dimly-lit hall, it might be best if I say I’m too tired to find where the tea things are packed tonight. She trotted down the stairs, the little flames in their globes swishing back and forth like restless tails as she passed.

But when she stepped into the main room, she froze. The front door was standing wide open, and the dark street was visible just beyond it. For a moment, she stared at it, feeling the cold wind from outside as it rolled into the room and threatened to extinguish the lamps. The flames were dancing and shuddering as if in agony from the frigid air.

Rarity blinked, then glanced around. There was no one in the room, so she strode forward and onto the doorstep, looking around with quick, stern glances. She expected to see Pinkie Pie standing somewhere nearby, her bright smile dispelling the unfriendly shadows as she bounded forward to greet Rarity. In that moment, Rarity didn’t think she would be annoyed by it in the slightest.

But Pinkie, or whoever the other pony had been, had gone, and the streets were completely empty.

Rarity looked down each road again, just to be sure. She couldn’t quite see all the way to the market now that she was on the ground level, but the road was undeniably devoid of stray ponies whose business had carried them out late in the evening. Her breath sent up clouds of mist in front of her, and she shivered with the cold. She had the uncomfortable notion that the other pony had noticed the open door and come in while she was on the stairs. It might be somewhere behind her right then. She took a long, shuddering breath, stepped back inside, and turned as she shut the door.

The empty room greeted her. The light from the lamps became still once again as the breeze stopped. Rarity tugged firmly on the old door, rattling it to be sure the latch had fallen in place, and locked it with a decisive nod. Then she sighed.

The hay with unpacking, she thought. It can wait until tomorrow. Her eyes were weak with fatigue, and it was obvious she was too distracted now for any more heavy labor that day. But before she put out the lamps and plunged her home into shadow, she couldn’t stop herself from going into every single room and closet, even down into the basement, to be sure that nopony but her was inside.
> Chapter 4 - Paintings
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

A soft, metallic click cut through the stillness of Rarity’s showroom, followed immediately by a faint, clockwork rattling. Flat hissing broke out as a needle was lowered onto the edge of a vinyl record, and shortly after, the thin tones of a slow, trilling violin concerto began to echo through the room. Rarity smiled and trotted away from the gramophone, a new model painted in deep black and bright gold. Behind it, a line of long, flat boxes leaned against the wall, holding all of the mirrors she had bought, and which now waited to be mounted around the shop. A massive desk had been placed in the middle of the room, easily three times the size of her old one. It was heavily laden at one end with heavy cloth in varying shades of bright blue, pink, and purple. Having spent another morning visiting with Fluttershy, Rarity was eager to get to work.

At the other end of the desk perched a brand-new, industrial-grade sewing machine. It was top-of-the-line, ordered directly from the manufacturer in Manehatten, and its red paint gleamed in the light from the chandeliers overhead. Even though it was mid-afternoon and Rarity had finally torn down and thrown out the massive, hideous curtains that had suffocated the windows, she still needed to light all of the lamps to get enough light to work by.

Around her, six huge swathes of fabric had already been hung from the ceiling, creating the first partitions of the showroom and closing in the vast, empty space left in the ceiling. Rarity hoped she wasn’t deluding herself, but she thought the place already felt decidedly more warm and welcoming.

Though, the warmth could just be from the lights, Rarity thought, letting out a sigh and fanning herself lightly with a stray bit of fabric. Even though they had only been burning for a few hours, the lamps had managed to raise the temperature inside considerably. She would need to be careful not to let it get too hot and stuffy inside after opening, and she wondered if a few skylights might not solve the problem of the shop’s abominable dimness, at least during the daylight hours. Like the rest of the exterior, however, that was a problem that couldn’t be solved until spring, and she knew she would just have to soldier through it.

Stepping up to the desk, she started to work a floor pedal with a hind hoof, and the machine rattled to life as she fed more fabric into it. She had spent the past few weeks measuring and creating patterns for the interior while she waited for the materials to arrive, and she hoped to have the entire showroom decorated by the end of the month. The sewing equipment would be moved up to the bedroom eventually, but for now, she wanted to be in the middle of everything as it took shape around her.

A heavy hoof pounded on the door behind her, and Rarity let the machine slow to a halt again. Speaking of getting everything decorated, she thought excitedly. She trotted to the front door, the thin echoes of the gramophone’s symphony accompanying her, and opened it to find two Pegasus stallions in blue, badly-rumpled uniforms facing her. Behind them were two large carts loaded with several wooden crates.

“Miss Rarity?” one of them asked.

“At your service,” Rarity replied with a smile.

“We have a delivery for you from the Fillydelphia Clothiers Suppliers,” he said, giving her a clipboard and quill. “If you wouldn’t mind signing for us, we can bring them in for you.”

“Of course,” Rarity said, taking the proffered sheet with her magic and spinning out her name in dark, elegant swirls. “Please bring them into the main room here, if you’d be so kind—over there, where those other boxes are.”

“You got it, ma’am.” A few minutes later, the crates had been taken in, pried to pieces with crowbars, and the detritus removed to leave behind twelve pristine ponnequin dress forms made of bone-white cloth, ready to hold in-progress pieces and model new designs on the showroom floor.

“Thank you for your trouble,” Rarity said, tipping them several gold bits as they trotted out the door.

“Not at all, ma’am,” he replied, tipping his hat to her. “You have a nice day.”

Rarity closed the door and trotted back to the table. As the old recording of the violins continued to play, Rarity started up the sewing machine and continued fashioning the next of the huge wall hangings that were transforming the showroom.

Somewhere nearby, a faint, muffled thump reached her ears. Rarity slowed the machine and glanced up briefly, wondering if something had fallen from a shelf in her bedroom. With a shrug, she resumed her work almost immediately. Whatever it was, it had not sounded like it had broken.

Thu-thunk thump.

Rarity’s ears twitched as she stopped the machine again. She had the unpleasant idea that the sounds reminded her of someone trying to sneak through a staircase when they thought they couldn’t be heard. Experimentally, she started the machine, watching her work as carefully as ever while her ears scanned the room for any sign of the sounds. The thread was dragged faster and faster through the twisting metal spines and wheels of the machine until it was nearly at full speed again. Rarity let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in a satisfied sigh.

Chack. The machine spun to a halt and Rarity looked up sharply towards the kitchen. That was the sound of the basement door, she was sure of it. Frustration overriding apprehension, she strode to the back alcove and into the kitchen, frowning as she sought out the source of the sound. Sure enough, the basement door, coated with sickly gray paint that had faded and flaked with age, was hanging ajar by a few inches. It opened into the thick, impenetrable darkness of the cellar. With a roll of her eyes, she pushed it shut and rattled it briefly to make sure the latch had caught. Without another glance at it, Rarity walked back into the showroom and started up the sewing machine with an exasperated sigh.

Almost as soon as she had settled down, however, she felt tense and restless. The music and the clean, repetitive clatter of automated stitching echoed hollowly around her, unheard by anypony else, and yet she felt almost the same as when her mother would come around and just watch her work. She had never been able to stand it when ponies watched her work. It made her paranoid, as if every move she made was being judged for perfection before she had the chance to really make something shine. As a result, she would never show an unfinished piece to anyone if she could help it.

She held up another length of cloth and scrutinized it, but her attention kept wandering as her eyes moved to the record player or the back alcove. She looked around angrily, but no one was watching her; she was alone. Then, just as she felt she might be getting back into the groove, she heard the increasingly familiar sound of the basement latch popping open again, this time followed by the faint, creaking protest of the door’s hinges.

 With a frustrated groan, she threw the fabric down again and stepped away from the table. All the distractions had finally broken her momentum. If I can’t get the ball rolling on getting anything else redecorated, I’ll just have to find some other way to be productive.

She walked back into the kitchen with a huff and fixed her eyes on the basement door. It had drifted open wider this time. Several inches of the darkness behind it were now visible. Rarity’s frown deepened as her heartbeat quickened slightly. The sense of watchfulness seemed to intensify. She felt like something could be looking at her from just inside that doorway, and she was surprised at how deeply the thought was unsettling her. She walked carefully towards it, but nothing moved in the deep darkness behind it, not even when she lit her horn and pushed the smallest amount of extra light behind the door.

Then an idea occurred to her. I have been meaning to have a look at the artwork that got left behind. It was possible she might be able to use some of it to decorate the shop, and who knew, there might even be some old and rare prints hidden away down there. Though, that’s hardly likely in an old Ponyville public office, she thought as she swung the door fully open. The stairs fell away to the left and dissolved into thick, inky darkness. As she laid one hoof on the dry, naked boards, she felt a strange sensation of trespass, and she was reminded of when she had come home and found her door locked against her. There was nothing visibly amiss, and yet she still couldn’t shake the impression that there was something else present down where the light didn’t reach. It was a kind of heaviness in the air that gave her the sense that the darkness was not quite empty, and no amount of shadow could completely hide the anomaly.

The blue light of her horn snatched at the gas valve at the top of the stairs before the idea could drive her away. As the thin sigh of the gas became audible, she grimaced with effort as she switched from levitation to summoning a tiny snap of flame from nothing. The tiniest snick sounded in front of her as a brief flash of yellow and blue dazzled her eyes, but the darkness swallowed it an instant later. She grit her teeth and pushed harder. She grunted in frustration as another spark snapped and vanished without result. She was about to give up and grab the matches from the stove across the kitchen when a third spark finally caught the gas and a pale flame sprang to life.

To her dismay, the feeble light barely pushed back the darkness engulfing the stairs. It didn’t even reveal the next sconce at the bottom. With a roll of her eyes, she intensified the simple light from her horn and started downward. The darkness yielded grudgingly before her, only to snake around the edges of her light to close in behind her again. Her hoofsteps echoed into the empty room ahead of her, announcing her presence. After what felt like far too many steps, the sconce at the bottom of the stairs faded into view, and she ignited it with a relieved sigh as she stepped onto the freezing floor.

Muted colors and poorly-defined shapes faded into place over the flat emptiness as the little space came into view. There were no other lamps, but she thought she had enough to go through the artwork. The basement smelled slightly damp and musty, and there was a strange, dense smell beneath it Rarity couldn’t quite place. She could pick out the faintest hint of an unnatural, tangy pine, almost masked by something that smelled like a combination of something burnt mixed with wet leaves. She was briefly reminded of the dark, narrow path in Whitetail Woods, but unlike the clear, clean smell of damp foliage, this was murkier, muddled in an almost chemical mire that made her wrinkle her nose.

She spotted the mass of haphazardly stacked canvases at once, a tilted pile comprised of white edges and pale brown frames. She hadn’t really paid much attention to them during her tour, so she was surprised when she realized how many there were. The basement was actually larger than she had originally thought, but the canvases crowded the space until almost nothing was left.

I’ll probably end up donating most of these, she thought numbly as she stepped forward and lifted the first canvas.

At first glance, the scene appeared to be a rather nice pastoral with heavily saturated greens, blues, and whites, startlingly clear in the dim light of the basement. The painting seemed to be of the Ponyville park, and Rarity thought she recognized the fountain featured prominently in the lower third. She was already thinking about placing it somewhere upstairs when a spot of fiery red caught her eye. She looked closer, and saw a trail of vibrant crimson seeping away from the fountain. It seemed to bleed from a figure she hadn’t noticed there before, an emaciated equine figure with one hoof crooked around the edge of the fountain, peering out as if trying to get a clearer view of the painter.

Rarity scowled in surprise and distaste, and laid the painting aside. As she picked up more and more, however, her aversion turned to nauseated disgust. Most of the paintings were a bizarre mix of the surreal and the macabre, featuring elements of disturbing organic geometry, dismal horizons, obliterated landscapes, and disfigured, monstrous equines. In some scenes, desiccated bodies that barely resembled ponies crowded against walls and cliffs, their alien jaws stretched painfully wide as their white eyes stared out of the canvas. In others, she seemed to look through a window to another world where ponies strode over burned plains with limbs too long and too numerous, their disproportional bodies infected with strange, plant-like growths. There were pale, disembodied faces hovering in discolored skies, skin drawn tight by mouths hung in expressions of appalled sorrow as their empty eyes stared at something Rarity couldn’t see.

Almost against her will, Rarity kept looking through the paintings. If she had been in a shop or a gallery, she would have moved on from the appalling scenes in search of something more pleasant. But her mind was caught in a kind of trance and a maniacal, morbid curiosity to see just how strange the next painting could possibly be—and they never disappointed. Ghastly, doll-like foals whose bodies were infinitely too small for their enlarged, grotesque heads stared with black eyes into mirrors that reflected nothing. Brutally wounded mares dragged mangled bodies over terrains of bone, their scarcely recognizable faces turned to the heavens in frozen screams of unimaginable agony. A carnival scene that seemed to have been sculpted from molten flesh was dominated by a hellish merry-go-round where skeletal riders had been speared to their larger mount counterparts, and which bore the faded text “Le Carrousel de Temps” on its rotating pavilion.

Every painting she looked at seemed to exude and magnify the basest and most terrible emotions Rarity knew: terror, sadism, masochism, malice, utter loneliness, and even, most unsettling of all, an occasional twinge of inscrutable, venereal excitement provoked by some of the raw, intertwined forms. But even in the face of all that, there was something disconcertingly cathartic about seeing the scenes. It was almost as if by being given form, they had found a kind of permission to exist, an acceptance of all the cruelty and perversion the world was burdened with that Rarity didn’t want them to have.

Rarity found she was breathing harder than normal. She felt terrified and enthralled at the same time. The dense air seemed to press in on her. The flame in the wall behind her danced and shivered as if it was being suffocated, and it cast wildly animated shadows around the room. Rarity turned over a final canvas, and the sudden normality of what she saw, contrasted with all of the lurid scenes she had almost been acclimating to, sent a fresh wave of horror through her that turned her stomach and shrank every vein in her flesh. In the next instant, she found she couldn’t imagine why it would make her feel so.

It was a simple, if grim, portrait of a perfectly normal-looking pony. She was an Earth Pony with a pink coat and beautiful, pale blue eyes. She had the kind of rare multicolored mane and tail that Rarity had only seen a few times even in the fashion catalogs: her mane was yellow, dark pink, and orange, while her tail was a more muted scheme of purple, blue, and teal. Her body was angled towards an easel that was positioned beside her, though her face was turned to the painting’s viewer. She held a long, thin, crimson brush in her right hoof, and there was a small mirror in a dark red frame behind her which, curiously, showed a reflection of the pony from the wrong angle. Rarity realized there must have been another mirror positioned exactly where Rarity would have been standing had she been in the scene.

Rarity tilted her head, a slight frown settling on her face as she looked down on the scene. After the strange shock had worn off, something about the image was chilling and curiously melancholic. The mare’s face was fixed in an expression of calm concentration, her eyes narrowed and jaw set in a thin downward curl as she focused on what she was looking at—which, Rarity realized, must have been the mirror she had used to paint herself. And yet, there was something in those eyes Rarity didn’t like, a sense of barely-concealed revulsion or hatred for the object of the pony’s gaze.

As she pushed the painting away, she noticed a tiny plague of gray metal tacked to the bottom of the simple, square frame. As she looked closer, she could make out that it read, “Farewell: A Self-Portrait. T.R. C.E. 966.” The inscription puzzled Rarity, as none of the other paintings had been labeled in any way. She was struck again with a sense of vague familiarity, but still couldn’t place its source. Those eyes seemed to stare out of the oiled canvas, cold and challenging, and their intensity finally broke Rarity’s reverie and gave her cause to lay the painting aside.

As if released from a spell, Rarity stacked the paintings back up, making certain that none of the “art” would be visible. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but handle them with a kind of reverent care, making certain not to damage them.

I think I’d rather burn the shop down than hang any of these on my walls. Still, an artist never stoops to disrespecting somepony else’s hard work and creative vision.

She left them piled as she had found them before extinguishing the lamps and heading back to the showroom. Instead of going straight to the table, she went to one of the tall windows and looked out to the road beyond. The sight of the muted daylight and the ordinary, snow-burdened houses and streets outside calmed her, and she took a few deep, measured breaths as the oppressive atmosphere of the basement faded. She couldn’t imagine who could have painted such ghastly and disturbing art, and she didn’t really care to find out. The only problem was that she also couldn’t think of who in Ponyville would be willing to take a collection like that off her hooves.

At least it’s out of the way, she thought. I don’t need the cellar space right now, so it’s probably best just to leave it. There are more important things to take care of first.

As she watched the quiet street outside, her attention was caught by the distant shape of a pink earth pony leaving the market and heading down the road towards her. The memory of her first dark night in that place and the figure she had seen advancing on her from outside came back to her from the corner of her mind where she had almost managed to forget about it. It was followed quickly by a mental glimpse of a portrait of a grim, pink Earth Pony lying in her basement.

That’s what that portrait reminded me of, she thought with a soft gasp. But she had no time to consider the connection, as a moment later, she recognized the distinct mountain of purple hair balanced atop the pony’s head. The tension in her back released and she slumped as she breathed a sigh of relief. Mother.

As her mother drew near, Rarity went over to the door and opened it before it became necessary for her mother to knock. As she did, Rarity noticed the foal carrier slung at her mother’s side and heard soft little grunts and moans from Sweetie Belle fussing inside.

“Oh, there you are!” her mother said, bursting into a huge grin as she saw Rarity. “I stopped by earlier, but no one answered! It’s been awhile since we heard from you, so I thought I’d pop by for a short visit!”

“I’m terribly sorry, I was out visiting Fluttershy,” Rarity replied. “I hope you didn’t take time out of your schedule just for me.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” she replied cheerily, edging closer to the entrance. “I was a little miffed when I stopped by the first time because I could have sworn I saw you through the window, and I couldn’t help but think you might be avoiding me! But it’s good you still get to spend time with your little friend.”

Little? Rarity thought with a slight scowl.

“You wouldn’t get to do that in a big town like Manehatten, would you?” her mother continued. “I’m so glad you were able to find something here at home. Do you mind if I come in for a little bit? It’s so cold out here!”

“Not at all, please,” Rarity said, suppressing a groan. She could see where this was going, and the idea of a long visit was not palatable to her after all the other distractions she had allowed so far.

“Goodness, it’s stuffy in here!” her mother continued as she followed Rarity inside. “And no wonder, with all those lamps burning in the middle of the day! What in Equestria do you need all of those for?”

“It does get a bit close,” Rarity admitted, speaking a little louder over Sweetie Belle, who seemed to be getting fussier. “The light really isn’t good, and I need a lot of it to work. I’ve been trying to get things done all day, you know,” she said with a sidelong smile, hoping her mother would take the hint. “Once Winter Wrap Up is over, I’m sure I’ll be able to do something about getting more natural light in here.”

At that point, Sweetie’s fussing escalated to a full wail. “Oh, now now, what’s the matter, little Sweetie?” Her mother cooed, pulling her out of the carrier and sitting down with her on Rarity’s long sofa. Rarity’s smile became strained as she glanced at her desk, piled high with unfinished hangings.

“Perhaps she wants to go home, mother,” she suggested. “I doubt she enjoyed being out in the cold much.”

“Oh, she’s just fussy because she’s tired, aren’t you, Sweetie?” her mother replied. “It’s ok, don’t you want to visit with your big sister? You haven’t seen her in so long!”

“I visited last week,” Rarity grumbled, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. Sweetie only responded with a wail that was louder than anything Rarity had ever heard from her before. “Really, mother, I don’t wish to be rude, but I have so much to do, and she really seems like she wants to be taken care of...”

“Oh, she’ll calm down soon,” her mother said with a dismissive wave. “You go ahead and do your thing, I can listen to you from here. I want to hear all about how things have been going for you! Do you know, I was just in at the library today, and when I told Ms. Dog-Ear you’d moved into the Old Town Hall, I thought she was going to faint. Apparently, she never thought anypony would make anything of this old place again. She grew up here when this place was still in use, you know. She probably remembers what this place was like back in its heyday! You should pop in and ask her about it; I’m sure she’d have some wonderful ideas about how to make this place look grand again!”

“I’m sure she would,” Rarity said, stepping to the desk and looking at the fabric with loathing. Behind her, her mother prattled on over Sweetie Belle’s cries about who had said what around town that week. It was all Rarity could do to keep from slamming a hoof against the desk in frustration. Her breath hissed out between her painfully clenched teeth. Am I ever going to be allowed to get anything done?


* * *


Rarity’s sleep that night was worse than it had been yet. Her mother had stayed for nearly two hours, and Sweetie Belle hadn’t shut up for one moment the entire time. The entire day had nearly been a total waste, and she had gone to bed angry with a lingering headache from Sweetie’s echoing screams. She was angry at herself for getting distracted, she was angry at her mother from coming by, for bringing her stupid infant sister along, and for wasting the entire afternoon with her inane gossip. Why can’t she just respect that I have things to work on?

She tried to calm herself down and tell herself that Cookie was just trying to cope with her daughter moving out, but the feelings of annoyance just kept flaring up again. I can’t keep letting myself get sidetracked; I can’t. They’ll just have to get used to it. With a firm resolution to not allow herself to be distracted by anything tomorrow, she finally managed to drift into a restless sleep.

Her mind flitted from one agitated dream to another. An orange farm pony talked about how a friend of hers had never liked working on the house. Shadows moved slowly in a huge, circular room that was filled with an acrid, earthy smell and pale flames that seemed to whisper and hiss when Rarity wasn’t looking at them. She was trying to make a dress, but she kept pricking herself with the needle. The severe, silver sliver of metal turned crimson as it slid away from her punctured skin, and a pink earth pony laughed and sneered at her for her clumsiness.

“You’re such a lazy-pants,” Pinkie Pie said the first time. “I can’t believe Minny gave this place up to someone like you.”

“Will you stop this foolishness?” her mother said next. “You’ve wasted enough time trying to make it big somewhere. It’s no use, can’t you see that? Just stay here in Ponyville. It’s safer here.”

“They’ll never love your work,” both said, their faces fading between each other. But there was a third voice and face there as well, but only for an instant before it blended back into Pinkie’s or her mother’s like thin, wet paint dissolving in water. “It’s idiotic to try. You should just give up.”

“What?” Rarity asked, faintly becoming aware that she was dreaming. She struggled in that dim, formless space between sleep and wakefulness. “What are you talking about?” She clung to the dream, inexplicably desperate to hear what the voice had to say before it faded away into the stability of her waking mind. But it was gone.

Rarity lay on the bed, the sheets twisted around her, breathing hard with her head turned to the side. Behind the sound of her breaths, however, she noticed something else. A thin, echoing wail seemed to bleed from between the fibers of the floorboards and rise to the vaulted ceiling like smoke. It was coming from downstairs.

Rarity rose, all drowsiness gone. The clouds obscured the moonlight, and only the faintest, most muted shade of gray permeated the room, revealing misty forms that coalesced into walls and furniture. She opened the bedroom door, and the volume of the cries increased. The echoes distorted them, and they wavered between the sounds of a child, those of an adult, and an almost animalistic sound. The stairs creaked as she made her way down, guided only by the thinnest moonlight that ran over the floors and walls like water. The sound, now a cry of total, miserable despair intermingled with terror, became suddenly clear as she came into the showroom. She blinked dazedly as she tried to find the source of the sound. Her mother had fallen asleep on the couch, and the wall hangings Rarity had worked so hard on were piled on the floor. Someone had taken them down.

Mother, Rarity thought with a groan. As she looked at the desk in the center of the room, she was startled to see a shapeless figure rolling back and forth on it as it thrashed at the air with billowing limbs. The bundle was the source of the screaming, small limbs flailing inside linens and casting fluid, shapeless shadows on the walls.

Rarity’s breathing became ragged. The scene before her was somehow wrong, but the wailing that ripped through her skull and echoed off the walls to pummel her ears drowned out any capacity she had for thought. She had the impression that the scene before her was faintly distorted, like she was seeing it through the rippling haze of summer heat. But the room was as cold as the winter night outside, and the ripples did not move. She stepped forward sluggishly. Her legs felt like they were moving through a thick, clinging paste.

Make it stop. The thought seemed to leak from her mind and murmur through the room, stealing between the beams above, slithering over the floor around her hooves, and tickling the sensitive skin of her neck as it climbed back towards her. Rarity then heard the whisper echo back to her as if it were molten silver trickling hotly into her ears, a deadly heat seeping into the base of her skull. Make it stop. A surge of anger and frustration swelled in her chest, and she scowled as her vision clouded with dark, aimless hatred.

Another wail assaulted Rarity’s senses, and she staggered. The scene before her seemed to pulse once as if it were the surface of a billowing sail. She blinked and gasped, feeling suddenly nauseous. An acrid stench washed over her, an earthy, liquid smell that was almost floral, but immersed in an asphyxiating reek of something acidic and mineral, so strong it stung her tongue with an invasive flavor. She coughed, snorted, and looked up, her weary confusion written on her face.

The room was quiet. The space in the center of the sewing table, clearly visible in the faint moonlight from the front windows, was distinctly bare. Rarity snapped her head around to look at the sofa where she had seen her mother resting, but it too was empty. She was alone.

Of course, she thought, her memories returning lethargically. Mother went home hours ago. She looked blearily around the room, blinking to try to clear the viscous, filmy tears of sleep from her eyes. The wall hangings were back in place. Of course she didn’t take them down, why would she do that...

Rarity sighed, feeling the pangs of a sleep-deprived headache beginning. It had been another dream. It still lingered in her drowsy memories, like tiny glimpses of another version of the room were still pushing at the corners of her vision.

She felt dizzy and sick. Her bed called too strongly for her to care about the showroom or any dreams, just as long as they went away and finally allowed her to sleep. Her legs dragged like lead weights as she pulled herself up the stairs and back to bed. She lay there for some time before the pounding in her head slowly subsided and her exhaustion finally pulled her back to sleep.
> Chapter 5 - Forms
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Rarity woke up the next morning, she was exhausted. The surreal dream still lingered on the edges of her mind, and the memory of the previous night cast an unsettling shadow she didn’t seem able to purge. As far as she knew, she had never sleepwalked in her life. Having spent most of it living with either her parents or roommates, she imagined it would have been revealed at some point if she had.

The way she remembered the dream disturbed her as well. Normally, she could never remember dreams as anything but formless impressions—evocative of things in the waking world, but unrecognizable after the fact. Yet she remembered every hoofstep she had taken, from leaving her bed to slipping through the narrow hall and down the coiled staircase into the showroom. She remembered moving toward that strange figure on the table. Worst of all, she remembered the malicious, aberrant intent that had steeped in her chest like a fiery venom.

Now, it filled her with a perplexing shame and regret. She wasn’t sure she had ever felt such a strong emotion in her life, and to have felt such deadly sentiment in her heart, even brought on by the delusion of a dream, made her feel as guilty as if she had snapped at Fluttershy or swatted somepony’s pet.

She shivered as she half-stepped, half-rolled out of bed. Perhaps it would be good to get outside again and try to take my mind off things. Pulling a fluffy, pink robe from the closet, she walked listlessly across the room to the windows. Weak, orange-red sunlight was managing to wheedle its way through the clouds and stain the room with restless shades of ocher. The streets below were dirty and encrusted with fresh sheets of ice, and Rarity pulled her robe closer against a chill that seemed to radiate from the glass.

Faced with that cold scene, going anywhere outside was quickly becoming the most unappealing thing in the world. When she imagined the pile of unfinished linens looming accusingly in the dark showroom below, she realized that she simply had more important things to do.

She yawned heavily as she walked downstairs. The meager energy she had felt on seeing the sunrise bled away into the empty stillness, and she looked with reluctant resignation on the sewing table. The low light made her want to just turn around, walk up the steps, and crawl back into bed for another hour—or another day.

Not time for that, she scolded herself halfheartedly. I’m going to get things done today even if I have to sew myself to the table to do it. There was no harm in taking some time to wake herself up though, so she trotted into the kitchen, pulled her long matches from a drawer, set the kettle on the stove, and lit the steady, blue flames beneath it with a gentle whoosh. While the water heated, she took the matches back into the showroom, still blinking heavily, and felt for the first lamp with a hoof while preparing the matches in her magic.

Her hoof thumped and slid against the cold wood for a few times, causing her to frown and look up at where she thought the lamp to be. She blinked twice as she saw that her hoof lay in the middle of an empty expanse of wood paneling. She looked around for the lamp she knew occupied the alcove. It provided the only light at the bottom of the stairs and the kitchen entrance, but she saw no sign of it in the gloom. She lowered her hoof with a baffled expression and turned in a slow circle, convinced she was somehow missing it and it would appear right under her nose.

Finally, she gave up with a confused shake of her head and went around the room, lighting the chandeliers and the rest of the lamps. She felt a little livelier as the warm light blossomed over the room, as if she were waking up along with the rest of the place. She slid the thin paper box of matches closed with a slight rasp and trotted away from the front of the room to check on her tea.

When she entered the alcove, however, she saw the lamp fixture exactly where she would have expected it to be. She stopped in her tracks and regarded it curiously. The light from the rest of the flames glinted from it in an almost ominous fashion, and she moved closer to light it. But when she reached for the valve, her hoof froze and her pupils shrank painfully in alarm as she realized the valve was already half-open. She could just hear the tiniest hiss of gas escaping from its unlit burner. The air smelled clear and cool, but she could clearly imagine the vapors building up and drifting into the showroom or kitchen where dozens of open flames were drinking in the clean air and pulling the flammable fumes towards them.

Her fatigue was sucked away as panic took its place. The matches fell to the floor as she seized the valve in her magic, firmly twisting it shut before racing into the kitchen to open the back windows. She then ran to the front door and opened it as well, pulling back from the draft with a shiver as she glanced back to the alcove. The line hadn’t been open for very long, so she doubted she needed to shut off the lamps. The draft would be enough to disperse it harmlessly, but it had still been a near thing.

I must have bumped it in the dark without realizing, she thought, taking several deep, relaxing breaths of the outside air. I’ll have to be careful of that one in the future if I can’t even see it before lighting the others.


* * *


Rarity stepped back from her table a few hours later and held up the next section of wall hangings with a tired smile. It was the first piece of what would eventually become a decorative canopy over the main display dais and easily one of the most complicated patterns she had worked out so far. There were two more sections to make before she could assemble the dais proper, but as she laid it aside and worked a kink out of her neck, she decided she had earned a break from stooping over a desk.

Pulling out a large sheet of paper, she unfolded it and trotted to the side of the room where the dais would soon be. The paper was heavily marked in pencil and laid out the showroom in meticulously-measured detail. As she scrutinized it, she brought several long measuring tapes over from the desk and started to lay them out on the floor around her.

“The base will go... here,” she muttered to herself, laying out the tapes in three lines reaching out from the wall and marking several points on the floor with white chalk. “The platform will extend to... here, and that leaves the mirrors there.” More lines and several X’s as the chalk continued to dart about. It left the floor and flew to the beams of the ceiling, where Rarity struck several more X’s into place where the hangings would be secured.

“I should make sure the height is correct,” she continued, glancing at the boxed mirrors lined up behind the ponnequins at the other end of the room. As her magic wound around and lifted the three largest boxes, she shuffled smaller ones aside as the others floated towards her, carefully held high above where the ponnequins stood facing the wall.

In unison, the protective packaging began to disassemble in midair, and the refuse fell away in bits and pieces as pristine full-length mirrors emerged. They stood freely on large bases of black iron and were framed in rings of bright gold. As Rarity settled them into place, she noticed with satisfaction that they didn’t wobble in the slightest, even when she prodded them gently. She would secure them to the floor just to be safe, but it was good to know that there were ponies out there who held their craft to the same standards she did.

As she peeled the protective coat from the oval surfaces, the whole of the showroom came into view behind her in the flawless silver of the glass. They were too tall at the moment, but once the dais was in place, ponies standing on it would be able to see whatever they were wearing from every possible angle. Rarity took quick note of the height of the mirrors and compared it to her diagram, nodding to herself as the numbers lined up.

“Perfect.” She whisked the tapes away back to the desk. She smiled as she looked at the reflections, even if the slightly disheveled state of her mane was painfully obvious to her. A moment later, though, the smile faded as a feeling of uncertainty overtook her. Something struck her as different from what she expected. She turned and looked behind her, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were the few decorations she had already placed, the ponnequins lined up facing the wall, the remaining boxes of mirrors, and the sewing table piled with fabric.

As she dismissed the idea and turned back to the mirror, however, the feeling returned. It was the same as when she had failed to find the lamp earlier. She had the notion that something wasn’t where it should be, but she couldn’t figure out why. She leaned this way and that, changing her view between the three mirrors, trying to figure out what was drawing her attention. She could see the windows at the far end and even a little of the quiet street outside, the closed front door. The lamps were burning brightly above the ponnequins as they looked blankly into the room, and a little of the alcove was even visible in the rightmost mirror.

Rarity shook her head and turned away, her eyes passing briefly over the empty, shallow eyes in the faces of the dress forms before she faced the room. She only took a few steps, however, and saw the backs of the dress forms turned to her. She came to a stop. Weren’t they facing the other way?

She blinked, frowning and glancing over her shoulder at the mirrors. Sure enough, all of the models were turned to face the wall, and she couldn’t see a single one of their faces. They were exactly where they had been since the delivery ponies had dropped them off. And yet, Rarity could have sworn she had been able to see their eyes when she looked in the mirrors. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was certain they had been turned fully towards her.

The idea sent a chill through her, and she turned back and forth several times, checking the reflection and what she could see of the room itself. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t replicate the discrepancy. The models continued to stare with inanimate resolution at the wall. With her narrowed eyes fixed doubtfully on the ponnequins, Rarity walked back to the desk, stepped around it, and stood to begin working on the next piece of the dais. After a final, skeptical glance, she took her eyes from the dress forms and started to feed the next bolt of fabric into the machine.

Try as she might, however, she couldn’t focus on it. The idea that the ponnequins had turned to look at her in the mirror kept intruding on her thoughts, and she very nearly ruined the hanging several times by imagining them doing so again whenever she was looking down at the fabric. This inevitably made her want to look up again, but she would resist—partly in the hopes that she would regain her focus, and partly because her heart would start to beat a little faster and her hooves tremble ever so slightly as she imagined what she might see when she did.

Then, when the contest grew to be too much, she would break down and glance up sharply, only to see that, of course, nothing had moved. Instead of feeling relieved, however, Rarity’s paranoia started to worsen.

Stop being silly, Rarity, she told herself. You’re acting like a filly and letting your imagination get the better of you. Of course they didn’t move. They can’t move.

Unless someone moved them, came the unbidden thought, which she crushed with the withering weight of her own disappointment.

“Fine, Rarity, what next?” she asked. “Maybe the decorations will hang themselves and the spring line will just sew itself up all nice and neat while you have a day off, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

She bent down to her work. But the familiar anxiety mounted as she imagined all those dress forms standing behind her and watching as she tried to work.

Moving up behind you while you’re not looking, she thought before she could stop herself. She finished the stitch and pulled the fabric up, inspecting it critically. Too short... ponyfeathers. She scowled and tossed it down. It was fixable, but she loathed the idea of putting up anything even slightly marred by a prior flaw. The decorations would be in the shop for years, after all.

“I think I really do need some fresh air,” she said, walking away and beginning to douse the lamps around the room. As she came around to the location of the dais, she stepped up to the mirrors with a defiant glare as she prepared to snuff the last lamps flanking them. As the lights faded and vanished, she inhaled a tiny whiff of the smoke. It smelled odd and tangy in a way that almost reminded her of tree sap. Then she looked in the mirror, a satisfied expression lingering for a single moment before it fell away in shock as she saw that the ponnequins were all facing her.

She yelped and spun around, snatching her scissors from across the room and sending them hurtling through the air in a red-and-silver arc to hover by her head. Breathing hard through her teeth, she stared wide-eyed at the motionless figures. They were facing the wall, their eyes completely hidden. Once again she stole a hasty glance back at the mirrors, and they showed exactly the same thing.

I saw... she thought, not lowering the scissors as she tried to understand. They moved. They had to have moved.

That’s absurd. You’re just... just...

She told herself that she hadn’t slept well and the light had played a trick on her, but the excuse sounded small and flimsy. She was afraid to turn back to the mirror again, afraid of what she would see if she kept looking. What if she looked and the models had turned again, or had somehow, inexplicably, started to move towards her?

“About that fresh air,” she murmured as if to convince someone else listening instead of herself. That was it—she had been cooped up indoors for days and was going a little stir-crazy. A walk in the park would do her good. Dropping the scissors, she trotted shakily across the room, keeping the line of dress forms in the corner of her eye at all times. Then she let herself out and shut the door firmly behind her.

As soon as she turned away and started down the road towards the park, she knew she had made the right decision. The air felt so light and clear. She felt like she had been breathing underwater for the past few days and only just come up to the surface. Even overcast and snowbound, she thought Ponyville looked brighter and friendlier than it had in years. It didn’t matter that the trees in the park were barren and the grass buried under a layer of what, by now, was probably compacted ice. What mattered was that it wasn’t filled with moving shadows cast by glaring, open fires or dim, stuffy halls. She couldn’t ask for more.

She lay down on a bench by the frozen fountain, and just allowed herself to stretch out and relax.

I really need to try to clear my mind more before I sleep, she thought as she watched the shadowy line of the Whitetail Woods shivering in the light breeze. Everything will get done on time, Rarity. It will. You can do it. They’ll all see what you can do. You’ll be the type of pony everypony wants to know.

A flash of color and movement broke her reverie and drew her attention to a figure walking down the path towards her. Two figures, she realized, and a smile broke out across her face a moment later as she recognized one of them as Fluttershy. Rarity waved and called to them as the two approached, and Fluttershy waved back. As they trotted closer, Rarity realized the other was Pinkie Pie. Her smile became a little more fixed. 

“Hello Rarity,” Fluttershy said, her expression becoming concerned and surprised as she looked Rarity over. “Oh my, aren’t you cold? I can’t stand to go out in winter without at least something to keep away the chill.”

It was only then that Rarity remembered that she hadn’t bothered to put anything on before leaving the house. She had been so pleased to be out, she hadn’t noticed the cold in the slightest. “Oh, I’m alright darling, it’s really not that bad.”

“Really? Because I forgot my coat and boots at home too, and I’m fuh-reezing!” Pinkie exclaimed. She gave a shiver that was so theatrical, Rarity marveled that she didn’t fall over. 

“What brings you out here anyway, Rarity?” Fluttershy asked. “I thought you would be hard at work all week getting your shop ready.”

Rarity felt a slight twinge of guilt, followed quickly by a small surge of anger. What, I’m not entitled to a break every now and then? She banished the thought immediately and explained, “Oh, just a short respite between patterns. Even I can only stare at stitching for so long before my eyes start to cross.”

“Maybe you need glasses!” Pinkie said before becoming distracted by her own mane.

“I’ve... never really thought about it,” Rarity said, looking at Pinkie in confusion. “Are you alright, darling?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! I just got that weird, annoying feeling that I’ve forgotten something... did I leave my cannon at your place, Fluttershy?”

“Um... no? I don’t think you brought it this time... which I really appreciated by the way,” she added in an undertone.

“Really? Huh. Oh well, I’m sure I’ll think of it eventually!” Pinkie said happily. “I bet it’s because I didn’t add it to the filing system... if I don’t put something in the ‘to do’ pile right away, it just flies away! Huh, that’s really catchy... ‘file away or fly away!’ ”

“I’m surprised you two know each other,” Rarity said, hoping to keep the conversation itself from flying away.

“Of course!” Pinkie said. “Flutters here was one of the first ponies I met when I moved to Ponyville!”

“She helps with all my little animal friends’ birthdays,” Fluttershy chipped in. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ruby just had a litter of kittens, so we were having a little get-together to help her celebrate.”

“I had no idea,” Rarity said, looking back at Fluttershy. She really couldn’t imagine two such polar opposites getting along, but there were stranger things, she supposed. “So, you have newborn puppies and kittens in the cottage now?”

“That’s right.” The widest grin Rarity had ever seen was lighting up Fluttershy’s face.

“I imagine that must be quite a hoof-ful.”

“Oh, not really. The mothers know how to take care of them. I just help out wherever it’s needed.”

“So how’re you liking the new place, Rares?” Pinkie asked. “Everything ship-shape and hunky-dory?”

“Well, it’s... taking a bit of getting used to,” Rarity admitted. “It certainly has its own personality...”

“You get that with all the old houses. Just give it a few weeks and all those old creaks and groans will be as familiar to you as your own heartbeat!”

“No doubt,” Rarity asked. “Is that why you came by last week? Just to check in on things?”

Pinkie shook her head, her smile totally unaffected. “Nope, I’ve been practicing my baking at home every night! Auntie and Uncle Cake even said I can start helping out in the store soon. Well, they aren’t really my auntie and uncle, but they’re such good friends of the family, and they’ve been giving me a place to stay ever since I moved away from home so I could meet more ponies, and—”

“Oh, my mistake,” Rarity said warily, wondering how long of a sentence the pony could construct if left uninterrupted. “I thought I saw you outside the other night. Must have been somepony who resembles you.”

“Noperoni!” Pinkie tilted her head and looked into the distance, her grin diminishing to a contented smile as she contemplated something. “Huh. I wonder who it could’ve been. There aren’t many ponies in Ponyville who look like me, and I know everypony here in Ponyville... Maybe Amethyst, but she’s always playing games with Derpy and Dinky on Saturday nights. Or maybe Cheerilee, but she’s always grading papers at night... or maybe there’s somepony new in town!” She gave a sudden gasp that startled Rarity and made Fluttershy flinch. “I gotta go and check, bye Rarity, bye Fluttershy!”

“Ah... goodbye?” Rarity said to the suddenly empty space beside the bench. “Goodness. Dealing with that one is like trying to teach embroidery to a tomcolt.”

“Oh, she’s not so bad,” Fluttershy giggled. “She can be a bit overwhelming, but she’s always ever so nice.”

“I suppose.”

Perhaps noticing Rarity’s aloof manner, Fluttershy sat down next to her with a concerned frown and asked, “Are you alright, Rarity? You look a little tired.”

“Is it so obvious?” Rarity lamented. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I really haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.”

“Oh my, I’m sorry. Is it just the stress?”

“To a degree. And I’m really not used to being in a new place yet, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s... unsettling.”

“Do you... I mean, is there anything wrong with it? You don’t dislike it, do you?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s perfect, really. I couldn’t have asked for better.” Rarity smiled in an attempt to appear reassuring, but it faded a little as she thought. “It is a bit grim, I guess you could say. I’m really looking forward to getting it decorated. It’s almost... oppressive, in a way. You know, there’s even been a few times when I’ve stepped inside, and felt... unwelcome.”

She paused, about to mention the bizarre collection of art she had found in the basement and the way she suspected it was riling up her imagination. Yet when she looked up and noticed Fluttershy’s concerned frown, she put aside all thought of mentioning anything of an unsettling nature.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to go off like that,” she said instead, realizing how Fluttershy would probably react to a discussion of the strange paintings. “It will be wonderful when I get it all spruced up, I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so. If anypony can make that place feel like a home again, it’s you.” Fluttershy shivered. “Are you sure you aren’t cold, Rarity? I’d be happy to lend you my scarf if you want it.”

“...You know, I think I might just take you up on that,” Rarity conceded, and accepted the scarf as Fluttershy quickly unwrapped it from her neck. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming out here like this. It just felt so good to get away from work for a little bit.”

“Well, I’m free this afternoon, if you’d like to spend a little more time together,” Fluttershy offered. “You know, I’ve always been meaning to try out this little spa in the west corner of the market. We could see what it’s like, if you want to.”

Rarity hesitated, thinking of all the work she had left behind and the list of priorities that only seemed to grow with every task she checked off. I really shouldn’t. I’ve wasted enough time as it is. She smiled tiredly. “Not that it doesn’t sound positively divine, Fluttershy, but I really have so much to do. I should get back.”

“Are you sure? You still have plenty of time. You need to take care of yourself.”

“Yes, Fluttershy,” Rarity said with a slight air of annoyance. She stood up and made to start back down the path towards town. “Opening day will be on me before I know it if I’m not careful.”

“Oh... okay. I’ll walk with you back to your shop, though. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Of course not,” Rarity said as she started to head back into town. They walked for a few minutes in silence, simply taking in the scenery together as the afternoon wore on.

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I am really happy you decided to stay here in Ponyville,” Fluttershy said finally. “I wasn’t looking forward to seeing you leave.”

“Well, it’s not as though I’m settling down here permanently.” Rarity looked around her with a slightly distasteful expression. “I still have my sights set on Canterlot.”

“Oh... of course,” Fluttershy said, sounding slightly hurt. She looked away, and Rarity was about to ask if anything was the matter when they turned onto South Market Street, and she caught sight of the dark windows of the shop.

“Well, thank you for talking with me,” she said instead, smiling and pulling away slightly. “I’m sure you have things of your own to get back to, so I won’t keep you any longer.”

“It was no trouble at all, Rarity. It’s a quiet day for me,” Fluttershy replied, continuing to follow Rarity as she moved towards the shop. “I can stay and visit for a little while, if you still want some company.”

“No!” Rarity said, her mother’s last unending visit flashing through her mind. She really didn’t want anyone else spending time in the shop just then. She had spoken a little too quickly though, and she cringed guiltily as Fluttershy shrank back again. “Really, the place is a mess, and I couldn’t bear to have anyone see it just now. I just need to put in a good few days of work, and then things should be a little easier.”

Besides, she thought suddenly, remembering what had driven her outside in the first place, what if the dress forms look like they’ve been tampered with again? For a moment, she saw herself opening the door, Fluttershy right behind her, and then seeing the twelve faceless, lifeless ponies standing there, all turned to watch the door as Rarity and Fluttershy came in. She shuddered, trying and failing to push the thought out of her mind.

“It’s fine, really,” Rarity said, smiling again as she looked at her friend. “Tell you what, once I get things a little bit more in order, we’ll check out that spa together, yes?”

“Alright,” Fluttershy said, her tension seeming to dissipate a little as she returned the smile. “But really, you can come see me anytime you need to talk or anything.”

“I know. Thank you, Fluttershy. I’ll see you soon.” Rarity turned and hastily trotted away, hoping Fluttershy wouldn’t feel the need to follow. She stayed behind in the marketplace though, and Rarity was left alone as she walked up to the shop and fiddled with the handle. She paused as she imagined the dress forms inside once more, wondering what she would see when she opened the door. It was enough to make her stop and stand there for several seconds, the cold biting into her more and more.

Rubbish, she thought, lifting the latch. She had to go inside at some point or another. As she expected, however, the dress forms were exactly where she had left them, lined up and facing towards the wall. She let out a breath she didn’t remember holding, and locked herself in for the rest of the day. Nothing else was different from how she remembered it, so she set about relighting the lamps so she could get back to work. It was only then that she felt the gentle scratch of warm wool against her neck. She realized with a guilty pang that she had forgotten to return Fluttershy’s scarf.

I’ll get it back to her next time, she thought, taking it off and draping it next to the desk. She thought of what Fluttershy had said about staying in Ponyville and felt another stab of regret for her response. She hadn’t meant to put down Ponyville so much, especially when her friendship with Fluttershy had come to mean so much to both of them. But she couldn’t stay there forever. Indeed, even when the shop had seemed no less threatening than a risky business proposition, she had always had it in the back of her mind that it was just one more attempt to get out of town and to the high-class communities where she truly belonged.

I might be getting my start here, Rarity thought as she trotted up to the table and seized several lengths of fabric, but I can’t possibly stay here. It’s a stepping stone, nothing more. One day, there will be a shop in Canterlot with my name on it, and mine will be one of those case studies fashion students read about. “Rarity’s boutique sprang from the humblest of beginnings, starting with nothing but a dilapidated old shop in a country town. If she could do it, so can you.”

And then, I can finally leave this place behind.

And what about Fluttershy? she wondered as she started up her machine.

...No. I can’t let one friend hold me back. No friendship lasts forever. That’s just life.
> Chapter 6 - History
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later, Rarity stepped back from a final mirror she had hung and took a slow turn to survey the room. An exhausted but broad grin took over her face. For the first time, she managed to lose herself in her realized vision.

The showroom was a dream come true, reborn as a wide, airy space just begging to be filled with displays of clothing. Pale purple and pink rugs had replaced the thin, drearily-patterned carpet. The brilliant oval mirrors, which tricked the eye into thinking the shop was larger than it was, now surrounded a large, richly painted dais. Opposite that, where Rarity stood, were lines of smaller mirrors above vanities with shelves ready to display the latest cosmetics samples. Spacious dressing rooms were partitioned with heavy, luxurious purple fabric anchored to the floor and ceiling. She had quite simply outdone herself.

And despite all that, an anxious thought squirmed into her head like a termite through wood grain. What if it’s too gaudy? What if ponies want something more modern and minimalist?

As if in answer to her doubts, the gloom suddenly increased, and Rarity shrank back in a moment of confusion. The sun was going behind the clouds, and the room sank into darkness. The mirrors, which had done so much to amplify the natural light coming in, turned gray and cold. All of the colors suddenly seemed muted and lifeless, and Rarity’s shoulders slumped. Despite weeks of near-constant work, the old hall was clinging to the dim shrouds of its old ways like a disgruntled grandmother.

And there was nothing she could do about it. Now that all of the wall hangings were in place, the lamps were nestled snugly inside expertly crafted niches in the fabric around them, backed by mirrors, and surrounded by decorative metal. Even so, as long as she couldn’t replace the fixtures with mantles, she didn’t dare light them anymore. She had taken precautions, but even the heavy fabric could catch fire if exposed to an open flame.

I suppose I’d better get on with it, she thought numbly. Winter was passing, and she needed to fill the shop with clothes before Winter Wrap Up. That was her next task. She had a mountain of sketches and concepts, but the thought of stooping over her sewing table for another day made her neck ache.

If only I could replace the lights, she thought, grinding her teeth.

A loud knock made the front door rattle on its hinges, and Rarity yelped slightly in surprise. Stepping closer to the door, she could just see the shadow of a misshapen head through the glass. Puzzled, she walked across the room, slid the lock away, and gently pulled the door open. On the other side stood a tall Unicorn with a sallow yellow coat, like the color of old newspaper, and a stringy, rust-colored mane that was mostly hidden under a cheap hat that looked like it had been intended to mimic a Manehatten fedora. He wore a brown suit that seemed to have been tailored to stretch his shoulders at the most painful angle possible and a tie in exactly the shade of orange that Rarity thought ought to be banned from fashion altogether.

“Miss Rarity?” he said in a voice that Rarity could only compare to the sound of dry pasta snapping.

“Speaking,” she replied slowly. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Fine Line, assistant treasurer of the Canterlot Historical Society,” he replied, tapping a thin, rectangular tag pinned to the lapel of his suit. “I’m here in regards to your inspection.”

“Inspection?” Rarity’s voice was guarded. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You received a notice recently in regards to your application. You recall applying for one of our Historic Preservation Grants in relation to your...” He paused, frowning as he glanced around Rarity towards the interior in a way she didn’t like. “...development, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” Rarity said carefully. “But the grant was approved some time ago. I’ve already received the funds, and I haven’t received any notice since.”

“Yes, well,” Fine Line sniffed, “I happen to have a copy here with me.” He levitated a short memo printed on thin paper out of the briefcase at his side and passed it to Rarity. It did indeed bear the seal of the Canterlot Historical Society and the signature of the society’s president, Past Keeper. Rarity recognized both from her previous correspondences. It also detailed an invocation of clause seven of the conditions of her grant, which gave the Society rights to conduct inspections at their sole discretion to ensure the property was being maintained to their standards.

“As you’ll note, it is stated clearly that we take no responsibility for the failure of a small town’s postal service to deliver our missives in a timely manner. At any rate, we have reason to believe that our funds are being misused.” He glanced past Rarity again, as if trying to appraise something behind her.

“And what reasons are those?” Rarity demanded, her muscles tightening.

“As a pony of interest, we’ve been doing a bit of checking into your records,” he said, tapping his hoof irritably against his case. “It seems that in addition to applying for our grant, you’ve also applied for the Rich Historical Relevancy Grant. As it happens, we’ve had several dealings with Barnyard Bargains Inc. in the past, and their interests have usually proven to be quite at odds with our own. I’m sure you can understand our concerns, and I don’t think I need to mention that extensive renovations of historic properties are in clear violation of the terms of our grant. It is the ‘Historic Preservation Grant,’ you know.”

“All of my plans to renovate the Old Town Hall were clearly outlined in the proposal I sent,” Rarity countered. “If the society had any issues, I expect they would have been addressed prior to approval.”

“Be that as it may,” Fine Line pressed, “if you fail to allow a comprehensive inspection of the property so that we may ensure our guidelines are being adhered to, the Society will have no choice but to revoke the grant.” He stepped forward just a few inches, crowding Rarity as he looked down at her. She refused to budge. “At your most immediate convenience.”

“I don’t much care for the way you’ve been addressing me,” Rarity snapped. “And I don’t think much of your notice either. You expect to show up under downright suspicious circumstances and simply be invited into my home?”

“You’ve made this home a protectorate of the Canterlot Historical Society,” Fine Line sneered. “We have as much of an interest invested in it now as you do. And that gives us rights.”

“I have a mind to report you right to the local constabulary,” Rarity retorted.

“By all means.” He shrugged. “Invite as many of your local yokels as you want. I will still conduct this inspection, and I would advise you to stop trying to weasel your way out of it.”

“Weasel—” Rarity sputtered. “You know what? Fine. Look around all you want. And as soon as you’re done, I’m informing the constabulary of every minutiae of this visit, so you had better find yourself on the next train to Canterlot the moment you’ve exhausted your intrusive curiosity. And you and your society can expect a very thorough complaint for this incident!”

“We’ll see,” he said, practically pushing past her as she let him in. He regarded the decorated showroom with an upturned nose and lips pressed into a thin, deprecating line. Looking down, he pushed and tugged at the new carpet with a hoof as if he were trying to rip it. “This is new?”

“Yes,” Rarity admitted angrily. “As I outlined in my proposal—”

“And how have you secured these curtains?”

“With wall anchors and—”

“So you’ve damaged the original walls with hardware larger than small nails.”

“No more than—”

“And what about the fixtures? Your proposal states they’re original.” Fine Line moved over the one of the metal brackets in the wall. “Have you modified any of them?”

“No, the shops have been sold out of the stock I need,” Rarity said. Fine Line seemed unimpressed.

“You’ll have to discontinue their use. They’re a clear safety hazard to this property.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Rarity snapped. She felt her chest swell with anger, and she was barely suppressing an urge to punch him.

“And modifying them is out of the question,” he said, turning away and raking his eyes over the dais as he searched for something else to criticize. “As one of the few things you’ve left undamaged so far, it is of utmost importance they be left alone.”

“Excuse me?” Rarity all but yelled at him. “And what exactly do you expect me to do for light?”

“That’s not our concern. All that matters to us is that historical properties remain in as close a condition to their relevant periods as possible, unspoiled by... shall we say, the kind of shortsighted business owners Filthy Rich tends to indulge.”

“Now, just a moment,” Rarity said, stomping a hoof. “Your society has several provisions that allow for modifications and updating when matters of safety are involved and where the building has already been modified in the past. If anything, I’m bringing it closer to its original state!”

“Your proposal does not provide any proof of that,” Fine Line said dismissively, walking into the kitchen. “In order to justify all this, you’ll need to procure evidence of how the building has been altered in the past. As it is, you appear to have simply had your way with the place, and the Society simply will not stand for that. Now, let’s see if the upstairs has suffered as badly as everything else I’ve seen.”


* * *


It only got worse after that. After condemning everything she had done to the upstairs rooms, Fine Line had left her with a ready-made notice that fully revoked her entire Grant. When she protested that a significant amount had already been spent in startup costs, he had flatly replied that if she couldn’t repay the Society’s money, the courts would be more than capable of settling the account—probably, he added, by auctioning off her assets.

Rarity was left in her new showroom trembling with helpless rage. Her mind was spinning, unable to settle on an idea long enough to analyze it. This would ruin her. The only stipulation that offered any sort of hope was that she was allowed one week’s time to either gather the necessary funds to repay the Society—an impossibility so absurd, it made her want to laugh, cry, and scream at the same time—or to appeal their decision and provide evidence that all the changes she had made were justified and necessary. As she looked around the room, shrouded in gloom that smothered the colors of her new design, the necessity of what she was doing seemed laughably obvious. What she didn’t know was how to convince a Society of stuck-up Canterlotians obsessed with keeping every doornail unchanged of that.

“You want evidence,” she spat in a trembling voice. “Oh, I’ll give you evidence. I’ll give you so much evidence you choke on it, you moldering bureaucrats.”

With that in mind, she yanked on a coat, hat, and boots, not caring whether they matched particularly well or not, and slammed the door so hard on her way out that she left a wandering, slanted crack in the lower left corner of the door’s window pane.

Go on, disapprove of that too, Rarity thought. She set out through town at a firm trot, paying little attention to anything around her until a familiar voice broke through her reverie.

“Hey there Rarity!”

Rarity let out an audible groan before she could stop herself. Of all the ponies she could have run into, this was the last one she wanted to deal with right now. Swapping her exasperated expression for one she hoped would at least pass for neutral, she turned and faced Pinkie Pie as she bounced up to her.

“I’m glad I caught up to you!” she said. “I just went over to your shop to see you, but you weren’t home, and I thought, ‘oh no, if she’s not home, I can’t give her the letter, and if I don’t do it now, I’ll probably forget again,’ but then on my way back, I saw you and I thought, ‘Gaaaah, that must be Rarity! I can totally give it to her before I forget,’ so—”

“Pinkie,” Rarity broke in flatly. The effervescent voice was threatening to bring another headache on. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Oh. Right! Here you go,” Pinkie said, totally unperturbed. She reached up and pulled a battered envelope out of her mane, which she then passed to Rarity with a smile. “Minny’s office got this a while back by mistake. I think the post office forgot that there’s someone living at the old gallery now, which isn’t that surprising, since up until recently everything related to it has either been sent to Town Hall or Minny’s office...”

Rarity didn’t hear the rest of what Pinkie was prattling about. The envelope was very clearly from the Canterlot Historical Society, and a quick glance inside confirmed her suspicion that it was indeed a twin to the one Fine Line had presented her with that morning, detailing in no uncertain terms that she should expect an inspection in three weeks’ time.

No need to report that odious prig, I suppose, she thought, grinding her teeth. Pinkie was still jabbering in the background, but after Rarity fixed her in a withering glare for a few moments, even she seemed to become aware that something was wrong.

“Uh... Rarity?” she asked, her smile flickering a bit. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long to get that to you. It’s just that Minny’s been so busy with all the homes she sold recently, and—”

“Do you have any idea how important this was?” Rarity growled. All the rage Fine Line had left behind was rising up again and just begging for an outlet.

“Um... really, really important?”

“Really— Really— Really important,” Rarity spat. “Did you know I was surprised with a very unpleasant visit from the Canterlot Historical Society this morning? Well, thanks to you, I had absolutely no time to prepare for it. And do you want to know something else?” Rarity threw the letter down and crushed it into the mud with her boot. “Because of it, I might just lose a huge chunk of my funding, and everything I’ve worked for will be completely destroyed!”

“I... I didn’t think...”

“Of that, I have absolutely no doubt!” Rarity snapped, raising her voice and stamping on the letter again. A splash of mud struck Pinkie, and she backed away a step. “In entire weeks of sorting files and playing in bakeries, you didn’t once think that it was important that this got to me—one of your clients, for Celestia’s sake—in a timely manner, did you? Was it really so hard to just walk by and stick an envelope through a slot?”

Pinkie opened her mouth to say something, but snapped it shut when Rarity pointed a threatening hoof at her. “I don’t know where your supposedly legendary organizational skills were, but in the future, I hope you show a bit more discretion before you run another client’s life into the ground.”

Rarity spun, taking a few deliberately firm steps away before adding, “And you can be sure Mortgage will hear about this.”

She didn’t bother to look back at Pinkie as she strode away. When she had gone a short distance, she let out a long, pained sigh. She had hoped she might at least feel better after taking out some of her anger, but instead she only felt ill. At least it was justified.

She then noticed that it was a little quieter in the market than normal, and she turned to see a number of ponies staring at her, Applejack among them. The farm pony stood by her stand, watching Rarity with a dark, concerned frown.

What does she know? Rarity thought, ignoring the stares and walking determinedly onward. The marketplace was soon left behind, replaced by the winding roads and countless thatched cottages of the northern side of town. Ahead of her, the snow-laden branches of the library tree loomed up at the end of the road. For what must have been the hundredth time, Rarity wondered idly who had fashioned the huge oak into a living text repository, and what their involvement with Ponyville had been. That would have to remain a mystery, however. The tree’s history was not the one she was interested in.

As the red, arched door opened before her, the hoof-written “open” sign whacked lightly against it and a trio of small bells jangled over her head. Behind a massive desk with neatly ordered stacks of paper weighing it down, an elderly Pegasus looked up and smiled quickly as Rarity closed the door behind her. She had a coat the color of spring grass and an unruly mass of white mane clinging to her head. Rarity thought it might have been the tension instilled in her throughout the day, but she thought she saw something guarded in the librarian’s expression that had never been there during her previous visits.

“Hello there Rarity.” Her voice was pleasant and soft with the faintest hint of a country accent, aged by the faintest crackle that, ironically, had always reminded Rarity of stiff pages in an old book. She stood up, and her left ear fell forward limply as she trotted around the desk. “What brings you here this fine winter day?”

“Hello Ms. Dog-Ear,” Rarity answered. Like everypony in Ponyville, Rarity never felt right addressing the librarian casually. Ms. Dog-Ear was one of those eternally elder figures that would always be addressed formally, no matter how old anypony else got. Rarity smiled wearily as she pulled off her boots by the door, and the old librarian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Everything all right, Rarity?” she asked. Rarity paused in hanging up her coat, then let her shoulders fall and sighed.

“I wish I could say it was. To tell the truth, I’ve really had a rather wretched day.”

“Well, I’m sure sorry to hear that,” Dog-Ear replied, smiling sympathetically. “Can I get you anything? If you’re here for the new catalogs, I’m afraid they haven’t come in yet...”

“Actually, I need to do a different kind of research today. Did mother mention that I moved into the Old Town Hall?”

“Yes... yes, she did,” Dog-Ear said slowly, putting a hoof up and twitching her ear back up. “Of course, I guessed you were planning on setting up shop somewhere. Didn’t think it would be there, though. Hay, I remember when that place was getting built. One of the first buildings in Ponyville, and by far the biggest at the time. Things change, I suppose.”

“A little too much for some ponies’ liking,” Rarity said, and Dog-Ear turned sharply back to her.

“How do you mean?”

“I seem to have found myself on the wrong side of the Canterlot Historical Society,” Rarity explained. “I was hoping I could find enough information about the history of the Old Town Hall to prove that I’m not doing any real damage by renovating it. Do you have anything that could help?”

Dog-Ear seemed to relax a little as she fell into her element. “Well, I don’t know how much of it will help... but I know I’ve got some old articles that reference the hall. Remember a fair bit myself too, before... well, before I got old.” She laughed.

“Wonderful,” Rarity said, giggling a little herself. “The microfiche machine is downstairs, yes?”

“That’s right. Just... hang on a sec. Why don’t you let me go down and sort some things out for you first. Bit of a mess down there, you know. It doesn’t see much use, and I can find some of what you’re looking for faster than you can. Why don’t you fix yourself some hot cocoa and follow me down when you’re ready?” She gestured to a little table that was always stocked with free refreshments for the library patrons. A mirror in a dark red frame hung above it, and Rarity moved to the table just in time to see the reflection of Ms. Dog-Ear glance back at her before disappearing down into the library’s basement. Rarity scrutinized the mirror a moment longer, an odd sense of déjà vu passing over her before she shook it off and focused on the steaming beverage pots in front of her.

It seemed incongruous, but Ms. Dog-Ear had always put the comfort of her patrons above the security of her books. She had probably had to replace more texts than the average librarian, but she usually laughed when asked about it.

“Books are replaceable; the folks who come here aren’t,” she always said. “If some uptight little filly wants to come in here and guard the books like they’re Celestia’s own foals, well, she’s welcome to it once I’m cold and feeding grass.”

Rarity smiled as she inhaled the bittersweet fragrance rising from the now-warm cup and turned to head down to the basement. As she descended the dim steps, she noticed the bright, gently hissing mantle lamps that illuminated the stairs with a pang of envy.

When she reached the ground floor, she found the librarian turning on the hot, painfully-bright lime-lamp beneath the microfiche reader. It was an ugly box with a huge array of lenses leading to an oval window, now glowing brightly with light. Beside it were several folders containing bits of dark film, all of which were meticulously labeled and dated.

“There you go, Rarity,” Dog-Ear said, twitching her head and bringing her ear back into position. She then picked up one of the packets, leaving the rest on the table. “Those are from when the Old Town Hall was first being built. They built the new one eleven years later, so you might want to check around then as well.”

“Perfect,” Rarity said, setting her cocoa down. “Do you remember what it was used for in the years after?”

“Oh, this and that,” she replied slowly. “Several businesses came and went, but the place had gotten pretty run down by then. Ponies were more interested in the northern part of town in those days. Ponyville was booming, and everyone wanted it to grow away from the borders of the Everfree fast as it could. Can’t really blame them there!” Her ear flopped over again, but she ignored it as she resumed her walk upstairs.

“I suppose not. Oh, by the way, I was talking about the hall to the pony who runs the apple stand in town,” Rarity continued.

“Applejack?”

“That’s her. She mentioned it used to be an art gallery. Do you remember anything about that?”

Ms. Dog-Ear’s wings fluttered as if startled, and she dropped the packet she was still carrying. She stooped and grumbled to herself as she scooped it back up and tucked it out of sight beneath the wing. “...Yes, I remember,” she finally said. “Used to be owned by a young painter named... well, I don’t think I recall.”

She looked down, examining the step in front of her. “I do know she was the last pony to try to make something of that place. That was back in... 959, I think.”

“What happened then?” Rarity asked, looking at the librarian curiously.

“Didn’t do well. Not much of a surprise, small town like this. She closed up shop a few years later. No one was interested in the place after that.” She sniffed as if in annoyance, then looked back down at Rarity. “You be careful with that cocoa. Those films aren’t as easy to replace as books.”

“Not to worry, ma’am.” Dog-Ear nodded and left Rarity to her work.


* * *


Three hours later, Rarity had a veritable goldmine in the notes she had piled next to the microfiche reader. No fewer than four businesses had come and gone in the time since the hall had been built, and each of them had altered the property extensively. None had done so more than a restaurant that hadn’t even opened in the end, but had managed to strip down the entire exterior to its current, bleak state before abandoning the project. Then followed a few years in which it sat empty, and Rarity had skipped ahead to a relevant article from 959. It appeared to be the last chapter in the hall’s history before her own began in the present.




Incoming Artist Causes Excitement


Miss Toola Roola, a landscape artist of some apparent renown in Equestria, has announced she will be opening a studio in Ponyville’s Old Town Hall. Many residents have expressed their enthusiasm for the idea, and many will tell you that it is a sign that our town is continuing to grow into a place ponies are proud to call home.

“For a well-known artist to establish themselves here is indicative that Ponyville’s culture and industry continue to shine,” our illustrious mayor told the Express in an exclusive interview. “We’re all looking forward to having Miss Roola as a valued member and contributor to our great community, and the board approved her proposal and purchase unanimously.”

Yet despite all the fuss, not much is known about the artist herself. Although an aura of some mystery is to be expected of any great artist, Miss Roola did consent to speak with the Express briefly as she surveyed her new home last Thursday afternoon.

“I recently lost my father, may he rest in peace, and the family home was just too big and gloomy to keep to myself. I’m the only one left of our once-large family, you see. So I’ve taken all that was left to me, and I’m hoping for a bright, clean start here in Ponyville.”

We here at the Express are confident that we speak for everypony in conveying our condolences, as well as our eagerness to welcome her to our town.



Rarity scanned back to the top of the page, where an ancient photograph showed Toola Roola in front of what would become her gallery. The old building was a sinister silhouette in the background, its walls darkened to total blackness by the inadequacies of the old camera. Toola herself smiled at the camera in the foreground, and although the colors were impossible to discern in the old picture, Rarity felt her suspicions were unequivocally confirmed: this was the pink Earth Pony whose portrait lay in her basement, and who, presumably, had painted the rest of the disturbing pictures forgotten down there.

“If that’s the kind of thing she painted, then it’s no wonder she didn’t do well around here. ‘Well known landscape painter’ indeed,” Rarity said to herself.

She continued searching, but found no other mention of Toola Roola. The only references to the gallery appeared more than ten years later in advertisements for general auctions. They listed items such as antique dressers, mirrors, tables, and other pieces of antique furniture up for sale to “maintain property in custody of the city.” Rarity supposed the artist's notoriety must have faded after the initial fuss, and that she had eventually closed the gallery and moved on without so much as a farewell note, leaving Ponyville without high culture once again.

Regardless, Rarity had what she needed. She extinguished the lamps before gathering her notes and heading upstairs.

“Find what you were looking for?” Dog-Ear asked, looking up from her desk.

“I think so,” Rarity said with a tired smile. “Thank you so much, Ms. Dog-Ear. You really don’t know how much this could mean to me.”

“Well, I hope everything turns out alright for you.” She walked with Rarity towards the door. “And I can’t wait to see what you do with the place. Celestia knows it deserves to see some happier times again.”

“I certainly hope so too. By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to remember what became of that artist after she left Ponyville? It’s just that the hall happened to have entire basement full of what I assume were her paintings, and, well, I’d just as soon be rid of them.”

There was no mistaking the way Ms. Dog-Ear froze this time, her hoof on the handle of the door. She looked at Rarity with a shocked expression, and she had gone slightly pale. “Those things are still there?”

“Well, yes, as it happens,” Rarity said, confused by the reaction. “There’s a photo the Express took when the artist arrived in Ponyville, and there’s a self-portrait of her down with her other works.”

“I thought those would have been auctioned off. They sold everything else...” Dog-Ear muttered, almost as if to herself more than Rarity. She glanced back into the room, her gaze lingering on the mirror above the beverage table for a split second longer than anywhere else. Then she looked back at Rarity and smiled. “If you’ve seen those paintings, I doubt I need to tell you why they didn’t sell well here. Honestly, if I were you, I’d just toss them. I don’t think you’ll get much for them anywhere, certainly not enough to be worth the trouble.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Rarity gasped, donning her coat and boots. “They’re hardly to my taste, certainly, but I couldn’t just throw somepony’s art in the trash!”

“She’d be older than I am, if she’s still around somewhere,” Dog-Ear said, a slight edge of exasperation in her voice as she opened the door. “If Toola cared about them, she’d have come back for them. Just do yourself a favor and trash them.”

Somewhere behind them, a sharp snap rang out through the library, as if something had fallen and broken somewhere, though the sound was brisk, isolated, and unaccompanied by any sound of scattering shards. Rarity glanced back, unable to see where the sound had come from.

“What was that?”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Ms. Dog-Ear said, but her voice had turned clipped and hard as she looked behind herself. “Left a glass in the wrong place I expect. Now, I think you should go, Rarity.”

“Ms. Dog-Ear? Is something wrong?” Rarity asked, frowning as she was ushered out the door. Something Ms. Dog-Ear had said was bothering her, but she couldn’t pin down what.

“Nothing, nothing. Just a little more tired than I thought, and you’ve got work to do. Come back soon!” And with that, the door was shut. Rarity stood there for a moment, puzzled and a little alarmed by the librarian’s sudden change in demeanor. Hesitantly, she turned around and started walking south towards home. Looking back, she saw Ms. Dog-Ear through the window. She was sitting at her desk once more and reading through something. As Rarity turned away, however, she realized what had been bothering her. Ms. Dog-Ear had mentioned Toola Roola’s name, though she had said earlier that she didn’t remember.

That’s odd, Rarity thought. I guess she must have remembered. Putting the incongruous behavior down to an old mare’s idiosyncrasies, Rarity resumed her walk and started thinking about how she would phrase a scathing appeal to the Canterlot Historical Society.
> Chapter 7 - Alone
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Canterlot Historical Society



Re: Your recent appeal


Dear Rarity,

Thank you for submitting your appeal to the board of the Canterlot Historical Society. We have reviewed the documentation you provided and are in agreement that, due to extensive alterations to the property throughout its history, responsibility for the violation of our guidelines is not yours alone.

However, we were dismayed to learn how poorly the property has been treated by the community of Ponyville throughout its history. We feel we must concur with your findings that very little of the original structure remains, and that its value as an artifact of its times was likely limited to begin with. Consequently, we have determined that it has very little worth to the Society in terms of preserving the contexts and feelings of another era.

Furthermore, we have also reviewed your original proposal. You did not provide any of the aforementioned historical information in your initial documentation, nor did you detail your intentions in sufficient specificity to justify the extent of the renovations discovered by our inspection. Without question, any of this information would have affected our original decision to dispense these funds, and we take this as evidence that you have knowingly and willfully misled the Society and used these funds without regard for our time-honored values.

In light of this, we have elected to proceed with recalling our grant.

Please find enclosed the official terms for repayment. Be advised that should you fail to meet these terms, we will have no choice but to pursue court proceedings against you for acts of fraud.

Sincerely, Past Keeper—President, Canterlot Historical Society.



For a moment, Rarity just stood by the door, holding the letter that had been dropped through the mail slot. On the floor lay the thick envelope it had arrived in, still stuffed with pages of legal jargon that bled together into black streaks as she stared down at them. A slight trembling in her limbs began to escalate as her breathing deepened. Her teeth ground together as the thin lines of her lips went white from the pressure of her scowl, and she draw in a sharp, long breath as she took the letter back to the sewing table in the middle of the room. There, she let two more loud, heavy breaths pass before she slammed the paper onto the desk, her magic shaking it with the force of a fallen crate.

She stared off into the corner of the room, continuing to breath hard and heavy as the paper crinkled in a thousand different directions from the erratic, crushing pressure of her magical grip. The edges started to smolder, and several orange spots of fire blossomed across its surface a moment later. By the time Rarity looked back, the letter had been pulled into oblivion by the fire. The shriveled scraps crumbled apart while sparks writhed like fiery worms at their edges.

It did nothing to assuage her fury. She bared her teeth and clenched her eyes a moment before shifting her grip to the scissors on the table. With a broken, grating yell, she sent them flying across the room in a whirling silver-red arc, and they struck one of the vanity mirrors dead center. Rarity had an instantaneous glimpse of her furious, tear-lined eyes leaping out at her from the silver surface before black, jagged veins exploded over the mirror and dragged its fragments out of the frame to scatter over the table beneath it.

Rarity slumped as the scissors bounced away and clattered to the floor, her anger drowned by an oncoming tide of despair. The money had already been spent on the property, the interior renovations, and the materials she planned to use to produce the first stock of clothing. There was enough left to paint the exterior and perhaps apply some more decorative touches, but not enough to repay the Society and still open the shop with any merchandise to speak of.

I can't do this. One rattling sob after another forced its way through her throat, and she staggered over to the fainting couch where she collapsed and buried her face in her forelegs.

She stayed like that as long as she could stand it. Eventually, her chest ached and her breath came long and deep. There were no more tears left in her. She felt strangely empty. No one had been around to hear as the sounds of her lonely and embattled dreams echoed and sank into the fabric hanging all around her, where they were smothered into silence against the hard, dark walls hidden beneath.

Silence. As she lay there, she could barely even hear the sounds of her slow, passionless breaths. She had envisioned a lively shop filled with customers coming and going, and herself moving nonstop to keep clothes on the racks. Even though she had nearly gotten halfway there, she found she could barely remember what that vision had felt like; it seemed so far away, so completely unreachable, like a slender silhouette standing atop a remote hill in a painting. The pleats of decorative fabric swam and coalesced above her as she lay prone, almost like the shapeless folds of a pink, enormous throat that she could fall upwards off the couch into, and become lost in the silence forever.

A series of soft knocks came from the door and broke the stillness in her mind. She blinked and turned her head slightly, looking at the cracked window just barely aglow with dingy light. She wondered what would happen if she just ignored it. Would the pony outside just open the door, come into her home, take what they wanted, and leave? It seemed little different than what had happened with every visitor prior. At this point, Rarity had the odd notion that it would be better for that to happen than for somepony to enter who wouldn’t leave at all.

But as the soft knocking repeated itself, she decided whoever was out there was determined to make sure she wasn’t allowed to marinate in her misery. With a forlorn sigh, she rolled off the couch and approach the door without bothering to check her appearance. As she unlocked and opened the door, she felt nothing at all upon seeing Fluttershy on the other side, and she couldn’t summon the energy to fake a smile.

“Hello Rarity... oh my,” Fluttershy said, her smile dying as she looked at Rarity. “Um... Is something wrong? You look upset...”

“I couldn’t even begin to tell you,” Rarity said impassively.

“Oh no... can I help? I mean, I have lots of time, if you want to talk about it... it’s really no trouble.”

“I don’t see what good that would do,” Rarity said, a nasty edge creeping into her voice. “It’s not exactly likely to change anything, is it? And I don’t see how, if I can’t figure a way out of this, how you’d be able to when I’ve been trying for days.”

Fluttershy shrank back a little, but her eyes never wavered from Rarity’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean I could fix things... but maybe you’d feel better if you just got it out. Sometimes that can help you find another way to deal with things.”

“Fluttershy—” Rarity started, but caught herself. Her frustration melted into guilt as she looked into her friend’s kind eyes, pleading with her to be let in, to help. Her body sagged as she let out a long breath. “Fine, just... fine...”

“Why don’t you lie down?” Fluttershy offered as she stepped inside. “I can make some tea, if you have any.”

“In the kitchen,” Rarity said, heading back to the couch.

“I won’t be a moment,” Fluttershy said, her smile so warm it actually seemed to brighten the room just a little. As she headed towards the rear alcove, she paused, lifting her head a little and sniffing. “Mmm, that smells wonderful. Did you bring in some cut evergreen?”

“I’m sorry?” Rarity asked.

“It smells like fresh pine,” Fluttershy said, taking a deeper sniff. “I sometimes buy dried boughs to freshen up my cottage. Having so many animals around can get a bit overpowering, you know?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t smell anything.” Rarity sank wearily back down onto the couch. Why did I think this would help?

Fluttershy looked at her in slight confusion, but shrugged and continued back to the kitchen. Rarity heard her looking through cabinets and setting things out, the muffled sounds of metal and porcelain filtering out into the showroom. “Um, Rarity? Do you have any matches for the stove?”

“In the first drawer to the left,” Rarity called back sleepily. She heard the faint hiss as the gas was turned on, followed almost immediately by the soft woomph as the flame caught. As Rarity closed her eyes, she thought she caught a whiff of the smell Fluttershy had noticed. There was indeed a hint of pine to it, but there was something beneath it, something... bitter. Rarity wrinkled her nose and waved a hoof, and the smell was gone.

“So how many designs have you finished?” Fluttershy’s voice echoed out.

Rarity scowled. Of all questions to start with... “Well, I’ve really been quite busy just getting this place decorated. I haven’t had much energy to work on stock yet.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Fluttershy called.

“I said, I’ve been too busy!” Rarity snapped.

“Oh... well, I’m sure getting a shop like this started takes a lot of work. But you really do need to make sure you stay rested. You’ll get everything done, I’m sure.”

As if you know how much I have left to do, Rarity thought bitterly. The conversation lapsed back into silence, and Rarity relaxed, letting her mind drift off again.

“What have ponies said about the new decor?” Fluttershy’s voice broke in again.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Rarity grumbled. She could almost feel the heat from the letter burning away again, doing nothing to erase its bureaucratic tripe from her mind. Fluttershy stepped into the showroom, carrying two cups of tea in her wings. The cups seemed to upset her balance, and she walked with a slight sway, almost a covert stagger, to keep them from falling. She didn’t look at Rarity, but kept her gaze stiffly fixed on something in the far corner of the showroom. She set one of the cups on the sofa, and sat down on the floor next to it holding her own. She stared over the top of it, scrutinizing the sofa Rarity laid on. Rarity frowned a little in puzzlement.

“Fluttershy?” she asked, passing her gaze over her friend again. Something seemed different about her. “Are you... doing something differently with your mane?”

“No. Why do you ask?” Fluttershy asked, looking down at her tea and taking a sip. It was very dark in the dim light, almost black.

“It looks... well, to be perfectly frank, it looks a little greasy, darling,” Rarity said, picking up her cup. She was suddenly glad of a chance to criticize something for a change. “If you’ve changed brands, I’d really recommend changing back.”

Fluttershy didn’t respond for a moment. Then, “You need to get your dresses done if you’re going to make any money with this place.”

Rarity blinked at her, her mouth opening a little in annoyed confusion. “Yes, well—”

“If anypony buys them, that is,” Fluttershy interrupted, blowing on her tea before taking another sip. “Ponies in this town don’t exactly have well-developed tastes. Then again,” she turned away and looked around the room, “I’m really not sure who you’re trying to appeal to. Isn’t this a little gaudy?”

Rarity’s mouth opened in shock. “If it’s not to your taste, you don’t have to stay,” she bit out.

“Well, it’s not like your designs ever impressed anypony before,” Fluttershy replied, taking a longer sip of tea. “Even after all the work you put into those old designs just to suck up to those other designers, they still didn’t like them. If you can’t even make cheap clothes to please somepony else, how will your original ideas get any attention? If you even have original ideas,” she ended, quirking a callous sneer at the edge of her mouth as she stared at her cup. It was almost empty.

Rarity’s vision seemed to flood with red. “Is this your idea of helping? Coming here and insulting me? If you have a better solution, I’d be delighted to hear it, since you suddenly seem to know so much about fashion!” She looked away, fearing that if she looked at her friend a moment longer, she might slap her. She gripped the mug in an angry aura, jerked it to her lips, and drank.

She gagged. The tea was thick, viscous, and oily. Her stomach revolted against the noxious, bitter, musty taste that coated her tongue. She jerked her head away from the cup, desperate to find some water to wash away the taste, and saw Fluttershy sitting right beside her. Fluttershy was looking at Rarity with a tiny, placid smile fixed on her face. Her teal irises were barely perceptible under the vast circles of thick blackness that bloomed from the center of her eyes.

“Just give up,” Fluttershy said, her voice ever so slightly muffled, as if she was speaking through a thin curtain of still water. The blackness in her eyes seemed to bleed outward, and the last traces of color vanished as Fluttershy’s smile broadened, her teeth a solid wall of matte white. Rarity shoved herself back against the couch, gasping to scream but choking on the rancid taste still filling her mouth. She dropped the mug and kicked it to the floor where it shattered. She felt something cold and wet, and she looked down to see thick, black liquid coating her rear hoof, sticking to it like glue.

“Rarity?” Fluttershy asked, her voice puzzled. Rarity turned away, biting her foreleg and dragging her tongue across her fur to try and purge the taste. She didn’t want to look at Fluttershy. She couldn’t comprehend what she had seen. She heard hoofsteps approaching from behind her, and she whirled around, eyes wide and staring.

“Stay away!” she snapped, twitching a hoof back in preparation to strike. Fluttershy was now standing several paces from where she had been sitting. She was looking at Rarity with a frightened expression, her clear, teal eyes shrinking in surprise as she backed away another few steps.

“Rarity?” she asked again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Rarity sprang up, advancing on Fluttershy with a scowl. Fluttershy’s voice fell away with a stutter, and she cowered back as Rarity drew up to her. Rarity barely had to presence of mind to notice that Fluttershy had picked the mugs of tea back up and was holding them in her wings.

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at,” Rarity said, her voice low and cold. “I don’t know if you think this is funny or if you’re just being idiotic, but if you think you can come into my home and, and...” she glanced down at the mugs, “...try to poison me with that swill,” she exclaimed, reaching out and smacking one of the cups to the floor. Fluttershy was so shocked, she jerked back and dropped the other mug beside it. They clattered to the ground and spilled steaming, golden tea onto the floor, where it quickly soaked and darkened the light carpet. Rarity worked her mouth for minute, trying to find more words to throw at her.

“I... I...”

“Just shut up!” Rarity yelled. “Just... how dare you! What in Tartarus is wrong with you! I... I thought you were my friend!”

“I... I didn’t—” Fluttershy protested weakly. “I am your friend, Rarity. I’m sorry, I don’t know—”

“That’s how you treat your friends?” Rarity exclaimed. Her mind was reeling with confusion and anger, and her vision had narrowed into a dark tunnel focused only on the pony in front of her, an aphotic channel pulling her emotions out and spewing them forth uncontrollably. “Just get out. Get out of here. Go on!” she waved a hoof violently, and Fluttershy all but flew to the door.

“And don’t come back without a hay of an apology!” Rarity screamed after her. Fluttershy didn’t bother to shut the door after herself, and Rarity slammed it shut with her magic.

She stood there, breathing hard and clenching her jaw as she seethed with rage. She could feel the pangs of another headache threatening to set in. She growled and rubbed a hoof over her eyes; they were hurting as if she hadn’t slept in days. When she looked up, the room seemed unnaturally large and empty. Her anger bled away into it as if it were a vacuum, and her tears threatened to return with double the intensity.

“What the hay was that about?” Rarity demanded aloud in a quivering voice, trying to bring back the anger and the indignant justification she had felt. “Why would she say those things? I thought she was my friend.”

The pain in her head swelled. She winced and started to walk to the kitchen. A proper cup of tea might help to head it off before it got so bad that she ended up wasting another day.

A soft splish and a sudden, cold wetness on her hind hoof made her jump and look down. Her hoof, which was otherwise clean, had landed in the puddle by the two mugs Fluttershy had dropped.

Two mugs, she thought slowly. She turned, frowning as she looked at the fainting couch. There was no broken mug. Stepping closer, she patted the upholstery and the carpet all around it. There was no dampness, no cold stain.

Another pulse from her headache squeezed her head. The memory of the taste from the mug Fluttershy had given her stung her mouth, and she felt suddenly sick. As she sat down, she replayed the terrible things Fluttershy had said, the way her eyes had looked so flat and horribly lifeless. But that memory faded away as she recalled how Fluttershy’s true, teal eyes had looked up at her in confusion, fear, and crushing hurt.

Fluttershy had been crying. Almost as soon as Rarity had opened her mouth, she had started to cry, and by the time Rarity had chased her out into the cold, she’d barely been containing terrified sobs.

I... I don’t remember, Rarity thought breathlessly as she tried to put the events back together. I know she was crying now, but... I don’t remember seeing it then. I didn’t see it. How could I not have seen it?

Back in the kitchen, Fluttershy’s soft giggle echoed out into the showroom. Rarity jerked her head around, staring. The showroom grew darker and darker the farther it got from the front windows, and by the time the dim light of the kitchen illuminated its door in a stark, blue-white rectangle, it was surrounded almost totally by darkness. Fluttershy laughed again, softly and happily, and Rarity saw her walk across the doorway, a dim shadow silhouetted by the pale light. She was only there for a moment before she was gone again, but the long curls of her mane and tail were unmistakable.

“Fluttershy?” Rarity cried out, relief washing over her. Her mind rebelled at the absurdity of what she was seeing and hearing, but as she rushed to the kitchen, she had already started to rationalize everything.

I fell asleep, she thought, her guilt evaporating to be replaced with sweet relief. I only dreamed I said those terrible things. I didn’t really yell at Fluttershy. She’s ok.

Rarity skidded into the kitchen and looked around for her friend. She saw nothing. The kitchen was empty. Rarity was alone.

She sat down hard on the cold floor. “...Fluttershy?”

Nothing answered her. On the counter, she saw her tea canisters sitting out and the kettle left on the extinguished stove, a little steam still rising from the unused water inside. Fluttershy had been here. But she was gone now.

I chased her out, Rarity thought numbly. I really said those things. I... I don’t...

Her thoughts were broken as soft crying reached her ears. Her ears swiveled and her eyes shrank as a chill ran over her skin. The sound was coming from the showroom, and it was growing louder. Before she could even think of why the sound caused her such dread, a series of knocks on the front door set her heart pounding.

“Fluttershy?” she asked, now more in fearful confusion than curiosity. She didn’t know what she would say if Fluttershy had come back. She didn’t know if she would demand an explanation or beg for forgiveness. She wasn’t even sure whether she thought she had done anything to be forgiven for or not. The soft cries continued, and she stepped hesitantly out into the showroom.

In the window, she saw the face of a pony pressed against it, peering in and spotting her the instant she stepped out of the kitchen. The pony waved enthusiastically at her before pulling back from the window and disappearing.

Mother, Rarity thought, a sense of numbness returning to her. It didn’t look like the blows were going to stop coming anytime soon. She passed her sewing table, which was littered with unfinished sketches and the pieces she had barely started on. The sight twisted her face into a confusion of disgust and shame, and she turned away. As she reached the door, she could hear Sweetie Belle giving short, baleful cries just outside.

Why does she have to haul that foal around every blasted place she goes? She opened the door and tried to smile, but knew she had failed as her mother’s own expression flipped from jovial to concerned the moment she looked up from Sweetie Belle.

“Rarity, sweetheart, what’s wrong? You look awful,” she exclaimed.

“I’m fine, mother,” Rarity lied, not caring how much energy she put into the façade. “Can I help you with something?”

“I just thought I’d drop by for a visit.” Her mother's frown grew stronger. “Sweetheart, really, I can tell something’s the matter. Can I come in?”

The ashes of Rarity’s temper flared with fresh heat and she straightened up. If her mother got a hoof in the door, there would be no getting rid of her for hours. And with a headache setting in, a screaming child invading the house was the absolute last thing Rarity needed.

“Now’s really not a good time, mother. I have too much work to do.”

“I think you’re working too hard,” her mother countered. “Why don’t we go someplace? I don’t think Sweetie Belle likes it here; it’s so dark.”

“Sweetie Belle doesn’t like it?” Rarity asked incredulously. “Well, if precious Sweetie Belle doesn’t like it, why do you feel the need to drag her over here every few days? It’s not like I can work with all that endless screaming! Getting away from her was essentially why I moved out!”

Rarity blinked, and her ears flattened in shame as she saw her mother’s shocked expression. It was Fluttershy happening all over again, and it hadn’t even been twenty minutes. “Mother, I... look, I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her anger bleed away again. “Today’s just... it’s not a good day. Maybe some other time, ok? I’m really not in the mood.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Please, mother,” Rarity pleaded. Her mother stood there for several seconds, her eyes fixed on Rarity as if she were trying to find some kind of hidden poison in her daughter’s eyes and draw it out through sheer will before it could do any more harm. The only sound was Sweetie Belle’s staccato whines, which had grown a little more subdued as they’d talked.

“Alright,” she said finally. “But please, Rarity... you know you can talk to us about anything. Your father and I will always be here to help you.”

“I know. Thank you mother.”

“Before you go,” her mother said, speaking quickly before Rarity could shut the door, “I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to look after Sweetie Belle next Thursday? Your father has a bowling match, and I promised the Cakes I’d help out with their first Hearth’s Warming sale.”

Rarity barely heard the words. She was so tired she was afraid she would blink and fall over right there on the doorstep. “Yes, fine, whatever. Goodbye, mother.”

When the door was shut, she slumped against it and slowly slid to a prone position on the floor. Her mother didn’t leave for several minutes. Rarity could hear Sweetie Belle continuing to fuss and cry as her mother stood outside, though Rarity couldn’t be bothered to guess what she was doing. Finally, she heard her mother’s hoofsteps as she turned and walked down the path, and as Sweetie Belle’s crying faded, the shop finally sank into a thick, tense silence.

She had finally been left alone.
> Chapter 8 - Thread by Thread
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Schick-schick-schick-schick—thunk—schick-schick-schick-schick—thunk—schick-schick-schick-schick—thunk

The sound of Rarity’s machine filled the showroom, the greedy, metallic draw of the threading mechanism punctuated by the heavy drive pedal. In the background, Rarity could just make out the faint hiss of her gramophone. The record was spinning idly with the needle trapped in the blank channel at the end. She couldn’t remember when the music had stopped playing.

She let the sewing machine slow to a halt, pulled the sheet she had been stitching from the table, and held it up. She squinted in the dim light, then scowled in frustration and tossed it aside.

Crooked, again! she fumed. She had made no fewer than four complete outfits from scratch in the past two days and discarded all of them. She hadn’t thought about Fluttershy or her mother. She didn’t want to think about them, didn’t want to ponder the realities or the absurdities of what she had done. Instead, she had written her foul mood down to the actions of the Historical Society and buried herself in her work.

Yet, for all her efforts to focus on her designs, something had gone wrong with every single one. The first she had simply written off as a consequence of not having worked on a real outfit in so long. In the second outfit, the angles had lined up all wrong. When she had put it on the dress form, it had looked like it was melting off of it. She didn’t even want to think about the catastrophe that had been the third attempt. But the fourth...

She frowned and looked at the fourth. It was still on the ponnequin by the dressing rooms where she had left it. It was a classical piece in black with understated white lace hiding the lines. She had envisioned it as something that might have graced the decks of an airship fifty years ago and done it almost more for fun than to try to get something she could sell out of it. The little black hat and dark, netted veil cast the ponnequin’s empty eyes into shadow, and the voluminous skirt billowed out in pillowy pleats of black and white behind a stiff, formal bodice. All in all, it had turned out remarkably well.

But something was off. Rarity couldn’t figure out what, and every time she thought she had found out the problem, all would appear normal and correct when she took a closer look. Perhaps it was that one stitch, but no, that was fine. It had to be the width of the hat, but no, that turned out alright as well. She simply could not pin down what had gone awry, but every time she stepped back and looked at the dress as a whole, something about it just seemed wrong.

For the tenth time, Rarity gave up and turned away from it. As she looked back at her sewing table, barely visible in the gloom, she sighed in frustration and glanced at one of the sconces. Safety be damned, I can’t keep living like this. Her eyes were burning and tinged with red from working in the dim winter twilight. With a gritty snap, she lit one of the matches and started to light the lamps. One by one, yellow flames sprang to life, and soon the showroom was filled with a subdued, flickering glow. Rarity snuffed the match and nodded in satisfaction. If the shop burns down, it's about the only thing left that could go wrong anyway. Might as well get it over with. 

Rarity returned to the table and pushed another segment of fabric beneath the machine’s shuddering shadow. She tried to resume working, but if the darkness had been bad, the shadows cast by the old lights were almost worse. However Rarity stood, one of the mirrors was always just within her line of sight, playing tricks with her vision. A flicker of movement or a slightly more aggravated twitch of a shadow would startle her out of her concentration every few moments, and she would jerk her head up to try and catch whatever had passed just out of sight. Her skill saved the work most of the time, but it only took one such lapse to ruin an entire segment.

“Ouch!” She jerked her hoof away and let the machine eat the fabric into a wad under its needle. A thin stream of blood was carving a carmine line through the white fur on her ankle. She had gotten distracted again and let her hoof wander too close to the jabbing silver tooth of the sewing machine. She sucked on the cut with a pained expression and tasted thick, coppery sweetness as she glared at the machine.

Somewhere in the room, she heard the faintest rasp of heavy cloth. She looked up, and saw one of the wall hangings swaying just slightly, as if disturbed by a breeze. She blinked at it, and it became still. Frowning, she bent down and pulled the ruined fabric from the machine, examining it to see if she could salvage it.

Again, the sound of cloth rustling, as if somepony had brushed against one of the walls. Rarity looked up, but didn’t see anything moving. None of the wall hangings were disturbed in the slightest. Her ears swiveled just slightly apart, searching for anything out of place, but she only heard the throaty, humming exhalation of the lamps and the thin hiss of the forgotten record player. She rolled her eyes, walked over to the gramophone, and lifted the lever. The hiss faded away.

To her left, the veiled hat slid off the ponnequin’s head and fell to the ground with a hollow, muffled thud. Rarity jumped back, but stepped forward a moment later, shaking her head and grabbing the hat in her magic.

“I’ll figure you out later,” she said irritably, fixing the hat firmly onto the textured head. “Just be patient.”

The hollows of the ponnequin’s eyes wavered in the dancing lamplight, and Rarity could almost imagine its gaze flitting from her face to something behind her and back again the next instant. She wasn’t sure which idea she disliked more. She turned away, trying to ignore the tension bunching her shoulders as she imagined the figure continuing to stare at her.

As she looked back towards the table, she caught sight of her reflection in one of the huge mirrors surrounding the dais on the other side of the room. She saw the ponnequin wearing the dress standing behind her, and was struck by the same sense of wrongness as she looked at its image. Frowning, she walked towards it, her double growing larger in the mirror with every step. She climbed onto the dais, and her image appeared in the center and rightmost mirrors as well. She scrutinized the dress in the background over her shoulder, then blinked in surprise as she realized the feeling was gone. From here, it somehow looked totally normal to her. She glanced at the other mirrors, but she couldn’t see the dress in them.

As she looked back into the left mirror, she froze as she saw herself. She stood there, dark shadows under her reddened eyes, a mare whose normally bright coat was in dire need of brushing and probably a good conditioning. The deep, rich purple of her mane had faded to a dull, muddled plum color. She turned her head a little this way and that, puzzled. The sense of strangeness was no longer coming from the image of the dress. The longer she looked at it, the more she felt it in her own mirror image. Her reflection turned with her, regarding her with dark, puzzled eyes.

She shrank back, and her image mimicked her movement. Had it hesitated just a moment too long before following her? Rarity blinked and stared harder. Her deep, dark eyes gazed back at her, peering into her, as if trying to see through her. Rarity turned to the center mirror, and the feeling faded. Her own pale face looked back at her. She turned to the right mirror, and it was the same. But when she turned back to the left mirror, a feeling of cold sickness swept over her. The eyes were so dark. Rarity realized the redness had almost vanished. Indeed, even the sapphire blue of her eyes seemed to be...

The shadow of the ponnequin, blurry and out of focus over her shoulder, visibly turned its head and looked at her.

Rarity whirled, drawing in a rasping breath and pressing up against the freezing glass of the mirror. The ponnequin was facing off to the side, its dark eyes staring at nothing. No, Rarity thought, stepping away from the mirror and gaping at the inanimate figure. I saw it move this time. I know I did. I...

She wondered if it could have been the shadows from the lamps. The open flames moved so strangely. It made perfect sense that a wayward shadow had made it seem like that head had swiveled with silky smoothness over and up, bringing those hollow pits in its head to rest on Rarity's eyes in the mirror.

The mirror. Rarity stiffened. She wanted to turn back to the mirror, to see if she could spot the illusion that had made her think the ponnequin had moved. But as she started to turn, she paused. Her breath quickened.

She did not want to look into the mirror again. She couldn’t remember seeing her twin turn away from her as she whirled to look at the dress form. She imagined herself standing there on the dais, looking out into the room, while she also stood in the mirror, facing forward, watching herself on the dais with deep, flat eyes that had turned suddenly black.

Not me, Rarity thought wildly. Something like me. She wanted to laugh, to think it was her silly imagination running away with her. But every inch she turned her head towards the mirror was harder than the last. The muscles in her neck knotted and trembled. She couldn’t shake the sense that it hadn't been her in the mirror, but yet something that had looked like her was still there, watching, unmoving. But it would have changed. It would be different, and this time, she would see exactly how.

The gold frame of the mirror crept into her peripheral vision. She sniffed as she tried to calm her breathing. A tremor escaped the muscles in her neck and infected her jaw with unsteadiness. Just another inch or two. It would be her in the mirror, and she would laugh for being so afraid. She would not see dark eyes over a horrible, cruel smile looking back at her. She wouldn’t see...

The barest edge of silver entered her vision. The same eyes Fluttershy had, Rarity thought, and her body suddenly felt cold. Those eyes in her friend and in the mirror, those eyes that had been so dark and still, devoid of depth and reflection. Eyes that gave nothing back when she looked at them.

Rarity choked a little, then turned and jumped off the dais. She couldn’t look at it. She could still imagine it there, standing and watching as she trotted to the stairs, barely maintaining her composure as she passed around the edge of the golden frame. She reached the alcove, and only then did she turn.

She couldn’t see the left mirror. In the rightmost mirror, she could see herself poised on the first step, with no indication that anything was amiss. She couldn’t see the ponnequin either. It was hidden at the other end of the room by the curtains that partitioned the dressing rooms.

In one mental motion, she shut off all the lamps, plunging the showroom into inky darkness. She trotted up the stairs, bypassing the bathroom entirely. She couldn’t stand the idea of facing the huge, gray-framed mirror inside, certainly not long enough to remove her makeup. She could leave her face unwashed for one night.

As she entered the upper chamber, Rarity turned and locked the bedroom door for the first time in her life, pulling the key from the lock as she headed towards the bed.


* * *


She awoke with a faintly sweet, heavy scent clogging her nostrils. She screwed up her face, snorted, and pushed herself away from the pillow as she blinked in dazed confusion. Long bars of bright, silver moonlight sprawled over the floor from the far windows, filling the room with a cold radiance. Surfaces seemed to drift and sway as she tried to clear the sleep from her eyes.

It made her slightly sick, like she was looking at something underwater. She walked sleepily to the window and looked out. The sky was perfectly clear, a soft, velvety black that arched over the landscape to meet the gentle curve of the horizon in a perfect seam. Below her, Ponyville was laid out in vague, hazy shapes that reminded her of cottages.

Rarity blinked, trying to bring them into focus, but they wouldn’t resolve themselves. They looked almost blotchy, and she rubbed her eyes again to no avail. They looked so far away. Her bedroom wasn’t that high up, yet it felt like she was looking down from a mountaintop. Something else was strange about the scene in front of her too; something was missing.

The moon, she realized, looking up at the black, empty sky. Where is the moon? Although the town below was bathed in pure, silver moonlight, there was nothing in the sky to cast it. The absence made her recoil from the cold glass.

Somewhere below her, a faint, long cry sounded, a muffled wail that emanated from the boards and carpet beneath her. It was followed an instant later by its dissonant echo rushing up the stairs and through the hall after it. She turned her head, her breath quickening a little as she saw the black, gaping hallway through the wide open door. Didn’t I lock that?

The blind tunnel swelled in size, and Rarity realized she was walking towards it. The darkness swallowed and enfolded her as she left the bedroom, but she didn’t miss a step on her way down. She felt like she knew every board, every grain of the curved stairwell, and glided down as effortlessly as if she were descending a brightly lit staircase in a Canterlot ballroom.

The showroom swept slowly into view as she found the landing. The moonlight penetrated the windows and saturated the room, but it seemed less bright, less pure than it had been upstairs. It had turned from silver to the dull gray of granite, and every surface it touched was drained of color.

In the lurid light, Rarity saw with befuddled shock that the room had been completely changed. All of her wall hangings, decorations, and furnishings were gone. The walls were bare, dark wood. Old, splintery boards creaked under her hooves. She heard a slight hiss, and looked around for the source, thinking for a moment that the gramophone must still be running.

Another long, mournful wail pushed past her, and she snapped her head back to the center of the room. Her sewing table was there, exactly where it ought to have been, and she couldn’t think how she had missed it before. The room swam and rippled, and she blinked hard before trying to rub the fatigue from her eyes again.

When she opened them, she realized the walls weren’t bare—they had been covered in paintings. Gray, smooth faces gaped at her with luminous silver eyes, and disfigured bodies seemed to be trying to claw their way out of the walls to get to her. Every instant she looked at them, she felt a slight pulse in the air, like a thunderclap but without sound, as if the walls were the massive, fleshy ventricles of an enormous, throbbing heart.

Who— Rarity’s mind reeled, confusion competing with rage in her soporific mind. Who did this? Who ruined my work? She looked around the room, trying to find the source of the incessant wailing. She spotted a colorless figure lying on her couch, its head propped on its curled forelegs as it breathed quietly. Rarity recognized the enormous, tacky mound of mane piled on top of its head.

Mother, Rarity thought with a feral growl. She stalked forward, ready to berate her mother for staying so late and undoing all of her hard work when another cry struck her ears, causing her to stumble and look around angrily. She looked at the desk in the center of the room, and was startled to see a shapeless figure rolling and thrashing billowing limbs on top of it. She was sure there had been nothing but empty space there before, and it was only after a moment of bewildered terror that she realized it was Sweetie Belle. Her sister lay next to the sewing machine, which stood poised over her like a skeletal vulture. It was she who was screaming, thrashing her tiny legs against her swaddling linens as she filled the air with her cries.

Rarity couldn’t think. Everything about what she was seeing cried out to her that it was wrong, but the wailing echoed from the painting-laden walls, pummeled her ears, and ripped through her skull. It drowned out any capacity she had for thought, leaving room only for a shrieking frustration that quickly evolved into a burning fury.

“Shut up,” Rarity demanded in a trembling voice, spiny with hate and rising with every word. “Why are you doing this? Why are you all trying to stop me? I’m trying to sleep, I’m trying to work, why can’t you all just go away?”

She turned her head back and forth, looking around furiously. The eyes of the mutilated and surreal figures in the paintings watched her. Their open mouths seemed to add to Sweetie Belle’s wails. How can you sleep through this, mother? She approached Sweetie Belle and grasped the foal’s legs with her magic, pinning her down and stilling her thrashing. The screaming only increased.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she yelled. She couldn’t think. Her vision was clouded with her anguished rage. She saw her sister through a haze of thick ripples and running lines that pulsed like veins.

An idea came to her, whispered in a voice that was unlike any she had ever heard in her head before. The rage seemed to bleed away, and a tiny, thin smile spread across Rarity's face. She plucked the needle from her sewing machine and levitated it to her sister. Another glimmer of magic, and her sister’s mouth was forced shut, finally stifling the unendurable screams into desperate, pleading moans.

“That’s better,” Rarity said, as candidly and primly as if she were commenting on the color of the thread. “There there now, don’t fret. Your sister knows how to fix this.”

With simple, precise efficiency, like re-attaching a popped button, she ran the light blue thread—a perfect complement to her sister's mane—through the edges of the straining mouth, mending the gap and forming a perfect cross stitch.

“Almost done,” she said, and the voice rang strangely in her ears. It barely sounded like her. But she couldn’t think about that; there were a few more gaps to mend before everything would finally be perfect.

A few moments later, she was done. She closed the last loop and bit off the end of the thread. The sounds finally stopped, and near-total silence descended on the shop. A few little grunts and feeble moans rose as the figure beneath her thrashed and spasmed with increasing violence. Then it fell silent and convulsed, heaving its chest as if trying to push its lungs out from between its straining ribs and into the thick, stifling air.

It shivered, twitched, and finally, it lay perfectly still. In that moment, Rarity was totally alone, and she relished a feeling of complete and thorough contentment.

The air was pierced with a deafening, horrified shriek. Rarity’s head whipped to face the couch. Her mother leapt up, eyes alight and bloodshot with mindless terror. She flew towards Rarity, shrieking a note befitting a banshee as she raised a pair of scissors over her head. Rarity stumbled back, tripping and falling as her mother descended on her, the unbroken wail filling her ears. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and raised her legs in a feeble gesture of defense was a portrait of a pink mare, standing in front of an easel and a mirror, her face twisted into a grotesque, gaping, black roar of unrelenting and violent hatred as she glared down at Rarity.

Rarity screamed.

Then she heard only silence. Her breath came in lightning gasps as she waited for an assault that wasn’t coming. She opened her eyes and peered past her legs. The painting was gone. Clarity came to her in an icy wave as if a dam in her mind had been suddenly broken.

“Sweetie Belle?” she shrieked, scrambling up and clawing her way to the table. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She pulled herself up to the desk, and found its surface empty. She looked around wildly. She was surrounded by colorless but very real wall hangings, and there wasn’t a painting to be seen. There was soft, cool carpet bristling against her hooves. Her next breath was a gasping sob, and she slumped over the table as terrified, stifled weeping took over.

It had been a nightmare. A terrible, appalling nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. Sweetie Belle isn’t dead, she told herself, gratitude washing over her in increasing waves each time she thought it. I didn’t hurt her. This is real, not that. It didn’t happen. She’s fine. Mother won’t hate me.

She laughed a tiny, bitter chuckle at the absurdity of that last thought, opening her eyes again and heaving a heavy sigh. A moment later, however, dread filled her like poison as she remembered the details of the dream. She had sewn up her sister like a doll until she hadn’t been able to breathe, and she hadn’t felt any remorse or compunctions while doing it. Even if it were the nonsense of a stress-induced dream, the very idea that such an act was in any way conceivable in her head disturbed her deeply.

“I don’t... I don't hate my sister,” she told herself, hearing her pleading tone echo back to her. “I’d never hurt her. I’d never even think of such a thing.”

But she had thought of it. The events of the past ten minutes were proof of the emptiness of her protests. And because of that, she felt as guilty and afraid as if she’d actually done it. She pressed her hooves against her eyes and tried to slow her heavy, panicked breathing. When she opened her eyes again, she looked around in confusion. She was indeed downstairs in the showroom by her sewing table.

Did I sleepwalk again? But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it hadn’t felt like a dream or even a nightmare. It had been vivid and precise, and she had felt fully awake the entire time. The only anomaly was the strange, muddled way everything had looked.

It was almost like... like how Fluttershy looked yesterday, she realized. She drew in a thin gasp and felt as if she had swallowed a bucket of ice water. Everything had looked just that little bit off, fuddled and stretched, like the figures in an oil painting where the lines were never quite straight and shapes never clearly defined.

It’s ok, Rarity, she thought. You’re stressed, you’re upset, and your mind latched onto everything that’s been bothering you lately.

But the words felt weak and pleading. The magnitude of what had just happened battered her mind. It was just one of so many things that had steadily been getting worse from the moment she had set hoof in the Old Town Hall.

In the old Roola Gallery, was the unbidden thought that came to her mind. She frowned as she thought back to what little she had managed to learn about the artist who had lived there before here.

I wonder if she was like me at all, Rarity thought, looking sadly around the room. Ambitious and confident, only to run into a wall at every turn. I wonder how much work she put into this place before it bled her dry. That’s certainly what it feels like it’s doing to me.

Rarity shook her head, wondering just how similar their lives would turn out to be. Would she also fade quietly into the background, her work unappreciated and forgotten, just like Toola Roola? Had Toola started to buckle under the stress, endured the same nightmares, felt the same suffocating pressure of the hall as the old building dragged her into lonely obscurity?

Rarity shivered as she imagined what kind of stress a mind would have to suffer to paint the kind of things she had seen in the basement and hanging on the walls in her vision. What terrified her more, however, was that she was beginning to understand them a little more as her own stress escalated, and the things happening to her became increasingly fantastic and impossible.

What if something more is happening? she asked herself reluctantly. What if something more than stress and bad luck started to affect Toola Roola, and now it’s starting to affect you too?

“Don’t be stupid,” Rarity scolded herself aloud, the loudness of her voice startling her a little in the stillness of the night. Then, more quietly, “There has to be a concrete answer to everything. You’re smart enough to figure that much out, aren’t you?”

Magic, came the instinctive answer. Rarity’s brow furrowed as she considered it. It wasn’t impossible that something else was indeed happening to her, something beyond stress and fatigue and bad luck. It was known that there were oddities, strange occurrences that came and went in Equestria: little ripples of magic that produced unexplainable and unpredictable effects. They were rare, never fully understood, and most confusingly of all, usually fleeting. But they were known to happen. And if she had somehow stumbled into one of those bizarre currents and it was affecting her this strongly, then her list of priorities was probably about to get a lot longer.

It doesn’t make sense, though. I should have been able to tell if there was powerful magic nearby from the moment I walked in the door. She screwed up her eyes in concentration and listened with her mind, reaching out for the gentle, ethereal currents of power that suffused everything around her. The only thing she felt was stillness. There wasn’t even the faintest echo of a spell or anomaly, not that she could detect, at any rate.

Although... that horrible feeling I had by the mirrors earlier...

Silver. There was no material known to ponykind that was more receptive to magical energy, and the number of applications Unicorns had found for mirrors in spellcraft was endless. It didn't seem far-fetched that the many mirrors scattered throughout the room might be drawing in a power too subtle for her to detect, serving as foci and projecting it out in uncontrolled bursts.

Odd things were happening even before I brought the mirrors in... they couldn't be the issue, but is it possible they're exacerbating it?

She didn't need to hope it was possible. It was enough that it was a possibility she could investigate, a promise of an explanation and perhaps even a solution. It was something she could act on, and she felt suddenly calmer. The intensity of the vision had finally faded a little, and her body ached as if she had run a marathon. Her bed was calling to her.

But as she looked down at the table and her sewing machine, she saw, as if she had been left a parting jab, that the needle of the machine had been pulled out, and several feet of pale blue thread had been unspooled and discarded in a messy tangle on the table’s surface.
> Chapter 9 - Connections
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rarity woke the next morning as suddenly as if she had been slapped in the face. The room was cold, and she could barely see it from beneath the heavy blanket she had buried herself under. She couldn’t remember when she finally fell asleep, but the memory of what she had seen and done returned to her the instant her eyes were open.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She hardly dared to breathe. She felt a watchfulness all around her. A wave of pain washed through her chest as the irrational guilt and dread from the nightmare returned worse than ever. She pulled in a shaky breath as she held back a sudden sob. In her mind, she could see every stitch, every frayed fiber in the thread she had wielded as it passed through pale lips and came away red.

When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she pushed her covers away and slowly stood up, carefully examining the room around her. A weak, orange-red sun was rising, feebly cutting through the heavy clouds that worked to hide it. The light painted the room in fiery shades of copper and cast long, deformed shadows that seemed to stretch out towards her like long, thin limbs.

To get out of bed had taken all of her strength. She could barely imagine walking down the dark steps and into the dim showroom where her sewing table waited like the desk of a judge. The mirrors waited for her too, along with whatever they might reflect back at her. Would she even recognize herself if she were to look in one, or would she see someone who was capable of suffocating a foal?

She swallowed and walked reluctantly to the door. She brought the key over from her nightstand, fit it into the lock, and gently turned it. She thought she could hear the heavy click echo several times down the hall into the rooms below. She eased the door gently open and peered out into the hallway. It was dark, narrow, and empty.

From somewhere below, something made a metallic squeak followed by a clack, sending Rarity’s heart racing painfully and almost causing her to slam the door shut and flee back to her bed. The mail slot, she thought, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. It’s just the mail slot.

Taking another long breath, she made herself to walk down the hall. The sunlight’s red glow was just visible around the bend of the stairs, and for a moment, she imagined wildly that she had left the lamps on and set the lower floor on fire. But there were no flames when she descended the stairs and walked into the main room. Everything was perfectly still and quiet.

Her eyes darted around, looking for anything out of the ordinary or out of place. Nothing seemed amiss. Even so, she was struck with the impression that her home, her possessions, had somehow been violated; it was as if she had come home after a long trip and found her belongings rifled through and strewn about, and then heard something scrambling into hiding where it could wait for her. She couldn’t see into the left mirror on the dais, and she was overcome by a desire to cover it with something before she could come into its field of view.

Well, why not? She snagged the bits of discarded fabric lying around the room in her magic. In a few moments, she had hidden all of the mirrors around the dais and the ones above the vanities, even the one she had broken and never bothered to clean up. It did nothing to ease the tension she swore she could taste in the air. It almost seemed bitter, like a stringent strain of something left over from a bad chemistry experiment, but she could at least bear to walk into the room now.

I’ll go to the library, she thought. Ms. Dog-Ear will know where to find books on strange and lingering magics. She’ll be able to help. There’s not much I can tell her, but she won’t ask if she sees I don’t want to talk. I can figure this out.

As she approached the door, she saw the ivory sheets of the Ponyville Express splayed out on the carpet. Narrow black type cut across its surface and drank the sullen light. At the top, the huge, gaping slab letters of the headline seemed to leap out at her, and she felt her heart sink into her stomach in abject horror.




Beloved Librarian Passes Away


Ms. Dog-Ear was found to have passed away in her home Monday morning when concerned patrons were unable to access the library. Cause of death is currently believed to be asphyxiation by gas poisoning. Upon investigation, it was found that one of the gas valves for the library’s lighting system was left partially open without being ignited. It is believed that Ms. Dog-Ear, a mare who just recently celebrated her 64th birthday, forgot to check her lamps thoroughly before retiring for the night, as she was found in her bed with no signs of a struggle or other suspicious evidence.

“It’s a real tragedy,” Five Alarm, Chief of the Ponyville Fire Authority, told the Express. “The old gal was getting up there, so it’s easy to see her starting to forget little things like checking the lamps. Gas safety is something everypony has to take very seriously, and as always, we urge everypony to make sure their lighting systems are well-maintained and to always, always check your valves before going to bed.”

The incident has prompted many residents, most notably real estate agent Minimum Mortgage and business magnate Filthy Rich, to demand the mandatory introduction of thiol odorants into the Ponyville gas systems in the hope of preventing future poisoning accidents...




The article was printed alongside a smudgy photograph of Ms. Dog-Ear standing and smiling in front of the library tree. Rarity sat down hard and let the paper fall to the floor. She couldn’t imagine Ms. Dog-Ear suddenly gone forever. She had been the library’s guardian for as long as many of Ponyville’s residents had been alive. She was a fixture, an unmovable object. To think of her being gone was as unbelievable as the library tree itself vanishing.

Another realization struck her, and she snatched up the paper again, scanning through the dark lines. Her last hopes were finally crushed as she found the information she sought.

“The Ponyville Library will be closed until further notice, as no suitable staff has yet been located to maintain the collection. We will announce when information becomes available about the library’s reopening. Interested applicants are encouraged to inquire at City Hall.”

Any information the library might have held about what could be happening to her was now out of her reach. She wasn’t even sure where she would begin looking on her own.

Every time I find some kind of help, it gets taken away, she thought, her shoulders drooping. Or I drive it away myself. What did I do to deserve this?

She felt guilty for thinking of herself when Ms. Dog-Ear was dead, but she felt so utterly trapped and alone. Her shop had begun to feel like a prison, and now, with the shadow of Ms. Dog-Ear’s death, it felt eerily like a tomb.

I won’t make the spring deadline. I’ll be driven into debt for years to recover the cost of trying to start this business... I’ll need mother and father’s help, and then even they’ll be in debt. The shop would be abandoned once more. Her tools would rust and freeze up, and her rich wall hangings would be left to rot, hidden away from living eyes while everything she had tried to accomplish shriveled away into nothing but dust and mold.

Rarity blinked away the beginnings of tears, then glanced at the article again. One of the names had been familiar. She zeroed in on it, and allowed one small bit of hope to return to her. There was still one pony who had been friendly to her, one pony she hadn’t alienated or lost in some other way.

Minny. It was a slim chance, but she had to do something. She was beginning to feel like the longer she worked and waited in her shop, the less likely she was to come out again.

I can’t just wait inside anymore, hoping for things to get better. Without pausing to find any winter clothing, she opened the door and shut it behind herself without looking back.

The air was as frigid as if she had jumped into a frozen lake. Her hooves started to hurt from the cold almost as soon as she reached the main road, but she didn’t want to even think about turning around and going back into the shop. Something was in there, she was almost sure of it, but she didn’t have any way of dealing with it. Her only hope lay on the other side of the market square.

Still, the crisp, clear air smelled delicious after being cooped up inside so long, even if it did sting her nose. Ponies were already up and about, but Rarity thought they seemed a little more subdued than usual. As she entered into the market square, she realized most of them were talking about Ms. Dog-Ear, and another wave of grief washed over her. Ponyville won’t be the same again for a very long time.

She began to shiver nonstop, and her hooves had gone almost numb by the time she reached the center of the market. I wonder if it’s possible to freeze to death before crossing town?

“Hot cider!” called a voice that rose above the gentle murmur of the shoppers. “Limited supplies, get your hot cider here! Special Hearth’s Warming Reserve, specially aged since last harvest! Hot cider!”

Rarity turned and saw Applejack at her stand, which had been specially modified to serve the family’s legendary winter version of their signature cider. She must have only just opened, as there were only a few ponies gravitating towards her. With the cold and all that had happened, Rarity felt a special need for a hot treat. She approached the stand with a relieved smile, though her teeth were still chattering.

“There you go, Roseluck,” Applejack said, passing a thick wooden tankard over the counter. White steam billowed from the light, foamy surface, and Rarity could smell cloves and cinnamon behind the bittersweet fragrance of the fermented apples. “Don’t drink it too fast this time, y’hear?”

“Hello Applejack,” Rarity said, putting as much cheeriness as she could into her shivering words. Applejack turned, but her friendly expression had vanished in an instant. Rarity recoiled from the sudden glare she found directed at her. By comparison, the air suddenly didn’t seem half as cold.

“Rarity.” Applejack’s simple greeting carried an undercurrent of disgust.

“Is... is something wrong?” Rarity asked, her temper flaring slightly against the cold and her confusion.

“Wrong?” Applejack said, an expression of angry incredulity taking over her face. Then she turned away, inspecting various parts of her stand. “This ain't the time or place for it, and it ain't any of my business anyhow. Best just move along so we can both go about our day.”

“Well, I was planning on buying some—”

“Ain’t interested in selling to you,” Applejack said, cutting her off. She still wasn’t looking at her.

Rarity stared at her, indignation helping her anger to rise even further. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I ain’t interested in dealing with somepony who’s been going around spitting poison at everyone every chance she gets.”

The ponies in line behind Rarity shuffled away a little bit, and she could hear confused whispering. Her teeth stopped chattering as she clenched her jaw tight enough to hurt. She was cold, exhausted, and the last of her self-control had been left behind in her shop.

“Well, that’s odd. I don’t recall any dealings with the kind of backwater hayseeds you’d be used to fraternizing with.”

The muscles in Applejack's neck tightened, but she gave no other sign she had heard. “I ain’t dealing with somepony who’s been hurting my friends. It’s as simple as that, Rarity. Just go find what you need elsewhere.”

Rarity felt a sharp twinge of guilt and a fearful suspicion that Applejack somehow knew what had happened last night. Burying the idea, she drew on her anger instead and built it to a boiling tide of rage. “You know, this is precisely why I can’t stand to deal with ponies around here. I can’t imagine how anypony could have so little sense as to refuse service when she’s already too poor to put a stitch of proper clothing on her back! If that’s what your sister has to look forward to, well, I pity her all the more.”

Applejack’s head snapped up. Her eyes glinted like hard, fiery jade as they locked onto Rarity’s. As suddenly as if a string had been cut, Rarity’s anger vanished, to be replaced by a cold dread.

“You got some real nerve, don’t you?” Applejack said slowly. “So that’s how you look at me? At Pinkie Pie?”

“Pinkie Pie? What... what are you talking about?” Rarity asked. She tried to sound indignant, but Applejack was somehow pulling all the guilt she had been feeling back to the surface.

“You know Pinkie Pie lost her job because of you?” Applejack demanded. Rarity’s eyes widened as a stone seemed to settle in her stomach. “I don’t care what went wrong with your business. That pony’s a good mare, and sure, she made an honest mistake. But she didn’t deserve to be treated the way you treated her. She ain’t got no family here, and that job was all she had to live on!”

“Well, I didn’t mean for—”

“You didn’t mean for that to happen? Well, you didn’t think about that before you went and stomped all over her, did you?” Applejack replied. “But I saw you. You didn’t even care. I reckon you still don’t. From the moment I met you, I thought to myself, ‘there’s one of those prissy, city-pony types. You gotta watch yourself around that one, AJ.’ But you seemed nice enough, and I thought you might be able to bring some good business to this town. I thought you might be different. But you had me fooled real good, didn’t you Rarity?”

“Now see here,” Rarity said, finally summoning some energy to defend herself. “I—”

“Don’t even try,” Applejack cut her off, slamming a hoof on the ground. “See, even your little run-in with poor Pinkie might’ve been understandable. But how do you justify what you did to Fluttershy?”

“...Fluttershy?” Rarity’s voice was a broken whisper. What remained of her indignation vanished in an instant.

Applejack’s glare was fit to cow a Hydra. “Oh yeah. I talked to her the other day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that pony so upset. She said all she tried to do was cheer you up, and you ran her out like a rat! What do you have to say about that? Who in the hay even does something like that?”

Rarity could hear the whispering from the ponies around her turning angry. “That... that’s not what...”

“That ain’t what happened? What, so Fluttershy’s a liar now? Is that it, Rarity?”

“I—”

“You listen to me,” Applejack continued, her voice going quiet and deadly. “Your family’s done well enough by everypony as long as y’all have lived here, but whatever you picked up at them fancy schools and big cities you went off to, it ain’t welcome in this town. Around here, we don’t take kindly to ponies treating others like they’re garbage. And as long as you’re doing business that way, you ain’t welcome here either.”

“I... I...” The whispers were louder now, voicing ominous agreement.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Applejack said. “Matter of fact, I don’t want to see your face around my stall again. And if I hear about you mistreating my friends again...” she drew in a long breath, looking askance at Rarity as if she could barely stand to be near her. “...well, I hope I don’t. Now get out of here.”

Rarity took a hesitant step back, acutely aware of the many ponies standing around, muttering and glaring at her.

“Go on, get!”

Rarity turned and ran, dodging between the bodies surrounding her, half expecting somepony to punch or trip her. But nopony stopped her, and she found herself alone, freezing, and muddy at the far edge of the market. She turned into a narrow lane and slumped against the wall. Only the shortness of her breath kept her from breaking into tears.

The worst of it was that she felt she deserved every single cutting word Applejack had thrown at her. She had tried not to think about Pinkie or Fluttershy, but now she could hear the words she had yelled at both of them echoing in her ears as if she had just shouted them.

She wanted to go home and hide forever in her dark shop. She wanted to never have to see any of those angry faces again. But going home meant seeing all those covered mirrors and feeling the strange, angry watchfulness that filled the place like poisonous fumes. Even cowering in the mud before Applejack, Rarity still hadn’t been as afraid as she was of the dark malevolence that seemed to bore into her from behind her back every moment she was in the shop.

Besides, she realized, I’d have to cross the market again to get back. It’s not going to be safe to go through for awhile, and I’ll freeze before I make it back if I go around. She was already fairly close to Minny’s office, so she decided she might as well try and do what she set out to do.

She emerged back into the side road and looked around with her ears back and her head down low. She half expected to see ponies all around her, glaring and whispering to each other, but she seemed to have left the angry faces behind. Those few she saw barely gave her a glance before continuing on their way. Still, she felt anxious and shrank back from anyone who drew too close. She made her slow way like that all the way to Minny’s office.

The “open” sign hanging in the window was the first bit of good news she had gotten all day. She pushed the door open and practically fell inside, her eyes watering and skin crawling a moment later as the intense heat washed over her. She had forgotten how unthinkably hot Minny kept her office. After being out in the cold for so long, Rarity almost felt like she was being burned. At the other end of the room, Minimum Mortgage herself sat behind the reception desk, squinting at several brown folders she held in front of her face. Her jaw dropped as she looked up and saw Rarity, dripping and muddy in the open doorway.

“My goodness, Rarity,” she said, dropping the folders and trotting out from behind the desk. “You look like you got caught in a stampede. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Minny,” Rarity managed, trying feebly to wipe her stinging hooves on the mat. “Though you’re not far off with that guess.”

“Here, there’s a washroom just down the hall. Please, come in and let’s get you taken care of,” Minny fussed, pulling Rarity into the room. Rarity protested, seeing the drops and specks of mud she was leaving behind, but Minny shushed her firmly and dragged her down the hall.

“Whatever were you thinking, coming out here dressed in... well, nothing at all! Here, there are some clean towels and water. You get yourself cleaned up now, and then we can talk. Oh don’t fuss about the towels dear, that’s what they’re for!”

She bustled off, saying something about a hot drink once Rarity was ready. Rarity stood there a moment, looking at the clear water rippling ever so slightly in the smooth, porcelain sinks and the white, fluffy towels folded beside them. She almost broke down crying all over again. She couldn’t remember the last time she had appreciated something so simplistically nice as clear water and thick towels so much.

She took longer than she meant to, having been unable to resist running the clean, stiff-bristled brushes on the counter through her mane, tail, and coat. When she emerged, she felt better than if she had just gotten a deluxe treatment at a spa. Minny was waiting for her in the front room, steaming cups on the table beside the snapping fireplace. Rarity sat down next to her and thanked her before picking up the heavy, hot mug with her tired hooves. Hot cocoa.

“Feeling better?” Minny asked, picking up her own cup.

“Much.” Rarity took a sip. “I really can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

“Oh tish tosh,” Minny replied, blowing on her cocoa. “It’s nothing at all.”

For a moment, they sat there in silence, Rarity focusing on her drink and the heat of the fire. It felt pleasant and welcoming for the first time. Then Minny continued, “If you’re here about Pinkie Pie, you might be pleased to hear she’s no longer employed here.”

Rarity’s brief happiness vanished, and no cocoa or fire could heat the cold shame she felt inside. “Minny, about that... I was having a bad day, and it was just an... an honest mistake,” she said, hearing the echo of Applejack’s accusations. “I don’t want her fired, and I’d really prefer to hear that you brought her back on.”

“Oh. Well, that’s kind of you, dear. But I’m afraid it’s not possible anymore,” Minny replied. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t fire her; she resigned. She said she felt like she’d failed our most important client, and she shouldn’t be trusted to carry out business here anymore.” Minny grimaced a little as she took another sip. “I told her she was being foolish, but she was quite insistent.”

Rarity winced, her regret intensifying. “I shouldn’t have said those things to her. I was wrong. Do you know where she is? I’d like to apologize and maybe convince her to come back. I know what her work meant to you.”

“That’s the problem, dear. She’s gone home.”

“Home? You mean, with her... friends, here in town?”

“No, back to her family. They have a farm down south, I believe. She said it was time she paid them a visit, what with all that’s happened.”

“I see... Do you know when she’ll be coming back?”

“She didn’t say,” Minny said sadly. “I’m little worried she might not come back at all. But that’s not your fault, dear. It’s up to her where she goes and what she does from here. As for me,” she paused and looked at the cabinets of files, which had become noticeably more disheveled since Rarity’s last visit, “well, I’ll carry on. I’m sure I can find some more help soon. Now, enough about that.” She put down her cup and looked at Rarity through her thin, octagonal glasses. “What brings you here today? Is everything alright with the property?”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s...” Rarity said, trying to smile, but her lips trembled as her feelings stirred. She broke off and hid behind her cup. The warm, thick, sweet cocoa filled her mouth. It reminded her of the cocoa in the library—the cocoa Ms. Dog-Ear had always kept ready and warm over the years for patrons who braved the weather to cross town and find a new book to pass the cold weeks of winter.

Thinking of the librarian and her sudden death pushed Rarity over the edge. A cruel heat rose in her throat and a stinging wetness clouded the edges of her eyes. She choked, trying to hold back a sob. Then it broke free anyway and she looked down, closing her eyes tight against the silent tears shaking her frame.

She felt a warm foreleg wrap around her shoulder. She wanted to run away, to keep from being seen in such a state. But then she heard Minny’s calm, warm voice.

“It’s ok, dear,” she said gently, pulling Rarity a little closer. “Just let it out.”

Rarity broke down. For a moment, all she could feel were her loud, escaping sobs before a soft, thin handkerchief was pressed into her hoof. She accepted it gratefully, all the weight of everything that had gone so wrong pounding through her as she just sat there and cried. Finally, she managed to rein it in, and the tears subsided as she took long, controlled breaths.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was weak and rasping. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me, coming in here like this and putting on such a display.”

“Nonsense,” Minny said, smiling gently. “We all need a chance to have a good cry sometimes. I expect you’ve been putting a lot onto yourself and bottling it all up.”

“Maybe.” Rarity returned the smile.

“I did hear about what happened with the Historical Society,” Minny said carefully. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“That’s certainly a huge part of it. It’s just... everything’s been going so wrong. I haven’t even been able to get the shop lit properly, my designs have been turning out wrong, and I’ve... I’ve been taking things out on my friends, and...” she looked down at the remnants of the cocoa. “...and now Ms. Dog-Ear’s gone... I just don’t know how much more I can take.”

Minny looked away sadly at the mention of Dog-Ear. “It’s too true. I think we’re all going to miss her terribly. Ponyville wouldn’t be here without good folk like that.” She turned back to Rarity. “But don’t you worry, dear. Whatever’s gone wrong with you and your friends, I’m sure they’ll understand if you let them know how things have been for you.”

“I doubt that,” Rarity hiccuped. “I’ve really made a royal mess of things.”

“They’re still your friends,” Minny said firmly. “It might be painful for you, but you can still make things right. And even if you can’t fix everything, you’ll all come away the better for having tried. But I think you might be surprised what a true, honest apology can do.”

“Maybe,” Rarity conceded, though she was unconvinced.

“And as for the historical grant,” Minny continued, straightening up and pushing her glasses up her muzzle, “I feel partially responsible for how that turned out for you. I’ll tell you what: you let me do some digging, and we’ll see if we can’t find some other avenues of scaring up that money.”

“I don’t know if I want to try any more tricks. They haven’t exactly turned out well for me.”

“Never underestimate the value of a good real estate agent on your side,” Minny reassured her confidently. “I’ve got some favors owed to me here and there. If I can’t get this straightened out, I’ll eat my roof. Which would really be a shame, I just had it re-thatched!”

Rarity couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“Don’t try to take everything on alone,” Minny told her, putting a hoof on top of Rarity’s own. “You’ve got friends and family all around you. In a town like this, we’re all each other has. The least we can do is look out each other.”

Rarity bit her lip, feeling the threat of tears returning to her eyes. She swallowed and blinked hard, nodding.

They returned to a comfortable silence as Rarity finished her cocoa. She looked at the dark stains at the bottom of the mug and cleared her throat before looking up at Minny.

“I did come here with a favor to ask,” she said, and Minny looked up again quizzically. “Before she... before she passed away, Ms. Dog-Ear was helping me with some research. I feel terrible to ask this, but I really must continue it if I can, and I was hoping...”

Minny leaned back, a skeptical frown on her face. “I do have access to the library while it’s unoccupied, yes,” she said carefully. “But I can’t just let anypony in there while there’s no one to staff it. I can’t tell you how many regulations that would be breaking.”

“Please, I don’t want to take anything out, I just need to go through some things,” Rarity pleaded, though she was unsure how it would even gain her anything. “Isn’t there any way I can get access soon? Celestia knows how long it will take them to hire somepony to work there.”

Minny pursed her lips and sighed through her nose, looking away and fidgeting uncomfortably. She tapped her hoof a few times against the chair, then shook her head.

“I still have some things to look over there myself,” she conceded. “Her effects will be evaluated by the solicitors, but I have to go through any documentation regarding the facility, and the property itself needs assessing. I suppose I can allow you to accompany me while I’m working there.”

Rarity smiled widely, jumping up and grasping Minny’s hoof with both of her own. “Oh, thank you, thank you! You don’t know how much this means to me!”

Minny just shook her head and stood up. “Perks of a tiny town. Just don’t get anything out of order. The last thing we need is old Dog-Ear coming after us from beyond the grave.”


* * *


Before leaving, Minny forced Rarity to accept a heavy coat and spare boots. Though they didn’t fit well, they made the journey across town far more bearable than Rarity’s first trek had been. Minny let them into the library and locked them both inside, where they doffed the protective gear respectfully by the doorstep. The interior was cold and dark, and most of the curtains had been drawn over the windows. It reminded Rarity disturbingly of her shop.

After another warning not to mess with things too much, Minny had left Rarity and gone upstairs to the library’s living quarters. Rarity shivered to think of it. She did not envy her friend the task of working in a room with an empty bed that had only recently been occupied by the still, cold remains of one of Ponyville’s best citizens. She walked slowly around the library, feeling oddly like a trespasser as she looked over the dark shelves. It had always been quiet in the library, but it had always been a warm silence, the kind where you always knew Ms. Dog-Ear was somewhere close by, and the only unexpected voices were those of the books one opened on a lazy afternoon. Now, even the books seemed to have fallen quieter than usual, as if some of the life had gone out of them with the passing of their librarian.

Rarity passed by the beverage cart, its abandoned containers full of cold and stale liquid. It made her sad just to look at it. She glanced at the mirror hanging above it, and was surprised to notice a small crack in the lower left corner, a wandering black line running from side to the bottom edge of the clean glass.

That’s odd. I don’t remember that being there.

She turned away, her mild puzzlement fading as she walked over to the desk. It was remarkably tidy. Rarity supposed that Ms. Dog-Ear had put everything into its proper place before going to bed for the last time. There was a small tray of loose papers, the topmost of which was a complicated order form of some sort. A box sitting on the floor by the chair had been opened, and Rarity saw with a pang that it was empty except for seven fashion catalogs from various companies across Equestria. Ms. Dog Ear had set them aside for Rarity when they came in, just like always.

Rarity wished she could take them, but she would have to arrange something later. She was about to turn away when she noticed a thick, brown envelope lying on one side of the desk’s mostly-empty surface. As she looked closer, she was surprised to recognize it as one of the microfiche envelopes from the basement. Rarity bent closer curiously, recalling that Ms. Dog-Ear had carried one of them out of the basement the day she had researched the history of the Old Town Hall.

“Ponyvile Express, September, C.E. 966,” she read. Why did she bring this out here? The last issues I saw before the gallery closed were from August that year.

Puzzled, she lifted it, and spotted two other items beneath it. One was a battered envelope torn open along the top, addressed to Ms. Dog-Ear in chicken-scratch hoofwriting that was painful to look at. The other was an old photograph in badly faded monochrome. It showed two ponies standing outside what looked like the Old Town Hall. A sign was hung above the door with the words “Roola Gallery” painted in long, flowing letters. One of the ponies, an Earth Pony with thick, bushy locks of hair, was smiling and nuzzling into the neck of the other, A Pegasus who was laughing and hugging the first with one foreleg. The Pegasus had a riotous, unruly mane, and one of her ears was bent forward as she laughed with her friend.

“Ms. Dog-Ear?” Rarity said aloud incredulously. She bent closer to try to see the other mare, but the only thing she could make out clearly was that she probably had a mane and tail with several different colors, if the faded tones of the photo were anything to go by.

Rarity carefully carried everything over to one of the reading chairs and sat down. She laid the picture aside and picked up the archival envelope. Inside, she found a standard microfiche film, along with a piece of newspaper that had been carefully preserved and laminated. It was from an issue dated September 19, 966, and was a very short, informative piece. Rarity blinked at the headline in confusion.

“You said she left and closed up shop,” Rarity said, bending closer to make out the old print.




Local Artist Found Dead; Gallery to be Closed


Toola Roola, owner of the local art gallery, was found dead yesterday morning. Cause of death was ruled to be gas-poisoning, and the incident is being treated as a suicide.

“It’s a miracle the whole place didn’t go up,” Ponyville Fire Chief Four Alarm said in a statement. “She opened up every blasted gas valve in the house. Even the tiniest spark could have taken out the entire southern district.”

The fate of the property and funeral arrangements remain undecided pending notification of any kin.




Rarity laid the paper down, aghast at what she had read. Why did you lie to me? She thought, remembering the librarian carrying the folder and the final article about the home’s past out of sight. Why would you hide this? And why didn’t you tell me you knew her?

She looked at the photo again. She couldn’t imagine two ponies looking happier. She turned it over and saw something written in faded purple ink on the back. “June 7, 964.” Two years before Toola Roola would kill herself in her gallery.

“What the hay happened?” Rarity asked. Unfortunately, the only mare who could tell her had finally followed her friend in death. She turned to the envelope and pulled a single sheet of thin paper from it. The same crude writing covered the top portion, and she had to squint and tilt the paper to make out certain words.



Ms. Dog-Ear
Golden Oaks Library
41114 Flanagan Lane, Ponyville

Dear Ms. Dog-Ear,

I’m not sure I understood your questions regarding the old gallery. Sure, I took care of it for the town, but so far as I know, we never had any break-ins or vandalism. I definitely haven’t ever seen anypony wandering around inside or anything like that. I know there are rumors that I didn’t like working on it because strange things kept happening, but that’s just ponies wagging their tongues. The only truth behind that talk is that I always felt darn uneasy whenever I was around it. Always felt like somepony was in there watching me, you know? Ain’t nothing more to it than an old, empty building though, and I’m just glad it’s somepony else’s problem now. I wish them well.

If you have any sensible questions about it, we can talk when I get back from visiting the folks up in Canterlot. Otherwise, I hope you have a good day. Sincerely, Hayseed Turnip Truck.

P.S. If your questions are related to all those rumors, I’d appreciate it if you could quell a few. Ponies already think I’m a tad flighty from what little I’ve said about that place. Frankly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were taking them too seriously yourself.




Rarity turned the envelope over. It was postmarked four days ago. After Rarity had visited, Dog-Ear had contacted the pony who worked on the gallery for years and asked if he had ever seen anything strange. The coincidence was something Rarity was not willing to ignore anymore. Ms. Dog-Ear... did you know something?

“How’s it going down there, Rarity?” Minny called down, stepping up to the stairs.

“Oh, um, just fine!” Rarity called back, startled. “I found a little of what I was looking for already. You aren’t ready to leave, are you?”

Minny shook her head. “No, I just need to check in every now and then. I’ll probably be a few hours with all that’s left here. Give a holler if you need anything, alright?”

“Of course!” Rarity said, and Minny vanished back into the upper bedroom. Rarity looked back down at the few documents she had found, frowning in fearful puzzlement. Dog-Ear had known Toola Roola—and quite well by the look of it—but she had completely failed to mention it when Rarity had come specifically asking about the gallery’s past. She had even lied when she said Toola Roola had left Ponyville.

Perhaps the subject was simply too painful to discuss. Looking at the photograph, Rarity could understand if that was case. But then why had she claimed Toola’s art was worthless?

There were still so many unanswered questions. Rarity stood and returned the paper, letter, and photograph to the desk, then began her search of the bookshelves for anything that might help her understand what was happening in her home.
> Chapter 10 - Patterns
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tiered roof of her home towered over Rarity as she trotted towards it in the deepening twilight. The windows stood like thin sheets of brittle ice, pressed on one side by the bitter chill of the night air, and on the other by absolute darkness. The tenebrous void looked so thick, Rarity could imagine it breaking through the fragile panes and pouring out into the street to engulf and drown her before she even set hoof on the doorstep.

She paused with her hoof on the latch, her breath coming in fast little shivers as she tried not to think about the things she had seen and learned. Despite her best efforts, she had been unable to find anything on obscure magic in the library. Either she didn’t know where to look for it, or the small town library had never needed to stock anything so esoteric.

Ms. Dog-Ear would have known. Now, Rarity was returning to her home—where everything had begun to fall apart—almost as unarmed and uninformed as she had been when she first entered it.

She was afraid that when she opened the door, she would see that the mirrors had somehow been uncovered and would be staring out at her like the bright, empty eyes Toola Roola had filled her paintings with. She was afraid her ponnequins would have moved again, lined up to face her like a fiendish, macabre jury. But most of all, she was afraid something would happen to her that she hadn’t yet imagined while she was alone in the darkness of what had once been the Roola Art Gallery.

I could go to my parents, she thought, standing there in the soft winter air. I don’t have to stay here. It’s not safe. It’s not healthy.

But the thought of running away to her parents’ home—the place she had returned to when she failed to find work after graduation, and again when she failed to impress anyone in Manehatten—felt like the most unthinkable form of surrender.

How long am I going to keep running someplace safe and comfortable? She knew it was absurd, but she felt obligated to treat the strange powers that had awoken in her new home like nothing more than another trial that she needed to overcome. It was the only way she had ever known to prove that she had what it took to bring her visions—her dreams—to reality.

A lady has to have strength, she thought grimly. A proper lady doesn’t just take whatever gets thrown at her. I’m going to turn this around and make it into something extraordinary. Just you wait and see what I can do.

The latch rattled and the hinges gave their characteristic groan as she pushed her front door open. The waning, gray light from outside spread across the floor in front of her, then vanished as she shut the clear air out. She stood there, breathing steadily through her slightly parted lips. All of the mirrors were covered, and her dress forms were precisely where she had left them—even the one that still wore the black dress she had made the previous day. She approached it and scrutinized the dress with a skeptical eye. There was still something not quite perfect about it. She sniffed, removed it from the ponnequin, and hung it up on one of the empty racks along the wall.

Perhaps I’ll make another one tomorrow, she thought. See if that doesn’t turn out better.

She turned around and took a long, sweeping look at the showroom. It felt strangely empty, even emptier than when Minny had first showed it to her.

“What happened to you here?” she said softly. Her voiced diffused and fell silent in the still air. Not even the faintest whisper of an echo came back to her in answer. Warily, she crossed the room and went upstairs to get ready for bed.

As she prepared herself to sleep that night, the silence was so clean and total that it almost seemed sacred. She stepped lightly and shut drawers gently, and even the soft sounds betrayed by those actions felt like a sacrilege. From the first moment she had entered the house, she had been intruding in a sanctuary forgotten by time, a place where something had sealed itself up to be forgotten by the world.

As she locked her bedroom door and tucked herself into her bed, she looked around the dark room with wide, staring eyes. She felt for the first time since moving in that she had been presumptuous to break the spell that had lain over the gallery for decades. It hadn’t been hers to remake; it couldn’t have ever been anypony else’s. And now, she was daring to sleep one more night in a stranger’s home, unwanted and uninvited.

“That’s not right, though,” she whispered to the emptiness. “This is mine now. It shouldn’t be left to rot. Whatever went wrong, that’s in the past. I can’t change that. And it shouldn’t matter anymore.”

Her words felt small and feeble. As sleep finally claimed her, she knew she didn’t even believe them herself.


* * *


A thin hiss filled the air as Rarity trotted over to the gramophone. With a deft flicker of power, she turned the record over and set it back on the turntable. She bent down, watching the glinting spike of the needle intently as she lowered it and set it carefully into the thin lip of the vinyl. The static played for a few moments more, then the hollow strains of the Hebridlean Symphony started to scratch their way out of the black and gold horn.

Rarity had maintained a tense alertness for two days. She worked at a fast pace, trying to get back to a place where she felt she might have a chance of a grand opening in spring. She had managed to work out six design concepts and even patterned four of them out, but she was reluctant to move any of them to the mock-up phase. Instead, she kept taking out the black dress, only to put it away with the same amount of confusion and discouragement as when she had first looked at it. She tried putting it on different ponnequins and even tried modeling it herself, but the only thing she could feel when looking at it was a strange, detached sort of melancholy.

She would have been content to give it up as a bad design, but she couldn’t shake the apprehension that if she tried to make another, it would suffer from the same mysterious flaw, and so would the next, and so on until she burned through all the materials she had purchased to bring her shop to full stock by opening day.

That was how she found herself with her hooves laid idly on her table, staring at the motionless sewing machine. She was unwilling to proceed and driven nearly mad by the necessity to do so.

Come on Rarity, she thought. You’ve got to create. You’re never going to figure out what’s blocking you until you do.

But all she did was stand and stare, her hind hoof placed well away from the machine’s pedal. Finally, she stepped down and sighed with disappointment. She still hadn’t uncovered the mirrors. Their shrouds hung all around the room, clashing against the uniform colors of the showroom.

How am I ever supposed to create any stock like this? she wondered, walking to one of the front windows and looking out. There’s only a few months left. Worse still, there were only a few weeks left until the Canterlot Historical Society would start to wonder when they were going to get their money. They would probably send Fine Line back down to explain in murderously laborious detail how their stipulations were outlined and how Rarity was failing to meet them. She hadn’t heard from Minny about other options to get her out of the financial mess, either. The brief ray of hope she had found two days ago was fading fast, swallowed by the unbroken winter clouds.

Two ponies walked down the street into Rarity’s view, and she was surprised to recognize her parents as they approached the shop. Her father was pointing and saying something, to which her mother only shrugged in response. As they turned and started towards the front door, Rarity left the window and opened the door to greet them.

“Well hello, sweetheart,” her mother said, and Rarity noted she was speaking a little softer than usual. “Are you feeling a bit better today? You certainly look more rested.”

“Yes, thank you,” Rarity said, hugging her father. “I’m a little creatively blocked at the moment, but other than that...”

“I’m sure you’ll get through it,” her father said. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

“We’re just on our way to the sale,” her mother explained, smiling excitedly. “Poor Mrs. Cake told me they’re a little behind for some reason, so I offered to head over early and pitch in with the baking. Are you still ok to watch Sweetie Belle today?”

“Watch Sweetie Belle?” Rarity asked, puzzled and slightly alarmed as her mother turned and started unbuckling her foal carrier. Rarity noticed Sweetie Belle inside for the first time, wrapped snugly in a pink blanket and sound asleep.

“You remember, don’t you?” her mother said, pushing the sleeping bundle and a bulky bag into Rarity’s fumbling hooves. “I came by last week, and you told me you would watch her for me.”

“I... did? I mean, of... of course, of course,” Rarity said, sifting through her jumbled memories confusedly. Now that it was mentioned, she did faintly remember her mother asking about it the day Fluttershy made her disastrous visit. “Er... for how long, did you say?”

“Oh, just till the Cakes close up shop at the end of the day,” her mother said happily, stepping back. “And I really need to get over there, so you two have fun today, ok?”

“Uh... sure,” Rarity said, looking down at her sleeping sister and grimacing slightly. Perhaps if I’m lucky, she won’t wake up while she’s here. 

“Take care, Marshmallow,” her father said, mussing her mane a little and smiling. They turned to leave, and another thought struck Rarity.

“Wait, mother?” she called, and Cookie turned and looked at her quizzically. “Since you’re heading over there, you probably ought to know... I had a bit of an altercation with a good friend of theirs who was staying with them recently. If the matter comes up, would you... please give my apologies to the Cakes?”

“I suppose,” her mother said, looking at Rarity with fresh concern. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”

“It’ll be fine,” Rarity promised. “Just a few unresolved things I need to tie up soon, that’s all.”

“Alright... we’ll see you later then, sweetheart. Bye-bye, little Sweetie! You be good for Rarity!”

Her parents turned and trotted off, and Rarity took Sweetie Belle inside and out of the cold. In the background, the symphony continued to play uninterrupted. Sweetie Belle scrunched her little face in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent as she tried to pull herself farther into the blankets. Fortunately, however, she didn’t wake. Rarity looked down at her sleeping sister, realizing with some chagrin that, of course, she didn’t have a crib or pen to put her sister in while she worked.

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” she groused. “Just what am I going to do with you?” She glanced around, spotted the couch, and dragged it over near the sewing table with her magic. Settling her sister in the corner of it, she propped a few cushions around her and left the bag on the floor to the side. Sweetie hadn’t proven to be very ambulatory yet, and unlike her older sister, her magic was turning out to be very slow in developing—a real blessing for any parent of a Unicorn.

“You just nap there, and I’ll keep working over here, and we’ll have a nice, quiet day, how about that?” Rarity whispered, stepping quietly away and heading back to the table. There was no way in Tartarus she would dare to use her sewing machine now and risk waking up Sweetie Belle, but since she was hung up on that part anyway, she decided she might as well spend the day literally back at the drawing board.

The sound of cloth shifting froze Rarity in her tracks. Her right ear twitched frenetically, and behind the quiet strains of music, she heard the faintest sound of fabric rustling before falling silent. “...Sweetie Belle?” she whispered, glancing back. Her sister lay unmoving in her sleep. She probably just shifted to get more comfortable...

Behind her, Rarity heard it: the distinct, feathery rustle of heavy fabric moving. She whirled around and was just in time to see a single fold on the cloth covering the center dais mirror sway ever so slightly before falling still.

“Oh, don’t you start this game again today,” Rarity hissed.

Nothing answered her. Then, as if simply losing hold of its perch, the mirror’s covering began to slip, sliding with a faint, raspy keen off the frame and down to the floor. Rarity’s magic flared, and the light of her spell pinned the fabric in place just before it fell off completely. She dragged it back up, expecting to feel some force resisting her, but nothing hindered her as she tucked the cover back into place.

“We’re not doing this,” she said, feeling absurd as she addressed an empty room. “I will sew those in place if I have to.”

As if in answer, she heard a latch click loudly somewhere, followed the the slow groan of a door opening. Pulling in a long breath, she walked away from the dais and looked into the kitchen. On the far wall, the door to the basement was open, a few inches of pitch blackness showing around the edge of the cracked, thin wood of the panel.

A thin wail shattered the quiet as Sweetie Belle woke up and immediately began to cry. Rarity slumped, clenching her teeth against the loud, shrill pitch that filled the air. So much for a quiet afternoon... 

She turned her back on the basement door and trotted over to the couch, picking up her sister and smiling nervously. “Come on now, Sweetie, what’s the matter? Shh, shh, it’s ok, I’m right here, no need to fuss.”

Sweetie Belle only screamed louder, her eyes screwed shut as she struggled and squirmed in her swaddling cloths.

“Oh come now, what’s wrong?” Rarity asked. “Are you hungry? I’m sure mommy left you something, just let me...” She levitated a lukewarm bottle out of the bag and brought it close to her sister, but Sweetie got a tiny hoof free and knocked it away.

“You’re not being very helpful,” Rarity said exasperatedly as she picked the bottle back up and trotted over to the sewing table. “Puh-lease tell me you don’t need changing...” She set her sister down next to the sewing machine and confirmed with a quick sniff that nothing needed changing. She frowned, reached for the bottle, but bumped her hoof against the sewing machine instead.

She looked up, then froze. Her pupils shrank and she drew in a sharp breath as she noticed the thin, silver point of the needle poised several inches from the table’s surface. Crimson thread wended its way from the spool in the back and down the side of the needle like a thin stream of blood. With a sickening lurch of her stomach, Rarity recoiled from the table.

“Maybe we should go into the kitchen,” Rarity said, chuckling shakily. But as she glanced back, she saw the basement door, still tilted open with that sliver of darkness peering out. Breathing through her clenched teeth, Rarity reached out carefully with her magic and felt for the door. It swung closed without resistance, but bounced back as the latch caught against the frame. Rarity fiddled with it, but she could barely see it from across the room.

“Blasted Earth Pony doors,” she growled, rattling and twitching it with greater ferocity as she knocked the door against its frame again and again, trying to fit the latch into its small groove and get it to fall into place. Finally, she released it with a frustrated growl. The door drifted open again, a little wider than it had been before.

“On second thought, let’s stay out here.” She reached for the bottle again. She wrapped her hoof around the cool glass and felt a slick film of condensation that almost made her lose her grip. Turning it downward, she guided the soft rubber tip towards her sister’s mouth. A few inches away, however, Sweetie Belle swung out a hoof and knocked Rarity’s leg aside, continuing to scream and thrash.

“Oh come on,” Rarity pleaded. “I can’t imagine what else you’d want. Just try it, please?” She pushed the narrow tip of the bottle at her sister’s mouth again, but Sweetie turned her head aside and flailed her legs again.

“If you’d take it, you wouldn’t be able to cry anymore,” Rarity snapped, an edge of frustration in her voice. She caught a slight whiff of something fetid, and briefly wondered if she had been wrong about her sister needing changing. “Just a few more tries, that’s it...”

She angled the point of the bottle at her sister’s mouth and gently used her magic to enfold her sister’s squirming legs. She didn’t grip them, but pushed with just enough force to help Sweetie Belle stay still for just a few moments. Sweetie cried louder, almost drowning out the music that was being spun out into the room as the gramophone’s carousel swung evenly around and around. Rarity pushed the bottle down, the tip almost grazing Sweetie Belle’s open lips.

Sweetie Belle pushed through Rarity’s magic and swung at the bottle, punching it on the tip and knocking it out of Rarity’s grip again. It fell to the table with an incongruous, metallic clink, but Rarity barely noticed. Sweetie Belle’s crying had changed its tone and taken on an urgent, firm howling as she rolled lightly back and forth. For a moment, Rarity just stared in confusion, and then her mouth fell open as she saw a tiny speck of red on the white underside of Sweetie’s hoof. The droplet of blood bloomed and collapsed as a thin trickle started to run towards her ankle.

Rarity gaped and snapped her gaze to the bottle. It stood upright and untouched beside the sewing machine. What she noticed next made her stomach clench painfully in horror. The needle of the sewing machine had been detached and now lay on the table next to Sweetie Belle, a long, tangled line of red trailing away from it back to the machine.

Rarity’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Her eyes flicked between the bottle, the needle, and Sweetie Belle several times. Then she grabbed Sweetie Belle and ran to the door of the shop.

“I don’t care what the hay you do to me,” she yelled, “but you are not going to hurt my sister!” She snatched up Minny’s coat from where it lay under the window, flung open the door, and bolted into the cold light of the winter morning.


* * *


Rarity’s mind was blank as she sat on her favorite bench in the park, holding Sweetie Belle tight and rocking her gently. She had cleaned the tiny hoof with a handkerchief she had found in one of the coat’s pockets, and all traces of the small wound were nearly gone. Sweetie Belle had fallen asleep again. She was smiling a little as she breathed softly.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetie,” Rarity said shakily. “I never meant to hurt you. I could never even think of hurting you. That... that wasn’t me.”

“...was it?” she asked herself a moment later, her eyes glazing over as she thought back through the past several weeks. Her feelings had become a jumble, like a colossal heap of discarded linens, and any attempt she made to understand the muddled mess only seemed to pull her in and entrap her further. A filmy haze was enveloping everything. As she sat there, looking at the frozen park and the empty trees—a landscape scraped raw and monochrome by winter—she questioned whether she could even be trusted to understand where she was or what she was doing.

Try as she might, she couldn’t persuade herself that she hadn’t been at fault for anything that had happened in the past weeks. She had felt angry at her parents for constantly checking up on her and at her friends for harmless transgressions. She had even harbored resentment towards Sweetie Belle long before she had set hoof in the Old Town Hall. Rarity was so much older than Sweetie Belle, how could she be expected to bond with and relate to her? 

Mother always wanted us to be the perfect sisters... but I never seemed to have it in me. I just want... wanted... to do my work.

Every emotion, every action since she had moved into the old gallery had felt familiar, almost natural to her. In hindsight, however, they also seemed amplified and far easier to act on. Or perhaps it was just that she was losing control.

“Um... Rarity?”

Rarity’s eyes refocused, and she blinked as she turned to face the reluctant, high-pitched voice that had addressed her.

“...Pinkie Pie?” she asked. Sure enough, Pinkie Pie stood a few paces away, wearing bright blue boots, scarf, and a knit hat. She was rubbing one forehoof with the other nervously as she looked sidelong at Rarity.

“Hi,” she said quietly. “I, um... I saw you here, and I just wanted to apologize for messing things up with your letter. I really didn’t mean to, it’s just that if I don’t put things into my organizational system, they get mixed up... and I should have done that with your letter instead of trying to remember to deliver it by myself. I’m really, really sorry. I can understand if you don’t want to forgive me, but I just wanted you to know.”

“Nonsense, Miss Pie,” Rarity said, assuming a slightly formal tone as she glanced away. “I’m the one who should apologize. It was an honest mistake, and I overreacted. Really, I’m not sure how much it would have changed things to have gotten that letter on time.” She looked up and met Pinkie’s clear, blue eyes. She really has a good sense for color, that one. Those accessories complement her eyes so perfectly. “I told Minny I didn’t want you to lose your job. If you want it back, I’ll make sure that she takes you on again.”

“Aw, thanks Rarity,” Pinkie said, smiling and stepping closer. “As much as I love being able to welcome new ponies to Ponyville, I was starting to feel like realty wasn’t the best place to use my talents.”

“Oh. Well, what brought you back to Ponyville then? Minny said you were visiting your family.”

“Just a short visit to catch up and rethink a few things. I wrote to the Cakes while I was gone, and they said they wanted me to come back to the bakery full time! Something about their productivity having grown exponentially or something fancy like that since I’ve been there.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Rarity said, returning the smile. “Do you think you’ll enjoy working there more?”

Pinkie nodded with dizzying vigor. “Oh, definitely! I have this idea to make Sugarcube Corner into more than just a bakery—I want to make it Ponyville’s one-stop-shop for everypony’s celebratory confectionary needs! Only, I need to think of a word for ‘needs’ that starts with ‘c,’ because celebratory confectionery c-something would just sound so perfect! Got any ideas?”

“Er, not off the top of my head. But I’m glad things are working out for you.”

“Me too!” Pinkie chirped, then looked at Rarity with a shadow of her earlier nervousness. “So... are we friends again?”

“If you can forgive me for my outburst,” Rarity said, smiling. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Woohoo!” Pinkie cheered. Sweetie Belle squirmed in her blankets, and Pinkie ducked down with a wide-eyed, apologetic smile. “Oops! Sorry! I won’t wake her, I promise!”

“That’s alright. I’m just watching her while my parents are out for the day.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to do that at home?”

“Well... I suppose, ordinarily, but...” Rarity glanced at Pinkie, then sighed. “It’s just complicated.”

“Oh, I love complicated things! This one time, my sister Maud was writing a paper about the geological implications of varying percentages of....” Pinkie froze, then glanced at Rarity with an alarmingly inspective expression. “Is something still bothering you, Rarity? Like on the day I remembered to give you your letter?”

“Well,” Rarity replied, shrinking back a little. “...Is it that obvious?”

“Sorta.” Pinkie’s intense expression faded until it was replaced with one of sincere concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rarity opened her mouth, then closed it again and looked away. “Thank you, but it’s alright, really.”

“I’ve got time,” Pinkie pressed. “The Cakes aren’t actually expecting me back until tomorrow. I came back early to surprise them, but this sounds more important.”

“...I’m not even sure how I’d talk about it,” Rarity said, looking down at Sweetie Belle. “None of it makes sense to me.”

“Just talk. You let me worry about making sense.”

Rarity held back a comment about the absurdity of leaving it to Pinkie to make sense, and settled for a small laugh. She was about to tell Pinkie not to worry, that everything would be alright later, but her smile faded as Minny’s words came back to her.

“Don’t try to take everything on alone. You’ve got friends and family all around you. In a town like this, we’re all each other has. The least we can do is look out each other.”

“...It’s my house,” Rarity finally said. She looked into the distance and tried to find something in her memories she could lay a firm hold on. “Or, something to do with it. I don’t think I can explain it without sounding... I don’t know. I mean, things haven’t gone according to plan for a long time, but when I bought the old gallery, everything seemed to take a real turn for the worse. It’s so dark in there Pinkie, and I don’t just mean because the windows don’t let enough light in. It just feels so oppressive inside, like I’m drowning in thin air. I’ve been having nightmares, and during the day, things keep... happening.”

“What kind of things?”

“Odd sounds, tricks of the light, that sort of thing,” Rarity said slowly. “But mostly it’s how I feel when I’m there. It’s so easy to get angry or frustrated or... or sad. At first I thought it was the stress, but...”

She was silent for awhile, trying to find a phrasing that might make some sense to someone else. “The artist who lived there thirty years ago died in there, did you know that? She killed herself.”

Pinkie’s eyes went wide and she shook her head.

“I know so little about her,” Rarity continued. “I know she had horrific taste in art, and that her gallery did poorly, and that she and... and poor Ms. Dog-Ear were friends, maybe more, a long time ago. I thought perhaps that some kind of old magic was lingering and causing these strange effects, but... Pinkie, I just... I can’t help but feel that something connected to what happened back then is still present here. Like an echo or something.”

“Rarity,” Pinkie gasped, “are you saying you think you have a—”

“Don’t say it,” Rarity snapped. “For Celestia’s sake, don’t say that. I’m not quite that paranoid. Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, what else do you think could be happening?”

“I’m not sure,” Rarity sighed. “I feel like if I could just find a few more answers about who Toola Roola was and what happened to her, I might be able to understand whatever’s happening a bit more. But the only pony who really knew her during that time is gone.”

Rarity looked down at Sweetie Belle again and felt a sudden chill as another idea occurred to her. “Or maybe that’s a dead end and something totally unrelated is happening to me. For all I know, I could just be repeating what Toola Roola herself did thirty years ago. What kind of sick joke would that be, huh? Like the Old Town Hall is some kind of trap and everypony who stumbles on it gets caught in the same kind of cycle.”

Pinkie was frowning and tapping her chin with her hoof, but her ears were angled attentively at Rarity. “...You know,” she said at length, “there might be another way to figure what happened back then. You said Toola Roola was an artist, right?”

Rarity nodded.

“And if she was an artist, that means she probably went to art shows and stuff to try to sell her work and get noticed, right?”

Rarity raised a puzzled eyebrow, but nodded again.

“So,” Pinkie continued, “it’s totally possible that somepony who studied or worked with art back then remembers her. Maybe one of them has some idea of what happened.”

“It seems like a bit of stretch,” Rarity replied skeptically. “From what I’ve gathered, she wasn’t very well known.”

“We won’t know unless we try!” Pinkie said.

“We?”

“Of course! We’re friends again, and as your friend, I’m going to help you get to the bottom of this! If you need somepony to find a bunch of ponies with old and obscure art knowledge, then I’m your mare!”

“Pinkie, that’s really quite kind of you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just sit back and let Pinkie do her thing!”


* * *


Rarity spent the remainder of the day with Pinkie, who treated her to tea and scones at the cafe. She offered to take Rarity to Sugarcube Corner, but with the strong likelihood that Applejack or Fluttershy might attend the first day of the Cakes’ Hearth’s Warming sale, Rarity decided it would be safer for now to keep a low profile. She did, however, meet with her father as he made his way back from his bowling match and returned Sweetie Belle to his care.

“Thanks again for taking care of your sister, Marshmallow,” he said as he nuzzled the little foal, who squealed and batted at his mustache in response. “We can tell she misses you.”

“Well, she can certainly be a hoof-ful,” Rarity said honestly. “But I miss her too sometimes. I think things are going to settle down soon, and then we can see each other on a normal basis again.”

“Good to hear that, Rarity,” he replied, smiling. “You know your mother and I are so proud of you. Nopony could ask for a more determined, hard-working daughter.”

“I know, dad,” Rarity said quietly, her ears folding back a little as she smiled beneath a small blush. “I know.”

After that, all that was left was to go home. Her limbs trembled a little as she walked inside, but her heart felt strangely braced by the events of the day. She didn’t know what to expect, but whatever it was, she was growing confident that she could face it.

But when she entered, all she saw were covered mirrors and a basement door that had somehow managed to shut itself.
> Chapter 11 - Making a Mark
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rarity lifted a bright purple quill in her magic and floated it to the inkpot nearby. She caught the ink’s scent, thick and bitter, as the fresh-cut nib punctured its surface. She then withdrew it and laid out her signature in swooping, elegant lines, the dark liquid sinking down into the coarse paper of the contract until it was firmly entrapped.

Filthy Rich smiled. “I’m sure this will end up being a profitable arrangement for the both of us, Ms. Rarity,” he said, pulling the contract back to himself and putting his own signature above Rarity’s.

“I’m simply grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. I’m looking forward to getting this place up and running as soon as possible.”

“Well, you can rest assured it will be well-promoted by Barnyard Bargains.” Rich put the contract into his briefcase with a stack of other papers. “I don’t usually take a strong interest in these niche types of business, but any friend of Minimum of is a friend of mine. Who knows, maybe it’s a sign that Ponyville’s due for another growth spurt; bring in some hip young ponies who want to buck the city trend and all that. Might even attract some celebrity types from Canterlot.”

“Well, I don’t know about celebrities,” Rarity laughed, “but if my humble shop serves to help our community grow, I don’t think I could ask for more than that.”

“I like your attitude, Ms. Rarity,” Rich replied, winking at her. He looked around the showroom, nodding in approval. “I think you’ll do just fine around here. And what you’ve done with the place so far is simply wonderful. I can’t wait to see what you do with the outside come springtime. It’s about time this old place stopped being an eyesore for the whole town. You need anything, you just give us a holler.”

“Actually, there is a tiny favor I might ask,” Rarity said, glancing at the lamps around the room. “You wouldn’t happen to know when Barnyard Bargains will get another shipment of lamp mantles in, do you? Everyone’s always sold out, and I haven’t been able to upgrade my fixtures all winter.”

Rich looked closer at the lamps around the room, and his jaw dropped as he noticed the telltale shadows of open flames flickering behind the frosted glass. “My word, Ms. Rarity, I had no idea you were working with unsafe hardware like that. I’m mighty sorry. It’s the manufacturing plants I order from—they always get overwhelmed this time of year. Everypony always waits until the last minute to do winter maintenance.”

He shook his head ruefully. “It ain’t good for business. But I’ll tell you what, soon as I get another order in, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Rich,” Rarity said, following him to the door. “I’ll have concepts for you to review by the end of the week.”

“Pshaw, ain’t no rush, Ms. Rarity.” Rich’s breath turned to fog as he stepped outside into the cool evening air. It had started to snow again, and large, heavy flakes were drifting lazily down in increasingly thick waves. “You take your time. I know when to push the line and when to step back. Comes from working with the Apples so long. Well, you have a good day now, you hear?”

“And you as well, Mr. Rich.” Rarity closed the door and let out a resigned sigh. “And that, as they say, is that.”

Minny had been true to her word. She had spent the past week searching out alternatives to repair the damage done by the Canterlot Historical Society. The problem was that most of them were either out of Rarity’s reach, such as additional small business loans from numerous banks, or would pay out too late to meet the demands of the Society. It had turned out that Rarity’s best option was to get a personal investment contract, and Minny had gone to Filthy Rich personally to recommend her.

Despite Rich’s amiability, his help hadn’t come cheap. In the end, he and Rarity had negotiated that Barnyard Bargains Inc. would receive a twenty-percent royalty share from all revenue generated by her shop for ten years, as well as a guaranteed portion of shareholding should her business ever go public. Rarity had also agreed to design exclusive seasonal lines for Barnyard Bargains during the next five years at non-competitive price-points against her own stock. Her name would be associated with those lines, however, and she would receive royalties in addition to the exposure she would get from the lines across Equestria.

Even though she was able to appreciate why his terms were so steep—he was taking a huge risk after all, especially since her business was already in financial difficulties, and he had his own profits to look out for—it still left a bitter taste in her mouth to have failed to start her business as an exclusive owner, entirely under her own power. Yet, if the past several weeks had taught her anything, it was that there was almost no way she could undertake something so monumental alone. Even if it was possible, going at it alone had done nothing to make her happy.

Even if I’d rather not allow others to step in and work with me, I suppose making compromises like that are just a part of doing business.

Rarity walked around the room and, one by one, shut off the lamps and eased the room into the night. The last thing she passed was the the first display rack she had managed to fill with mockups. Numerous gems winked out at her from the rich, perfect pleats and expertly-sculpted collars as she gently dimmed the flame into darkness. These designs, at least, had turned out exactly as she had hoped, and she gave them a broad smile before turning away and heading up the stairs.

For the first time, everything feels like it’s getting on track.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned into the bathroom and stepped up to the marble vanity. She dampened a cloth and rubbed gently at her eyes in an effort to remove her mascara and eyeshadow. She paused, however, when she heard a slight creak from somewhere outside that sounded like it had come from one of the older boards on the staircase. She paused, quirking an ear and listening before frowning slightly and resuming her work.

Another creak, a little closer that time. Rarity set the dirty cloth on the counter and took a deep breath, her apprehension growing. After the incident with Sweetie Belle, things in the shop had seemed to calm down. Rarity had even dared to begin hoping that whatever she had stirred up had started to run out of steam and would fade away. There had been no nightmares, no hallucinations, and only a few odd sights or sounds had disturbed her as she rushed to prepare the mockups for her presentation to Filthy Rich.

She hadn’t heard back from Pinkie Pie, and she had begun to wonder if her excitable friend had forgotten her promise to look deeper into Toola Roola’s short span of business. With things calming down, however, Rarity had been content to forget the matter and let it resolve itself, so long as it continued on the downward trend she had been enjoying.

Another creak, and this time, Rarity was certain it had come from just outside the bathroom door. As she heard it, she became aware of a strange pressure, like the air had become denser and harder to breathe. She had the uncanny impression that something outside was looking for her, or that it knew where she was and was drawing carefully closer.

With a soft click, the latch slid away from the catch, and the door began to slowly open. For a second, Rarity stood perfectly still, determined to just let it open, to see whatever was on the other side and confront it. She was tired of fighting, tired of running, and so even though she wanted to slam the door shut and lock herself inside until it was safe and quiet again, she forced herself to stand still and watch whatever was about to happen.

The door slowed to a stop. After only opening an inch or two, it wavered ever so slightly before falling totally still. Rarity listened intently, but heard only the gentle hiss of the lamps above the vanity. She could see the boards of the hallway floor beneath the edges of the purple area rug she had put down. The hall light was off, but the light coming from her room was more than adequate to illuminate the passage. She heard nothing and saw no sign of movement besides the gentle rise and fall of the light.

Rarity licked her lips and pulled her hooves down from the vanity. Turning and facing the door uncertainly, she took one step forward, then another, scanning the tiny patch of floor outside for the slightest sign of motion. She laid a hoof on the latch and froze there, waiting. She tensed slightly, ready to pull the door open, but stopped short several times. Letting the door open had been one thing; opening it herself, she found, was another.

Something was in the hall waiting for her, and she couldn’t bring herself to move any farther towards it. With a pang of shame, she pushed the door shut and let the latch fall into place. She stopped short of locking it, content to lean against it and listen for any reaction shutting the door might have provoked. But still she couldn’t hear anything. She bent down, keeping a firm hoof on the door panel to keep it shut, and looked out through the keyhole.

As far as she could tell, the hallway was empty. She didn’t know what she had expected to see, and she wasn’t sure if seeing nothing at this point was worse than seeing something, anything, that might be watching for her on the other side.

She was about to pull back when she noticed the far wall of the hallway fading from her vision. She frowned and squinted, but even as she did so, the dim lines of the wall’s paneling vanished into darkness and did not reappear. As she watched, the light started to visibly fade from gold to a dim, sickly yellow, and then to vague, sputtering bursts of dull orange.

The lights in the bedroom are going out.

Rarity leapt up and lifted the latch, but froze just as she was about to fling the door open. She had the sense that she was being played with, maybe even lured out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Why? What’s the point? she thought to herself. She thought of calling out, of challenging whatever was out there to show itself, but she felt idiotic for even thinking it. There was nothing out there that could answer her.

Nothing with enough intelligence left that it would do any good, anyway.

A loud, glassy crack snapped from the direction of the vanity. Rarity glanced back sharply, searching for the source of the sound, but didn’t notice anything wrong at first. But as she turned back to the door, the light in the bathroom suddenly dimmed, and Rarity turned again just in time to see the closest of the two lamps go dark behind her. Her mouth fell open, and she almost let go of the door in shock.

It’s in here with me.

She heard a soft, metallic squeak. Then she saw the little two-sided lever attached to the farthest gas valve slowly, tremulously tilting to one side. The flame above it started to shrink, and the shadows in the bathroom swelled and pulsed animatedly in response to the choking fire. Rarity dashed over to the other side of the vanity and flicked a hoof at the switch, knocking it to the open position and letting the flame surge back to full strength.

She took just a moment to nod in satisfaction, but in that moment, she heard the latch rattle behind her. Whirling, she saw the door inching open again, and this time, there was nothing but darkness visible behind it. The lamps outside had been turned off. She realized she was being given a choice—light, or the door. She couldn’t physically hold both at once.

It doesn’t need the door, she told herself, trying to control her breathing. It’s trying to wear you down.

“Besides,” she said bitingly, “I have tricks too.” Defiantly, she flicked the switch to the gas off. In the same moment the flame was snuffed out, she lit her horn and filled the room with radiant blue light. What little she could see of the hallway faded into view. It was empty, and the door had once again stopped moving.

“I think that’s quite enough of that,” she said, nodding grimly. As she stepped past the mirror, however, something caught her eye in the cold, pulsing light of her horn. Frowning, she turned away from the door and stepped back to the vanity. As she drew closer, she saw a dark, crooked fracture in the lower left corner of the mirror. She reached out and touched it, feeling the precise, silk-sharp edge where the glass had broken.

Did it do this? she wondered, pulling back from the cold caress of the broken edge. But why...

A memory made her freeze again. The mirror and the dark fracture within it—she had seen something similar before.

The mirror in the library. The one in the red frame with just such an angry crack running through it. She had never given it a second thought in all the years she had visited that library, but in the past few visits, it had drawn her attention and she hadn’t understood why. Now, however...

She stepped away from the mirror, watching it for any sign of additional inconsistencies. As far as she could tell, there was nothing strange about her reflection or the room behind her. Turning away, she stepped carefully to the door. She felt as if she was being led to something, as if someone wanted her to understand a connection. So even though she distrusted it, she felt she had no choice but go to the one place where she could confirm her suspicion.

The blue light of her magic filled the hall, but it failed to reveal any watchful figures or anomalous shadows. A moment later, however, she heard another creak on the steps, just below her and out of her sight.

“Alright, fine,” Rarity hissed. “Let’s see where this goes.” She strode down the hall and into the stairwell, every sense strained to catch some sign of what was leading her on. She even felt for the impalpable currents of magic with her mind, but couldn’t detect any twinge of wayward power that might indicate what she was facing.

Rarity grimaced as a slight throb of pain pulsed in her horn, and her light flickered and receded for a moment. The end of a long day was not the best time to be using prolonged magic. She was starting to feel like she was holding up a heavier and heavier weight with her neck, and the cruel grip of a headache had started to tug at the edges of her skull. When she reached the bottom of the steps, however, she intensified her light to combat the darkness of the showroom. The blue glow made everything look frozen and lifeless, and the air was heavy with expectation. 

Right. The mirror, she remembered, zeroing in through the fog of her fatigue on the reason she had left the upstairs. If I’m right, then Ms. Dog-Ear... Celestia, this could be worse than I imagined.

She turned and headed into the kitchen, grabbing the latch of the basement door with a hoof and pulling the narrow door open. The darkness within seemed to drink in Rarity’s light like a tar pit, swallowing it whole and betraying no sign of it beneath its inky surface. Rarity gave a pained groan and intensified the spell once more. Pushing back the shadows felt like trying to move a boulder with her bare hooves.

This should not be this hard, she thought. But the darkness gave way a few inches and revealed the naked, serpentine lines of one of the lamps. Rarity prodded at the valve with a hoof, hearing the soft exhalation of gas as she refocused her magic and summoned a single, tiny spark from the void.

The flame caught with an angry burst, and Rarity let her breath out in a soft cry as she allowed her magic to die. She didn’t think two spells should have cost her so much effort, but she was growing more tired with every second. She was even starting to feel a little sick from the exertion. The headache was there to stay now, and she made her way shakily down the stairs with a wavering scowl. Another spark lit the lamp at the bottom. Rarity slumped against the wall from the effort and felt her stomach heave.

I need to know, she thought through the fog that had settled on her. I need to be sure. Then I can go to sleep... Sweet Celestia, I need to sleep...

She made her way to the stacks of paintings on wobbly legs and sat down hard beside them. She pulled them aside one by one, lacking the energy to do more than lay them slowly down as she sifted through them. She barely noticed the horrible and grotesque images; they were blending together in her mind, a repugnant collage of blurring paint that seemed to melt from their canvases and coalesce into an incomprehensible atrocity behind her, a lake of ruinous distortion ready to suck her in and drown her if she allowed it.

She paid them no mind. The portrait; she had to find the portrait. It was the only thing she could keep definitively in her mind. Everything else was fading, bleeding away and blurring into the maelstrom of monstrous art piling up behind her. Just a few more... just a few... more...

As she put another painting aside, she knocked a jar backwards from its precarious perch on one of the shelves, and it fell to the floor and cracked. Rarity grimaced and pulled it upright before the clear liquid could leak out, then kept going even as a strong, acrid smell began to fill the air. It reminded her vaguely of pine trees, but she had more pictures to get though. Rarity wanted to sleep. She had never wanted to sleep so much in her life. Once the portrait was found, then she could think about resting. There were only a few canvases left. The lamp was so bright, it hurt her eyes. Why is it so bright?

She turned the last canvas over. She recognized the scene from the portrait and scrutinized it with bleary eyes. In the background, she could clearly see a mirror in a red frame hanging behind the easel and the empty stool. It was the mirror that had always hung in the library. There was no mistaking the way its frame curved gently inward at the center, rising up to form slightly raised, rounded points at the corners. The only difference was that in the portrait, it appeared to be undamaged.

Why did Ms. Dog-Ear have it? Rarity thought groggily. She mentioned... she mentioned... what did she mention? The auctions, that’s right... she must’ve bought it after Toola died... why is that important...?

Rarity knew there was something important right in front of her, but she was having difficulty even keeping the picture in focus. Her vision was blurry, and she blinked sleepily several times before she could see it clearly again. There has to be a detail I’m missing—the mirror, the easel, the stool...

The stool where Toola Roola had sat. Rarity blinked hard and gaped. The painting was empty.

Somewhere above her, there was a concussive crash followed by the tinkling of what sounded like hundreds of glass shards. Barely a second later, the latch clacked as the door at the top of the stairs swung open.

Rarity stumbled back, dropping the painting of the vacant scene to the floor. She stumbled, falling against the far wall as the stairs creaked and groaned. She tried to cry out, to yell, to make any kind of sound, but her mouth only moved soundlessly like that of a fish suffocating in open air.

Below the line of the ceiling, a pink hoof appeared on the steps, joined quickly by another. Two hind hooves became visible as the figure pushed its way haltingly down towards the basement floor. It was moving with twitchy, hesitating steps, and the legs looked misshapen, as if they had each been made a different size, all of them wrong.

Rarity could see half of its body and its long, strangely-curved neck as it paused, swaying slightly as it seemed to consider something. The lamp was just in front of it, burning painfully bright in Rarity’s eyes, and she could barely stand to look at it. Her head was pounding with pain and she wanted to vomit. Then the pony lifted a forehoof, which seemed to tremble as it rose slowly, moving gently but inexorably toward the lamp.

“No...” Rarity gasped. The room seemed to tilt back and forth as she tried to stand. “No... stop!”

As Rarity hobbled to her hooves, the other pony touched the thin, curved metal vein beneath the howling flame. Then it leaned its head down, bringing it into view beneath the edge of the ceiling, and Rarity saw a pastel, three-toned mane framing a painted mask of a face. It was smiling at her—a horrific, broad grin that was filled with more cruelty and demonic glee than Rarity had ever imagined a face could hold.

Then the valve snapped shut.

Everything vanished as darkness rushed in like an undammed river. In an instant, Rarity was trapped in a void that felt both limitless and suffocating at the same time. Her breath came in loud, fast bursts, and try as she might, she couldn’t control her gasping as she listened for some sign of the pony on the stairs. She could only hear herself, her breaths becoming shakier as fear brought choking sobs to her throat. She tried to suppress them as she shuffled around on the floor. She wanted to move, but the terror of suddenly feeling the cold touch of an unknown body kept her in place. The smell of pine and rancid chemicals was choking her.

Squeak.

Rarity froze, her ears snapping to the sound. It had come from the stairs, she was sure of it.

Squeak.

It was utterly dark; her eyes weren’t adjusting. She tried to bring light to her horn, but the effort brought a wave of nausea so powerful she almost fell flat on the floor. What’s wrong with me? she wondered, unable to hold back a few broken sobs.

Squeeeak.

This time, Rarity heard a low, breathy hiss follow the metallic noise. For a moment, her mind spun in terror as she thought the pony had turned into a snake and was coming towards her to bite her, but as the hissing continued, she realized it was the sound of gas pouring out of the unlit lamp and into the room.

“No!” Rarity screamed, throwing herself in the direction of the stairs. Her head struck painfully against a wall, and she tumbled backwards before falling to her side. She had been lured, and now the darkness was being used to trap her there. Her breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. As soon as she realized what she was breathing in, she tried to hold her breath as the hissing continued unabated. The stairs... where are the stairs? She rose, but fell again as dizziness and nausea overcame her. She crawled in a circle, trying to find her way in the infinite void.

Her hoof touched a pliant canvas. The paintings were all piled in the back corner, which meant the stairs were to her right. Rarity couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Holding her hoof over her mouth, she drew in a long, desperate gasp. Her energy only continued to bleed away from her.

Her hoof found the bottom step. She dragged herself towards it, not caring that the other pony might be standing right above her in the darkness. She hauled herself up one step after another, but her muscles were burning as if she were climbing a mountain. She felt so thoroughly spent. She wanted desperately to sleep. Every breath filled her lungs until they ached and she thought her ribs would burst. But she only became more and more sluggish, and her eyes tried harder to close with every movement. Her head pounded. The floor spun invisibly beneath her. Another step. How many are there to the top?

Rarity pulled and pushed herself upwards, trying several times to stand but slumping down again a second later. If not for the rail, she was sure she would have fallen off to plunge into the stack of horrible paintings on the floor, and that would have been the end of her.

Another step. That’s where they would have found me, Rarity thought, desperately fighting to keep thinking, to keep herself awake. Another step. Curled up in a pile of horrible paintings, mouth wide, trying to breathe... trying to breathe... oh Celestia, please help me... somepony, please help me...

For a moment, she lost all sensation. She was floating, unable to feel or think, barely aware of the hard lines of the steps biting into her body. Then she snapped back, feeling the old wood digging into her ribs. With a whine, she pushed herself up one more step. She stretched out a forehoof, and felt only flat space beyond. With a surge of hope, she pulled herself up, stood, and flung her body towards where she knew the door to be before she could fall again.

Her body thudded against the thin wood of the closed door. It bent and creaked beneath her weight, but it didn’t give. Her hoof scrabbled for the latch. She couldn’t find it. She scratched at the corner where the door met its frame, feeling every breath rush in and out, only to leave nothing behind. She gasped, sobbed, and started to slump down, unable to hold herself up even against the door.

Her hoof found the thin, cold metal of the latch. She fumbled, barely able to feel it, then jerked it up and felt the door fall away from her. She tumbled to the frigid floor of the kitchen but barely felt it as her body smacked hard against it. The door banged against the wall from the violence of its opening, and the sound echoed hollowly in Rarity’s head.

Sleep... she thought blearily. Out of sheer panic, she pushed herself up just a little more and crawled through the kitchen, hauling herself away from the yawning darkness of the basement. She didn’t let herself stop until she felt the stiff bristles of the carpet in the showroom alcove against her hooves. Then she finally let herself collapse as she drew in enormous breaths, filling her lungs with clear, odorless air. With every breath, she waited to feel her strength returning to her.

It didn’t come. She drew in a few more deep breaths, trying to pull life from the air around her, but her body felt so heavy. Darkness filled her mind as she closed her eyes, bringing a blessed sweetness after the agony of her struggle. Not yet... I can’t sleep yet, I can’t...

Something was wrong. She wasn’t waking up. Her headache was fading, but it was being replaced by emptiness. She could barely feel her body anymore. With tremendous effort, she forced her eyes open and raised her head. With her final bit of focus, she heard loud hissing filling the kitchen and showroom. Every valve had been left wide open, and the air had been replaced with tasteless, odorless death. Rarity drew in a long, horrified gasp, ready to scream and cry and run for the door, but her strength was gone. That last breath fled from her in a long sigh as she slumped limply to the floor and closed her eyes.

She didn’t hurt anymore. She barely felt anything, and her thoughts were slow and nebulous, like threadbare shrouds disintegrating and blowing away in a breeze. I didn’t think it would... I didn’t... I don’t want...

Her mind quieted. Her terror was fading to a calm serenity, and she felt like she was falling into the gentlest, most peaceful sleep she had ever known. Sleep... I just... want... to sleep...

“Just... give... up...” she heard, and she couldn’t tell if the words had come from somewhere around her or had passed between her own cold lips. She wanted to rest. She was tired of worrying, tired of being afraid—afraid of her business failing, of seeing her parents’ disappointed faces, of watching her friends turn away as they realized how little talent she actually had. She was simply tired. She was almost ready to give up.

She opened one eye, and as if through a fog, saw the pink shape of a pony standing over her, looking down on her. She couldn’t make out its face through the haze.

Toola... Rarity thought. ...Why? I...

Her eyes closed, and all sensation finally left her as one last thought drifted through her mind.

...please.
> Chapter 12 - Art
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Rarity realized was that she was cold. The second was that her head hurt like she had been hit with a sack of bricks. The third was that the faint, high-pitched noise she was hearing was making the pain much, much worse. Instead of going away, however, the noise was steadily getting louder and clearer.

Rarity drew in a shuddering gasp, then started to cough violently. After a few more long, deep breaths, she was able to blink and bring the objects around her into focus. Icy flakes drifted erratically down from the dark sky above to stick to Rarity’s coat, but there was a rich, golden light emanating from two street lamps nearby. She was lying in the snow, and a long, messy track stretched out behind her through the powder. And in the road, zipping back and forth like a mentally-unhinged chicken, was Pinkie Pie, yelling at the top of her lungs.

“Will somepony call a doctor already!” she bellowed. “I know none of you are asleep anymore, so quit pretending! We have a fading fashionista over here!”

“Pinkie... please...”

“Do I have to do everything myself? Hellooooo, is there anypony living in Ponyville at the moment?”

“Pinkie, shut up!” Rarity yelled, but she regretted it instantly as the pain surged. She groaned and hugged her head with both forehooves as Pinkie whirled around and bolted to her side.

“You’re alive! Oh thank goodness, I thought you were a goner!” Pinkie exclaimed. “I looked into the window, and at first I didn’t see anything, then I saw you come in from the kitchen, and you were all like, ‘blaaaaahh,’ and then you were like, ‘gaaaaahhhh,’ and then you wouldn’t get up, and—”

“Pinkie,” Rarity said, shoving a hoof in Pinkie’s mouth, “For the love of all things textile, slow down, and above all, quiet down. Please?”

“Mmhmm!” Pinkie managed, nodding slowly. Rarity pulled her hoof away and slumped a little lower in the snow. “Ugh... I feel awful. What happened?”

“You... you left all your gas lines open,” Pinkie explained, her face a fearful frown. “I came by to tell you I heard from one of Maud’s art professors, but when I knocked, you didn’t answer. I was about to leave and try again tomorrow, but then I saw you come out of your kitchen acting all weird.”

“Gas lines...” Rarity mumbled, her memory slowly returning to her. “But how did...”

“I... I got scared,” Pinkie said, sniffing a little. Rarity realized Pinkie’s knees were shaking violently. “I yelled, but you didn’t hear me. So I broke in, and I heard all your gas lines running, and you... you wouldn’t wake up. So I dragged you out here.”

“You did?” Rarity asked.

Pinkie nodded. “Yeah... sorry about your door, by the way.”

Rarity looked over to where the trail in the snow led, and her mouth fell open. The door had been split in half, and the pieces lay several feet inside the room. The window glass was spread in all directions, and the hinges had been torn out of the frame, leaving huge, splintered holes behind.

Rarity couldn’t hold back a shocked, shaky laugh. “Pinkie... you know something? I really, really hated that door.”

Pinkie smiled, but her eyes were still fearful as she joined Rarity in a slight, halting laugh.

“Rarity... why were all your lines open?” Pinkie’s smile faded as an almost heartbroken expression rose onto her face. Her ears lay back and tears stood in her eyes. “You weren’t...”

“No, Pinkie,” Rarity said, slowly pulling her hurting limbs under her and standing with a loud groan. “It wasn’t me, I...” she paused, unsure of what to say, but Pinkie’s eyes slowly grew wide and her jaw fell in horror.

“...You’re not staying here,” she said firmly.

“But... Pinkie...”

“Are you crazy?” Pinkie exclaimed. “You almost died tonight, Rarity. I can’t let you stay here.”

Rarity looked up at the tall, dark shape of her home, its monolithic spire rising into the empty night above them. “I can’t just run, Pinkie. If I don’t make this work out... I’m done for. Everything is done for.”

“You can start somewhere else, you can...”

“No, I can’t, Pinkie,” Rarity snapped, turning back to her friend. “I’ve put everything into this shop. If this doesn’t open, it won’t just be on me. When I can’t pay back what I owe, it’ll fall on my parents, and even they probably won’t be able to cover everything. I can’t do that to them. They have another daughter to raise. I can’t give up on this, Pinkie. It’s gone too far.”

“We can figure something out,” Pinkie pleaded. “Just... for now... come on, just treat it as a sleepover. That could be fun, right? You can stay with me for a few days while you get your door fixed, and... and maybe we can figure out how to fix whatever’s happening here.”

Rarity paused, then nodded, her lips drawn into a thin, resigned line. “You’re right, Pinkie. This is... I don’t know. But I think you’re right.”

“Now you’re talking,” Pinkie said, striding firmly towards the broken door. “Now you just rest for a moment.”

“Pinkie, what are you doing?” Rarity’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Your gas is still on. We can’t just leave it like this—somepony could stop by and get hurt!”

“We’ll call someone to take care of it, you don’t need to... Pinkie, don’t go in there!” Rarity cried, but Pinkie had already sucked in a huge breath and hopped over the debris of the door, vanishing into the dark interior. Rarity sprang forward, but her shaky limbs gave out and she stumbled over as her headache and nausea surged again. She took a few deep breaths, then struggled to her hooves and prepared to chase after Pinkie. Just as she was about to go in after her, Pinkie sprang back out of the empty doorway and let out her breath in a long whoosh.

“Phew, almost didn’t make it!” she chirped. “All done! Bedroom, basement, and all. I found the main line in the kitchen and shut that off too.” With a flourish, she pulled a wrench from her mane, a brass valve handle gripped firmly in its jaws. “Let’s see it turn on the gas without this.”

“Pinkie, that was incredibly foolish!”

“I know.” Pinkie stuffed the wrench back in her mane. “But I’m cold and I want to get you home. Now come on, we have a sleepover to get to!” She grabbed Rarity and pulled her along the road, though Rarity quickly realized Pinkie was supporting her more than anything else. She relaxed and let herself lean into her friend. They walked up the brightly lit streets of Ponyville together, snow falling peacefully all around them as they left the dark, broken door of the old shop and its toxic air behind them.


* * *


By the time they reached Sugarcube Corner, Rarity felt almost normal again. The headache had faded to a slightly painful twinge, and although she still felt exhausted, there was no sign of the draining fatigue that had pulled her into unconsciousness at the shop.

The Cakes had asked no questions about Pinkie’s loud declaration that Rarity would be staying with them. They had simply welcomed her warmly and offered her some refreshments before heading back to bed. After heading up to Pinkie’s tiny attic room, Rarity mentally rescinded her belief in Pinkie’s ability to coordinate color as she beheld the most brightly-colored, clashing conglomeration of party decor imaginable.

As Rarity settled in, Pinkie gave her the letter that had brought her by the shop in the first place. Rarity sat on the edge of a thick, pink sleeping bag, nibbling on a flaky roll as she frowned down at what she was reading.

The stationary indicated that the letter was from a pony named Dr. Bristlebreaker, head of the Art Department at the University of Vanhoover. She was surprised to see that it was typed, not written, and the narrow, slightly splotchy characters crowded the page and made it difficult to read.



Pinkamena Pie
Sugarcube Corner
170114 Kent Road, Ponyville

Dear Ms. Pie,

This message is in response to your recent request to our department for assistance in your research. You will find enclosed copies of all the materials we have which refer to the artist in question, a Ms. Toola Roola last known to reside in Ponyville. I must apologize that the amount of information is limited, but there is simply very little documentation about her career. As it happens, I myself met her personally on a few occasions during my days as an art critic and reviewer, but the encounters were brief, and it was clear to me even then that her career was unlikely to be noteworthy. 

We hope that this information is helpful to you, and are pleased to have been of assistance. Should you have any further need of information, the University would be only too happy to work with you.

Trusting that this letter finds you well, I am your humble servant, Dr. Bristlebreaker.

P.S. Regarding your other query, I do indeed remember your sister. It would be hard to forget somepony who managed to win the freshmen art competition with a fourteen-foot still life of a pebble.



The envelope contained only a few other items. Two were reprints of articles that had appeared in the Canterlot Art Review, written by Dr. Bristlebreaker himself, though he had lacked the academic title at the time. The third was a short article that had appeared in the Manehatten Times sometime between the first review and the second. Scrutinizing them more closely, Rarity noted that the first review had been written not long after Toola had opened her gallery in Ponyville.




Art Review: The Landscapes of Toola Roola


Ms. Roola’s art is, in a word, quaint. To be sure, she demonstrates a high degree of competency in the basic forms and techniques of her medium, and her oil landscapes are at least pleasing to look at. There is a certain quality in her use of lighting that gives an almost otherworldly glow to her scenes when viewed in the right luminance, but sadly, this is as far as her imagination has taken her to date. There is little to her work that anypony would find challenging, and the air of melancholy she habitually suffuses her work with render them poor choices for even casual decor. We hope she will continue to develop her art in the future, and look forward to seeing the ways in which she broadens her horizons to more worthy subjects.



“Not a very complimentary piece,” Rarity said to herself. The news clipping came next in the chronology. It had been printed a few years later, and it took a decidedly less favorable tone.




Chaos Erupts at Art Exhibit


An independent art event was greatly disrupted yesterday when one of the vendors, a rural landscape painter named Toola Roola, was arrested following a violent outburst in the display gallery. Witnesses informed us that Roola simply “went berserk” following a confrontation with local art critics, and became violent.

“She just started screaming at everypony,” one of the visitors to the gallery informed us. “Yelled that nopony knew anything about good art, that she didn’t even know why she bothered to bring her work if all anypony wanted was abstract, academic trash. Can you imagine telling a gallery full of art enthusiasts they don’t know anything? Talk about a country nut.”

One of the patrons, believed to be a friend of the artist, was seriously injured when she attempted to restrain Roola, who then turned on her instead. Several patrons recalled Roola kicking and stomping on the mare repeatedly before authorities could intervene, yelling all the while about their friendship being a sham. The mare’s name has not been released, but she is expected to make a full recovery before returning to her home in Ponyville.

Roola, meanwhile, faces several charges for assault and disturbing the peace, and will be held in the Manehatten Regional Courthouse pending a preliminary hearing.



“What in Equestria happened to you?” Rarity asked, laying the article aside.

“Sorry, what?” Pinkie asked, raising her head from where she lay sprawled on her bed.

“Oh, nothing darling. I was just reading what your art professor friend sent us. Do you know, I think Toola attacked Ms. Dog-Ear when they were younger?”

“What?” Pinkie exclaimed, rolling over to stare at Rarity. “Who would ever want to hurt Ms. Dog-Ear? She was the sweetest, most kindliest lady you could ever meet!”

“I’m not sure.” Rarity tapped the floor with a hoof as she frowned in thought. “But... from the sound of things, I’d speculate Toola’s gallery wasn’t doing well, and she took it personally. I think she started taking everything out on the ones closest to her, including Ms. Dog-Ear.”

“How do you know that?” Pinkie asked.

“Well... I think I’ve been in a similar position,” Rarity answered grimly, and turned to the last article.




Monthly Gallery Review


December 965.


Roola Art Gallery, Ponyville. Final Rating: Very Poor.

This review was conducted by request of the gallery owner. The gallery itself is a little-known establishment in the village of Ponyville, a small but charming hamlet located in the shadow of Canterlot. As the artist had submitted work for our review several years prior, we were excited to visit in the hopes of discovering a local gem.

Unfortunately, we cannot under any category recommend that art aficionados add Ponyville to their list of destinations. The gallery itself is a run-down, dismal affair, plagued by atrocious lighting and a malodorous air. The artist herself, while claiming to have reinvented herself and found new inspiration, has taken her work in a disturbing and lamentable direction.

There are few words to describe our dismay at the utterly vile and loathsome work on display in the Roola Gallery. The artist appears to have attempted an interpretation of Equestria’s early fantastique period, which any educated connoisseur will know as an unfortunate period for art in any sense of the word. As such, to see it imitated would have been bad enough, but Ms. Roola has taken an already bad art form and given it a truly distasteful, macabre turn. We would hazard that even veterans of the medical profession would have found themselves sickened by the abhorrent paintings we were shown.

In response to the utterly distasteful direction she had taken her work, Ms. Roola had only this to say:

“It’s not my fault if you don’t like what you feel when you see my work. No artist can make anypony feel anything; what a pony feels in response to art is what they already have inside them. So if you look at these and you feel something dark rising to the surface—wrath, melancholy, maybe even a slightly carnal response—it’s because you have that in you, and you don’t want to acknowledge it. My work is like a mirror—and you can’t blame a mirror for what you see when you look in it.”

As much as we hate venturing into territory that would be considered character assassination, we would be remiss in a review of the gallery as a whole if we failed to mention that Ms. Roola's conduct as a host was singularly unpleasant. Far from feeling welcomed, we found our ability and integrity insulted at every turn, and on one occasion, suffered a verbal threat to our physical safety. 

Upon inquiring further with residents of Ponyville, we learned with very little surprise that the Roola Gallery is now almost totally shunned by the community, and Roola herself regarded as an eccentric and possibly dangerous hermit.

“You go there, all you’re gonna be told is that you’re an idiot and some kinda monster,” a local farmer who asked to remain unnamed told us. “To tell the truth, that one’s just a rotten apple, and the town would be better off without her.”



Pinkie looked over Rarity’s shoulder quizzically. “So what’s it say?”

“Well, it certainly seems that Toola Roola led an unpleasant life,” Rarity said, tucking the papers away, “but I don’t see anything here that would give me a clue about what could be happening. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be inclined to say it wasn’t magic, and that she really was...”

Rarity shook her head. “Whatever’s happening, I think it’s been using Toola’s past to mislead me. Something must have happened even farther back, and Toola Roola got caught up in it.”

“But didn’t you say you’d done research on it before Toola bought it, and nothing odd seemed to be happening?”

“That’s the puzzle,” Rarity said, frowning and settling lower onto the sleeping bag. “But what other explanation is there?”

“I don’t know,” Pinkie said, rolling over to face the ceiling. “I think you were on the right track before. There could still be some weird magical happenings related to her. Earth Pony magic isn’t like Unicorn or Pegasus magic, you know. Unicorn magic is all, ‘Pow! Whoosh! Zing! Flash!’ And Pegasus magic is all tied up with the weather and the sky and stuff. Earth Ponies though...”

Pinkie trailed off, her expression thoughtful as she looked at the ceiling. “Earth Ponies become a part of things. When we work on or make things, we can get connected to them in a way I don’t think other ponies quite understand. We get all tied up in it. That’s why we’re such good farmers, and why we get so attached to our farms. We become a part of them, and we can feel what’s going on in them. My sisters could probably tell you what granite field is ready to harvest from anywhere in Equestria. They’re that close to it! And when we put so much of ourselves into our work, we get so much more back from it, too. We get a kind of energy from it after a while. It’s almost like we grow off each other, you know?”

Rarity was looking at Pinkie with a look of dawning comprehension. She scrambled up and snatched a sheet of pink stationery from a little desk nestled in the corner of the room, sitting down and levitating a quill over to it. “Pinkie, I want you to repeat everything you just said to me, and then I need you to teach me everything you can. I think everything is starting to make sense.”


* * *


Rarity paced nervously around the perimeter of the showroom, her hooves thudding softly against the warm carpet. She had lit the lamps that morning in an attempt to make the place more warm and inviting, and the attempt succeeded to some extent. The bright glow of all the lamps combined brought out the rich colors and textures of the decorations, and the single rack she had managed to fill with mock-up designs shone brightly in one corner. Unfortunately, the lamps had also once again made it significantly hotter inside, and it worked together with her nerves to keep her in a perpetual light sweat.

A firm knocking sounded on the front door. Rarity took a long, deep breath in an effort to quell the spike of adrenaline she felt wash over her. She paused for just a moment to reaffirm her resolve, then walked over to the door. It was a brand-new, stable-style door with clear, diamond-shaped windows, and it opened soundlessly as she lifted the latch.

“Hello Applejack,” she said, holding a weak smile on her face. Applejack regarded her with a blank, stony expression. Only a slight crease between her eyebrows betrayed the suspicion with which she regarded Rarity.

“Got your letter,” she said bluntly. “Fluttershy here yet?”

“Not... no, not yet,” Rarity admitted, her ears falling back. “It’s a little early though, so I’m hoping... anyway, won’t you please come in?”

Applejack shrugged and allowed herself to be led inside. Rarity noted with an irritated pang that she didn’t remove her winter boots from her rear hooves, but decided it would be a bad idea to press the matter. “Can I get you anything?” she offered instead.

“No thank you,” Applejack said curtly. “You invited me here because you said you had something say. Well, you might as well get on and say it.”

“Oh... yes. Well, I was hoping to speak to you and Fluttershy at the same time, but...”

Rarity was interrupted by a barely-audible tap from behind her. Turning quickly, she pulled the door open and smiled when she saw Fluttershy standing on the doorstep, head low and only one eye visible behind her mane. Rarity’s smile wavered and nearly failed when she saw the look in Fluttershy’s eye. It was a clear mixture of fear and suspicion.

Rarity forced herself to stay optimistic and said, “Hello Fluttershy. Thank you so much for coming, really... I don’t deserve it.”

“You got that right,” Applejack said behind her.

“It’s... it’s ok.” Fluttershy stepped carefully inside and took off her boots. Her eye never once left Rarity.

“Please, sit down,” Rarity answered, gesturing to the antique couch. Fluttershy made her way over to it while Applejack pulled her lip back in slight distaste. When Fluttershy sat down, Applejack opted to lean against the armrest and faced Rarity with her guarded, stony look.

Rarity took another deep breath. “I owe you both an apology,” she began, looking from one to the other. Her head was bowed and her ears laid back flat. “Especially you, Fluttershy. The things I said and did when you visited were totally inexcusable. You were trying to be kind to me, and I... I lashed out at you with everything I had. I don’t deserve your friendship after acting that way, I know that. And Applejack, everything you said in the market the other day was completely true. The things I said in response were also inexcusable.”

Rarity swallowed and closed her eyes. “I was wrong. I only hope that I can start to make a few things right.”

“Fine talk,” Applejack said. “But what about Pinkie? I hear she’s back, so why ain’t she here?”

“Pinkie and I have already talked,” Rarity explained. “She found me the day she came back.”

For a long moment, no one said anything more. Applejack huffed, looking critically at Rarity as if trying to decide how to respond. Before she could, however, Fluttershy whispered, “...why?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Rarity asked, her heart beating fast. She had been dreading that one of them would ask that very question.

“Why did you say those things?” Fluttershy asked. Her voice was nearly emotionless, and she also kept it carefully paced and even. “I don’t understand what I did wrong. Why did you yell at me?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, darling,” Rarity said, closing her eyes again and bowing her head further. “I wish I had a better explanation to give you. The truth is, I don’t really know. I don’t have any excuse for what I did. I can only tell you that leading up to it, I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I was so, so angry, and I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I was also tired and not thinking straight. And while you were here, I...”

She paused, unsure of how to describe what she remembered had happened next. “...I don’t know if I fell asleep or if something worse happened to me. But I thought I heard you tell me that my work wasn’t any good and that I was just trying to suck up to everypony... and I thought I heard you tell me I should just give up.”

Rarity looked up and saw Fluttershy’s confused frown. She almost looked angry. Applejack just looked baffled. “I don’t know if it was a dream or a delusion or what, but I remember it so clearly, even now. I can’t imagine how I didn’t think to question how... how stupid it was to think you would ever say such things. But then you were beside me, and I let all of my anger and indignation out on you. I was utterly in the wrong, and I know how weak that explanation sounds, so I can only hope you might forgive me one day.”

She looked up and saw both of them watching her. Neither seemed to want to say anything. She bit her lip and turned, walking towards a large box she had left on her sewing table.

“That’s what I wanted to say,” she said shakily. “And, I also wanted to give you both something, if you’ll accept it.”

“You trying to bribe us now?” Applejack asked, an acidic bite in her tone. Rarity felt her pride swell at the scorn, but she pushed it firmly back.

“It’s not a bribe,” she said evenly. “It’s just a gesture of goodwill. It’s the only thing I know how to do... the only thing I’m good at. So...”

She carried the box back to the sofa and sat on the floor in front of them. Opening it with her magic, she first pulled out a small square of folded cloth that was dyed in a warm orange color, and moved it toward Applejack. “I thought your little sister might like it. Sweetie Belle has a pink one, and she practically won’t let it be taken off,” she explained, smiling nervously.

Applejack took the blanket in her hooves and partly unfolded it, her sculpted expression falling away slightly as her eyes widened. “Whoa nelly, it’s so soft. What is this?”

“Canterlot Cashmere,” Rarity replied. “It’s big enough to grow with her for a little while.”

“You even put her name on it,” Applejack said, running a hoof gently over the thick, rope-shaped yellow embroidery spelling out “Applebloom” in a slightly rustic cursive script.

“And just an afterthought I had this morning,” Rarity added, pulling out several broad, bright pink ribbons. “I have a feeling hair accessories are going to be in for foals this season, and I thought she would look just darling with a bow or two in her mane. I’ve put a little magic in them so she can’t pull them out and chew on them, in case she’s so inclined.”

“Gosh darn it Rarity, do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to keep Granny from gussying up that poor filly?” Applejack asked, but she smiled reluctantly and took the ribbons nonetheless. Then her expression sobered and the hard look returned to her eyes. “This is all awful nice stuff, Rarity, but I don’t know that I can accept it.”

“Let me finish before you decide, Applejack,” Rarity said, reaching into the box again. “Fluttershy... I can’t make up for what I did, I know that. This doesn’t even begin to, but...” she pulled out a brilliant teal scarf with dark blue stripes and held it out. “I never returned this after you lent it to me the other day. I couldn’t help but notice it had gotten a little battered here and there, probably from a little critter having a nibble or two, I expect. I’ve touched it up and given it a good cleaning, so it’s good as new.”

“And,” she continued, pulling a heap of teal blankets of all different sizes out of the box and laying them on the floor, “I’ve made an entire set of blankets and bedding for all the animals you might host at your cottage. I know winter is nearly over, but these should hold up for years.”

Fluttershy took the scarf and stared at it, but aside from a slight frown, she didn’t react. Rarity’s heart fell.

“I... just wanted to show my apology in something more than mere words,” she said haltingly. “If... if you don’t want to accept, I understand perfectly. Just know that I am really, truly sorry, and I will work hard to ensure nothing of the sort ever happens again as long as I live in Ponyville.”

Rarity stood up and backed away a few steps. “That’s... all I have.”

She felt like she ought to say something more, but everything just sounded repetitive or empty. Applejack looked over at Fluttershy, who hadn’t moved since taking the scarf. Then Fluttershy stood and walked to Rarity. Both of her bright, springwater-blue eyes were locked firmly on her.

“Rarity... what you did really hurt me. I was so confused and scared. I... I do remember hearing you talking in the other room that day, but I couldn’t hear what you said. I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong, and I didn’t want to come out for days.”

Rarity swallowed and glanced away. She had nothing she could say in response. If I’m to be alone again, at least I’ll know I tried.

Rarity felt a gentle hoof pull her chin back up. Fluttershy was staring at her with an intensity she had never seen before. “Are you really sorry?”

Rarity nodded, feeling tears burning at the edge of her eyes. Her throat felt painfully stiff.

Fluttershy glanced away for a second, then let out a heavy sigh and pulled Rarity close with one foreleg. It wasn’t a tight hug; in fact, it felt more like a polite gesture than anything, but Rarity hooked her foreleg around Fluttershy’s and clung to it like a lifeline.

“We all lose control of our emotions sometimes,” Fluttershy said, almost more to herself than to Rarity. “You don’t need to bottle them all up from others. That’s what made you lose control, I think. I want to trust you to not let that happen to you again, Rarity.”

“I won’t,” Rarity promised. Then she gave an ironic laugh. “I’ve had a few good ponies drilling that into my head lately.”

“Good.” Fluttershy drew back and gave Rarity a weak, yet decidedly warm smile. “Then I accept your apology. And thank you for the gifts; that’s really very nice of you.” Fluttershy wrapped the scarf around her neck and picked up the bundle of blankets, heading toward the door. As she opened it, she turned back and said, “You owe me a trip to the spa, though.”

“Fluttershy,” Rarity said with a weak smile of her own. “I owe you twenty trips. Thank you.”

With a soft click, Fluttershy closed the door and was gone. Rarity turned to Applejack, who had gone back to looking at her with an unreadable expression. The little crease above her nose seemed to be gone however, and Rarity took that as a hopeful sign.

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing to me,” she finally said. “You didn’t do anything to me.”

“I said something utterly wrong and hurtful out of spite,” Rarity said firmly. “And I hurt your friends. That demands an apology.”

Applejack nodded once. “Fair enough.” She turned her head, giving Rarity a careful look. “I don’t know that I’m as inclined to hug and forget as Fluttershy. For all I can tell, you’re still just playing with everypony’s emotions. But, since Pinkie and Fluttershy seem to have made up their minds, I guess I owe it to you to give you another chance.”

She held out a forehoof, and Rarity bumped it gently with a small smile.

“Good enough for me,” Applejack said, and headed for the door. Rarity followed her and let her out. As she stepped onto the doorstep, Applejack turned back and gestured to the blanket and ribbons on her shoulder. “That said, I got some idea of how much you could’ve sold this here blanket for, and I know you’ve had some struggles to keep this place above water. I’m a big enough mare to admit that this is a right nice thing for you to do, Rarity. So thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, Applejack. Take care of Applebloom.”

“Don’t gotta worry about that. And you look out for that little sister of yours too.” Applejack nodded and started walking down the road. As Rarity made to close the door, Applejack turned back one more time and asked, “By the way, why’re all the mirrors in there all covered up?”

“Oh, no reason. I just have something to finish up.”

Applejack shrugged and made her way down the road. Rarity watched her go for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door. She knew Applejack still didn’t like her, and perhaps never would. Rarity had the notion that first impressions went a long way with Applejack, and she had made a terrible one. The enmity was gone, though, and Rarity could live with that. As for Fluttershy, Rarity knew it would be a long time before their friendship healed and returned to the way it had been. The important thing was that it had a chance to heal.

“Just one more thing to finish up,” Rarity repeated, and turned towards the room. While Fluttershy and Applejack had been there, the oppressive aura of anger and vigilance had faded to a prickly, nudging presence that poked at her from the faint shadows in the room. Now, it hung all around her, thick and vehement, pressing on her mind from all sides as if she were underwater. She knew it was looking for a gap in her defenses, a glimmer of sympathetic emotion that it could pour into and inflame. But she knew what to watch for now, and she could hold out for a little longer.

It was time.

She walked to the dais and stepped up between the mirrors. She took a long, deep breath, then grabbed each of the three shrouds and pulled them gently away.

She could see the room reflected perfectly in the silver glass. The sewing table, fainting couch, ponnequins, and display racks were all where they should be. The row of vanity mirrors behind her remained covered. Two of them, Rarity knew, were now broken—the one she had broken herself, and the one that had shattered the night Toola attacked her.

But of all the things she could see in the three mirrors, she could not see herself. It was as if she didn’t exist. She pushed her face as close as she could to the glass without touching it. She shouldn’t have been able to see anything but her face staring back at her, but all she could see was an empty room.

“I know you saw that,” she said gently, pulling back and standing a few paces away from the mirrors. “That... what I just did for them. That was me. That’s how I want to use my art.”

She turned and looked at the door her friends had walked out of, and smiled a little. “I don’t think I always understood it, but I do now. Clothes and accessories, they seem frivolous, and even a little cruel sometimes. Some ponies use them to make others feel bad about themselves. Some of the big firms even tell ponies they aren’t good enough unless they’re wearing a certain line.”

Rarity turned back to the mirrors. “But that’s not how I want to use my art. I want to make things that bring happiness and draw ponies closer together. But even more than that, clothes can help ponies express themselves, to show something of themselves off with pride and confidence. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I think it’s what I’ve always wanted to help others do. I want to make things that make other ponies feel their best.”

She glanced at her cutie mark. “It’s not just about making something that looks good. It’s about bringing out something important for everyone who experiences it. I’m not saying all art is like that. We all do what we do for different reasons. That’s where it gets its own kind of magic.

“But you lost your reason somewhere along the way, didn’t you?” She looked from one mirror to the next with a sad expression. “At some time or another, you started to only see the worst of everything around you, and you stopped seeing anything good in it. You drove everyone away. You convinced yourself that everyone, everything was wrong somehow.

“And then you poured all your anger and despair into your art. You drowned yourself in this poisonous miasma of evil emotions. And I don’t know how, but somehow you managed to trap all of that darkness inside your paintings.

“And it’s still there,” Rarity continued, stepping a little closer. “It’s filled this place for years, hasn’t it? Your art started to feed off of you and you off of it until the cycle drove you down so far, you couldn’t see any trace of light anymore.

“And I think... I think you still haven’t gotten free of it. Even now.”

On the other side of the room, a tiny spot of movement caught Rarity’s eye. A pink hoof had appeared in the kitchen doorway, and a moment later, a pink Earth Pony had stepped onto the showroom floor. She moved jerkily and awkwardly, as if she kept trying to use different muscles, but all of them hurt equally.

She walked up behind Rarity with limping, uneven steps, and as she drew closer, Rarity could tell that all her proportions were just a little bit wrong; a shoulder was too wide or a leg too short, as if Rarity was looking at her from the wrong angle. Her fur had a stiff, wet look to it, and her multicolored mane was filled with thick, oily ripples—exactly as if she had just stepped out of an oil painting.

She looked at Rarity through the mirror, and her eyes were without depth or spark. Simple, flat black pupils were surrounded by dry, cracked white. They were vapid façades of what the real Toola Roola’s eyes had been like.

She stepped onto the dais, and Rarity fought every instinct inside that screamed at her to run, to smash the mirrors and end the impossible scene she was witnessing. She could smell the curious odors of damp leaves, bitter grittiness, and astringent, mineral pine all around her: the same scents that rose from the bottles of turpentine and crushed metal tubes of oil paint abandoned in the cellar.

Toola Roola moved timidly forward until she was standing right where Rarity ought to appear in the mirror. Rarity fought down a heave of revulsion and stood calm and still, looking at Toola Roola with unblinking eyes.

Toola regarded her with an expression that was a mask of quiet despair. She lifted a single, shaking forehoof, and pressed it against the mirror in a desperate, reaching gesture. Her lips didn’t move, but Rarity could almost hear the words “help me” bleeding from every movement the painted mare in the mirror made.

But there was still something else, something hidden behind the painted face and the desperate gesture. No amount of oil could cover the darkness and malignancy Rarity still felt all around her.

“No,” Rarity said, shaking her head sadly. She felt her lips pulled down as tears came to her eyes. “I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s too late for that.”

The mirror bowed outward like it was under an immense pressure, as if it alone was holding back an incredible tide of incomprehensible feelings that would pour out and fill the very lungs of anypony it caught, saturating and drowning them. Toola’s face shifted just slightly, the eyes widening in a final, desperate appeal for mercy, for release, for anything that would allow her to escape the shadow of an existence she had created for herself.

The room in the mirrors changed. As if Rarity’s showroom was being painted over, everything seemed to wilt, rot, and crumble away until nothing was left but bare, dark walls. Where ponnequins and display racks had been, easels were scattered about. Most held paintings, and the ones Rarity could see were filled with eyes that bored into her. A few were knocked over.

And against one wall, barely visible behind the pink mare who pushed desperately against the flexing glass, was a dim, faded form—a prone body that lay in unnatural stillness, its final moments of twisting desperation and agony captured in the mirror’s golden frame.

“Listen to me,” Rarity continued, putting all of her hope and pleading into her eyes in an expression that almost mirrored Toola’s. “I don’t know how much of Toola Roola is left in... whatever this is. But you can stop this cycle of violence. I can help you do that, if you’ll let me. The darkness here can be filled with something else. Please. Let yourself be more than spite and cruelty just one more time. For her.”

There was total silence in the room. The two mares stood there, unmoving, watching for some sign they could act on. They stood, staring, as if everything that followed would depend entirely on who chose to make the next move. Rarity waited, the silence weighing down on her until even breathing was almost unbearable.

The stalemate dragged on, torturously and interminably, until a single whispered word broke the silence.

“...please.”
> Chapter 13 - Generosity
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


10 Months Later


The Canterlot Independent Art Gallery had seen bigger crowds, but it had certainly seen smaller ones, too.

All in all, Rarity thought, a delightfully cozy turnout. Ponies of all walks of life strolled in from the bright, gas-lit streets of Canterlot, though most were aficionados of obscure art or oil painting. They huffed as they came into the warm air, brushed the light Hearth’s Warming snow from their coats and hats, then headed over to a table to sign the guestbook. Rachcoltinov played gently on a huge gramophone in one corner of the studio, and two ponies in white dinner jackets served hot spiced wine and fine cheese atop hard, crisp crackers. The little hall was filled with hushed conversation as ponies wandered aimlessly from display to display, their reactions mixed but decidedly contemplative.

All through the hall, mounted on pristine white walls, Toola Roola’s paintings hung in the glow of carefully positioned and metered lamplight, the gentle pulse of mantle fires washing over the oily ripples and strokes with a warmth the canvases hadn’t known in decades. It made for a startling contrast, those surreal and twisted paintings set before the bright, curious, and introspective of Canterlot’s elite. Rather than take offense at the juxtaposition, however, many of the visitors seemed at least intrigued by the strange and bizarre display.

“Excuse me,” one older stallion said, striding up to Rarity and peering at her curiously. “Am I correct that you are the sponsor of this exhibition?”

“I am indeed,” she replied, smiling brightly at him. She wore a pale blue sweater with a matching beret, and she had toned down the curls in her mane into gentle, shimmering purple waves. “How are you finding the art so far?”

“Well, it’s... curious, to say the least,” the stallion said, choosing his words carefully. “If I’m to be fully honest, though, I’m not sure that I care for it myself. It really seems a touch unpleasant, particularly at this time of year. I was hoping for something a touch more festive.”

“Well, I can certainly appreciate that. As it happens though, that’s precisely why I chose to sponsor during the holiday season,” Rarity explained, following as the stallion moved towards one the paintings. “There’s a larger story told by these paintings, and I felt it was a good time for ponies to explore it.”

“A story, you say? And what might that be?”

“Well, these works were painted by the artist near the end of her life. It’s my interpretation that she used the fantastic and the strange to portray emotions she didn’t know how to deal with, emotions that many of us try to shut down or hide away.”

Rarity stopped in front of the painting where a merry-go-round with the rotting words “Le Carrousel de Temps” painted on it presided over ruinous fairgrounds. “Whether she knew what she was doing is debatable, but I believe she infused these paintings with all the despair and hatred she had begun to trap herself in. The tragedy is that I don’t think they brought her any peace. They only served to amplify her misery, feeding into a self-destructive cycle that ultimately cost her life.”

“So why display them?” the stallion sniffed, raising an eyebrow at the apocalyptic scene. “Art should make ponies feel good, no? It should be inspirational, challenging, encouraging to growth, that sort of thing.”

“Art can certainly do that,” Rarity countered. “But we cannot deny that anger, frustration, even hatred and malice are a part of us also. Toola Roola’s legacy showed me that we’re too easily repulsed by these things, so we shun them, shut them out, and try to pretend we don’t see them. When we do that, though, we lose part of ourselves. This art forces us to acknowledge things we would rather didn’t exist. Sometimes, we need to be led to understand our darker sides, not hide from them.”

Rarity glanced at him to see if he was tiring of her explanation. He didn’t seem to be, so she carried on carefully. “There’s a little bit of magic in these paintings, I feel. I think if we can get just a little bit better at understanding our darker selves, learning to deal with pain and vehemence rather than hide it, we’ll get that much better at understanding others and helping them to work past their own pain. Toola Roola died alone, but with the help of others, we can dilute and dispel these darker things. That’s what I take from her life, anyway.”

“Well, that sounds a touch idealistic, but I can appreciate the sentiment. I would argue that such feelings are nothing more than passing fancies ponies should learn to control. Emotions don’t have any intrinsic power by themselves.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Rarity looked over her shoulder and smiled as she saw Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie wander into the gallery. “I think things like kindness and lightheartedness have a power all their own. Not all magic comes from spells and incantations.”

“Perhaps,” the stallion said, also glancing back. “Well, thank you for sharing your feelings with me. I think I can understand why the pieces have significance to you, at least.”

“A pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

She left the stallion to his viewing and walked over to where Pinkie and Fluttershy stood waiting for her. As she walked, she took note of the various conversations she passed by. Most seemed to share the stallion’s confusion about why anyone would want to paint such things, but a few seemed to be speculating on the power the paintings seemed to have to stir up their emotions and what that could possibly mean. One Unicorn, a mare with a purple coat and a deep violet mane, seemed to be giving an impromptu lecture on the fantastique period and how deeply flawed the artist’s understanding of the movement must have been. Most ponies in her group seemed to be tuning her out.

Rarity didn’t mind. It wasn’t up to her how the art was received, or what ponies assumed about her for sponsoring it. It was out there, to impact or be forgotten by ponies however it happened to turn out.

Exactly as it should be.

“Hi Rarity,” Fluttershy said. “Are you ready to go?”

“I think so.” Rarity turned and surveyed the display one more time. “I’m positively famished. Are you still up to try that restaurant we saw on the way here?”

“You bet!” Pinkie said happily.

Rarity followed her friends out into the chilly mountain air and shivered, though she smiled as she took in the busy, festive streets around her.

“I do not feel like going back to Ponyville tomorrow,” she complained. “Canterlot winters are always so divine. After a week here, going back to old mare Hoarfrost’s idea of winter is going to kill me!”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Fluttershy asked. “She’s retiring. After the nine-day whiteout last year, I guess a lot more ponies have been saying maybe she ought to step down and let somepony else take over.”

“And she’s doing it?” Rarity asked, incredulous. “Thank goodness, I thought she would hold onto those clouds until she froze to them.”

“Well, I think she was getting tired of it herself,” Fluttershy chuckled. “Anyway, they actually hired one of my old friends from Cloudsdale to take over. She’s really nice, and I think she’ll want to run things a little more actively than just coating everything in snow all the time.”

“Oh, marvelous,” Rarity said, coming to the door of a brightly lit restaurant and holding it open for her friends. “You simply must introduce me to her when she arrives. I’m sure she’ll do a splendid job!”


* * *


“I am going to murder that weatherpony,” Rarity groused as she and Pinkie trudged up the muddy hill at the edge of Ponyville’s park.

“Aw, it’s not so bad!” Pinkie piped up, bouncing effortlessly next to Rarity. “Rain in winter can be fun!”

“Freezing rain?” Rarity snapped back, giving her bedraggled mane another shake. “Completely at random in the middle of town? If this Rainbow Dash is trying to one-up Hoarfrost for ‘worst winter manager ever,’ she’s off to a terrific start!”

“I’m sure she’ll get the hang of it,” Pinkie said, looking up to where several Pegasi were flitting about, trying to bring some order to the roiling, angry clouds that still lay overhead. “And at least they got it to stop. It’s a new town and new weather after all.”

“We’ll see,” Rarity allowed, walking through the low metal gate and in amongst the gravestones. There was a slight breeze, and while it chilled Rarity to the bone, the whispering sound it made as it blew through the dead grass and empty branches brought a nice serenity to the place. Any stronger and it would have sounded threatening, but it seemed that things were content to calm down now that the storm had faded.

A few rows in, Rarity turned aside and found the stone she was searching for. She placed one of the flower arrangements she carried at the base of a large, grey stone with battered, dog-eared book cutie mark carved on it.

They then walked a few rows farther back. Among the larger, better-tended burials was a small, city-funded marker of plain black granite. Toola Roola’s cutie mark—a brush with lines of paint swirling out from it—and her initials were carved there in shallow relief. Rarity bent down and arranged the small bundle of flowers she carried in the little vase built into the stone. Then she stepped back, nodding slightly in satisfaction.

“...Do you think she’s happy?” Pinkie asked. “Now that ponies are talking about her art again, I mean.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know, Pinkie,” Rarity replied with a sigh. “Even now, I don’t think I have any idea what she wanted to achieve when she set out to start painting. But it’s a different world today than the one she grew up in thirty years ago. Ponies today are much more appreciative of unconventional art, so I hope this would have given her some joy at least, if she had have lived to see it. “

“Yeah,” Pinkie said. For a moment, they just stood there together, two ponies with their manes gently tossed by the wind around them. Then Pinkie asked, “Why are you doing it, anyway? I thought you decided those paintings were full of all kinds of evil Earth Pony magic.”

“That’s not it exactly,” Rarity said, eyeing Pinkie skeptically. “I believe she accidentally gave those paintings some kind of power, and that power is based in negative emotions, yes.”

“So why put them out there?” Pinkie asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to burn them or something?”

“I don’t think so,” Rarity sighed. “With Unicorn magic, at least, destroying something bound with magic only destroys a tether and sets the power loose. That’s how a lot of magical anomalies are created, actually. But there’s more to it than that.”

“How so?”

“I’ve come to think that if magic has a flaw, it’s that it makes us a little too quick to just try to obliterate anything negative we come across,” Rarity said. “It’s very tempting to just look for an instant fix, to destroy something or lock it away where we think we don’t have to look at it. And maybe sometimes that’s the appropriate response. But I decided it might be possible to take away the paintings’ powers by putting them out where everypony can see it and work to understand it. Some of the paintings might even be sold before they go back into storage, and I think that would also weaken it.”

Rarity turned and looked out over Ponyville. “I’ve learned that dark powers are strongest when we’re alone. Toola Roola made her own loneliness, trapping herself in a cycle of amplifying magic. She took it in, poured it out, and took it in all over again, and it killed her. She lived and died in her very own horror story. I was merely brushed with the aftermath, and you know what that did to me. Now that part of her isn’t alone anymore.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pinkie said. “And I hope this ends all that nasty magic for you.”

“I don’t think it will,” Rarity said, smiling sadly at Pinkie. “I don’t think it will ever be completely gone.”

“Why not?”

Rarity paused. Pinkie waited, head tilted curiously as Rarity turned back and looked down at the gravestone.

“...I still see her sometimes. Every now and then, I’ll be making something in my room, and the door will open. Then I’ll feel her watch me for a little while before fading away. Other times, I’ll be fitting a client in the mirror, and I’ll catch a glimpse of her, just at the edge of the glass before she vanishes. She and I are very alike. We nearly lived the same kind of life. But we’re different too, and I think she hated me for that. I know I’m not bound to repeat the same mistakes she did.”

“Isn’t there... isn’t there some way to get rid of her completely? Put her to rest or something?”

“If there is, I don’t know how. I’ve looked into it a little, but information on this sort of thing is vague and conflicting at the best of times. The most I’ve been able to piece together is that she isn’t really Toola Roola, not quite. It’s... more like an incomplete painting of her. I don’t know if it has enough real intelligence to want anything rational or be satisfied with anything. But as far as I can tell, we were able to come to some semblance of an understanding, all those months ago. And helping ponies understand what happened to her, giving her voice back in a way, seems to have weakened the power enough to give us the peace we have now. I’m content with that.”

“If you’re sure,” Pinkie said skeptically. “I don’t know that I could be.”

“That said, however.” Rarity turned a little and gave Pinkie a sidelong glance. “I’m afraid your promise about the boutique still stands. I don’t want anypony getting the idea that there’s something off about my shop. The last thing I need is for ponies to start coming to the shop for esoteric legends instead of dresses.”

“I’ve never said a word about it,” Pinkie affirmed. “And I never will.”

“Thank you, darling. I appreciate it, really.” Rarity smiled, but then she shivered and tugged her coat closer around her shoulders. “Ooh, it’s cold. I need to head back. Would you like to pop in for some tea?”

“Aw, thanks, but no thanks. I promised the Cakes I’d look after the bakery today.”

“Alright then,” Rarity said, heading towards the gate. “Thanks for coming with me. I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“Heh, no problemo,” Pinkie replied with a nervous chuckle.

Rarity parted ways from Pinkie in the park and made her way back home. The market was nearly deserted—thanks to the new featherbrain’s weather antics, she thought—and the few ponies she met passed with little more than a friendly greeting.

As she turned down the southern road, Carousel Boutique came into view at the bottom of the hill. It would be due for repainting in a few months; the brilliant white, purple and gold paint she had applied was already beginning to look a touch weathered. The circular windows she had ordered to replace the horrible rectangular ones greeted her warmly though, and the bright purple door seemed to beckon her home.

As she walked inside, warm air washed over her. Bright racks stuffed with custom designs gleamed in the light from the skylights she had built into the wider sections of the roof. The clean, shining mirrors scattered throughout the room amplified the light, and it almost felt like spring inside.

As she pulled her boots off and wandered upstairs, she pondered the next spring line she would put together. Gemstones were definitely coming back into style, and there was so much she could do with pastels.

I’ll have to get Fluttershy to model again for me—she was practically made for spring colors.

Before she started on her work, however, she walked past the sewing table in her bedroom and over to the line of trunks set along the wall. She mainly used them for storage, and as she opened one, she dug out several half-finished designs and scraps, laying them aside as she dug deeper and deeper into the trunk. At the very bottom was a carefully folded mass of black and white cloth, and as she lifted it out, she opened it and ironed out the creases with her magic. The black dress she had made ten months ago hovered in the air, as pristine as when she had first sewed it.

Rarity contemplated the dress. Irrational melancholy welled up in her as she looked at its old-fashioned collar and veil. She knew now that there was technically nothing wrong with it. Every inch of fabric was perfectly cut and stitched, and it was a masterful replica of Gilded Age formal wear, though with a modern flair.

What was wrong was that it made her feel sad in the exact same way the paintings made her feel angry or disgusted. She didn’t think she had Toola Roola's power or had transferred her emotions into it when she made it; rather, she suspected that when she took over the boutique, whatever power Toola had left behind had started to infect Rarity’s own art as well. It still brought a chill to her to think of how she had begun to be trapped in it, let alone how close it had come to literally destroying her.

But she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of the dress either. The things it represented—her own, very real feelings of loneliness, fear, and regret at the time—would always be a part of her. She couldn’t get rid of the dress any more than she could forget those first few months in the Carousel Boutique. She had been changed.

She suspected Ms. Dog-Ear had bought one of the old mirrors from the gallery and kept it in the library for a similar reason. Rarity often wondered if it was simple sentiment, or if Ms. Dog-Ear had sometimes glimpsed her old friend in the mirror, the way Rarity occasionally would. If so, Rarity thought she could understand why Ms. Dog-Ear would hold onto it. Even if it would be better to purge such things from their lives, Rarity wasn’t sure it was possible.

And so she kept the dress tucked away where it didn’t bother her much, and on the days when she couldn’t help but take it out and look at it, she usually made plans to visit with Fluttershy or Pinkie Pie as soon as possible to counter its strange power.

It’s not ideal, but when is anything ever ideal? she mused, folding it up again and piling the rest of the trunk’s contents back on top of it. That done, she trotted back to the sewing table, brightly lit by the large, oval windows in front of it, and lit the lamp above it just for good measure. The incandescent mantles blazed to life as the lines hissed gently. Reaching across the room with her magic, she wound the crank on her gramophone and lowered a record onto it, setting the needle down gently as she picked up her quill.

Just as she was about to get to work, however, she looked out and spotted her parents walking slowly down the road, an unsteady Sweetie Belle toddling along between them. Rarity rolled her eyes and sighed. As long as she lived in the same town as them, they seemed quite content to pop in unannounced at least every other week.

Still, Winter Wrap Up is a ways off. I can afford to put off sketching for a little while longer. With a smile and a shake of her head, she shut the lamp off and lifted the lever from the record, though she didn’t bother shutting off the rotating drive before returning downstairs. This time, she took several heavy pieces of protective gear just in case the weatherponies decided another rogue storm was in order.

As she was about to open the door, however, she felt a slight prickle on the back of her neck, causing her to look back at the showroom. All she saw was a room filled with the fruits of her hard work and ambitions. There wasn’t another pony to be seen. Yet she could just feel, like the tiniest breeze had passed by, a slight hint of envy and longing. Then it was gone, and the showroom was just a showroom once more.

Rarity smiled sadly, then opened the door and left the room behind her.

We only get one turn on this merry-go-round, Rarity thought, smiling and returning her parents’ waves as they led Sweetie Belle to the front of the boutique. We shouldn’t ride it alone.

From upstairs, Rarity and her family could be seen through the window as they made their way towards the park. Rarity picked up Sweetie Belle and swung her about, and her sister giggled and fought her magical grip. As the sound of their laughter faded, the soft clicking and clanking of the gramophone grew quiet as the spring wound down and the carousel slowed, the record falling still as the spinning came to an end.