Pinkie's triplets are starting to grow up, but now they're starting to ask where their Daddy is--a question Pinkie doesn't want to have to answer.
Pinkie Pie is starting to figure this whole motherhood thing out, but now, Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot are beginning to realize their little family is different. They're starting to wonder where their Daddy is, and why he isn't around--questions that Pinkie would rather they not be asking.
Pinkie jerked awake with a shriek, then tumbled backwards out of her bed, slamming into the floor with a loud bonk. She lay there, dazed, for just a moment, until Foxtrot swam into view—her pink coat matching Pinkie’s own, her mane light brown and bobbed, with her horn poking through.
“Mama!” she cried. “Are you okay?”
Pinkie giggled, pulled her close, and kissed her on the cheek. “More than okay,” she said. “You just startled me, is all.”
Foxie frowned, then picked at a strand of Pinkie’s mane. “Your hair’s gone all curly again,” she said, slightly mystified.
Pinkie picked at her mane as well, now all back to its normal, curly state. “I think it’s gonna be like that from now on,” she said. “Most days, at least.” She hesitated. “Do you like it?”
Foxie stared at it for a moment, then nodded. “I think so,” she said.
Whiskey and Tango appeared around the side of the bed, Tango worried, Whiskey with a grin on her face. Whiskey, her oldest, trotted over to her side. Her coat was dark-chocolate brown, and her mane long, wavy and hot pink. “Time to get up,” she said, grabbing Pinkie by the forehooves and pulling, flapping her wings for extra leverage. She was almost strong enough to pull Pinkie up but herself—almost, but not quite.
Tango sighed, then leapt up on the bed. “Never gonna work that way,” he said. He trotted over to Pinkie’s legs, still tangled in the bedsheets, braced his forehead against them, and pushed. Tango was an earth pony like her, and had inherited her curly mane and tail, too, though her coloring had been lost somewhere in translation. His coat was the color of chocolate milk, save for the four white socks that went halfway to his knees, and his mane a dark brown, like Whiskey’s coat.
Tango pushed until Pinkie’s legs slid off the bed and onto the floor, then Whiskey, with the help of Foxie’s magic, pulled Pinkie into a sitting position. Pinkie leaned back against the bed and sighed as Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot snuggled into her lap, their chests heaving from the effort.
Pinkie sat there for a long moment, feeling their warm bodies against her, and smiled. She yawned, then looked up at the clock. “What are you little boogers doing up at three-thirty in the morning, anyways?” she asked.
Foxie looked up at her and smiled. “I-I-It’s Father’s Day,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a yawn of her own. “We wanted to do something special for you.”
Pinkie reached down and mussed her mane fondly. “But I’m your mama, silly,” she said. “Mamas have their own holiday. Father’s Day is for daddies.”
Tango snuggled a little closer to her. “We know,” he said. “But we don’t have a daddy, so…”
“...so you get seconds!” Whiskey cut in.
Pinkie laughed aloud, then leaned down and kissed each of them. She knew they could be… difficult—heck, half the town locked their doors when the three of them went exploring—but to her, they had been nothing but sweetness.
Well, nothing recently, she corrected herself. In a moment of anger, Twilight had once called them “hellions”—and, though she loved them to bits, she had to admit that Twilight wasn’t wrong.
But it helped that she had her Pinkie Sense. It didn’t always work on them, but when it did—well, she could’ve sworn she’d heard them talking one time, after she’d sent them to bed early, wondering about how on earth she always managed to show up right as their plan was about to go off. “It’s like she can telly-port,” Tango had whispered into the darkness. Pinkie had almost burst out laughing.
And it hadn’t hurt that she’d locked her party cannon in the cupboard under the stairs. She’d had nightmares for weeks after she discovered Whiskey clambering inside, and Tango trying to figure out how to work the firing mechanism.
“Oh!” Foxie yelped, sitting up. “Almost forgot!” She scrambled to her hooves, then, as the other three watched her, she bowed grandly and gestured out the door.
“Mad-dam et madda-moi-sell,” she pronounced carefully in awful Prench, “Breakfast is served.”
Instantly, Whiskey and Tango were on their hooves, and had scrambled out the door. Pinkie climbed to her feet, and, led by Foxie, made her way downstairs.
“I hope you guys didn’t use the big stove,” she said. “You know I told you not to—”
“Don’t worry,” Foxie chirped. “We didn’t.”
Pinkie realized suddenly she didn’t know which she was more worried about—that they had made breakfast without using the stove, or that they had made breakfast without using the stove. She decided not to think too hard about it.
As Pinkie descended the stairs, she saw that they had already turned on the downstairs lights. Tango stood at the bottom of the stairs, pressed, ramrod straight, against the wall. He held the little privacy chain that stretched across the stairwell in one hoof, with its “PRIVATE” sign—the one that always made him giggle a little—dangling free by the floor. Pinkie nodded grandly to him, which he returned with a bow. As soon as she passed, she heard the chain clank against the floor, and Tango trotted eagerly up beside her.
Pinkie stepped down into seating area of Pinkie’s Pies, the bakery that she’d managed to pull together basically on her own. It wasn’t much, but it sold enough to keep everyone fed. The seating area, with dark green wallaper and hardwood floors, had only three or four tables, for those that wanted a quick sandwich or cup of coffee, or just for those who wanted to wait while Pinkie sliced their bread fresh. Whiskey stood by one of the tables, set crookedly with a white cloth and four place settings. In the center of the table sat an enormous glass bowl of—something.
“Oh,” Pinkie said, as Foxtrot led her to the table and sat her down. Pinkie tried to fak a smile. “How… nice. It’s, um…”
“Oatmeal!” Whiskey volunteered helpfully. “Just like you always make it!”
It was most certainly not how she always made it. It was a stomach-churning gray, foul-smelling and bubbling unpleasantly.
She looked uncertainly between the three of them, desperate to stall. “Thank you,” she said, “but didn’t I tell you not to use the stove?”
She put on a smile. “Looks great!” she said, standing. “Let me just—”
“Nonono!” Tango cried. “We’ll serve it! Just sit and enjoy.”
Pinkie sank uneasily back into her seat as Tango ladled not one, but two steaming scoops into her bowl.
So much for that idea, she thought unhappily.
After everyone had been served, Tango sat down, and, without preamble, the kids began to shovel great spoonfuls of the “oatmeal” into their mouths. Pinkie herself took a tiny bite; the kids were so busy eating their own helpings that no one noticed her almost retch, glance around uneasily, then pour most of her helping back into the giant bowl.
Pinkie waited until they were almost done, then stood. “Well, you little boogers,” she said fondly, “It might be time for me to be up—but you need to be back in bed—”
“No!” squealed Tango. “We haven’t done the best part yet!”
Pinkie mentally groaned. Well, can’t be worse than breakfast…
The three of them leapt down from their chairs, then huddled around her. “Close your eyes,” Tango commanded, as Whiskey took her by the hoof. Pinkie obeyed.
She felt them lead her through the seating area, past the counter, and back into the kitchen, only bumping her into loose chairs one or twice on accident.
“Now, open!” cried Tango.
Pinkie opened her eyes—and stared. Slowly, her eyes began to water, and she put her hooves to her mouth.
Laid carefully out in front of her, on the big, butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen, were a half-dozen sheets of paper, filled with drawings, painted hoofprints, and more than one “4 mama” in clumsy, childish print. And, at the center of the table, stood a round, double-layered cake, frosted pink, with what must have been a pound-and-a-half of pink sugar poured on top. And, on top of the colored-sugar apocalypse were four ponies drawn carefully in colored frosting—a big pink one, a surrounded by three little ones, in brown, cream, and pink. And, above them, in giant letters, read “WE ♥ MAMA.”
Foxie grinned proudly up at her. “I did the cake,” she said brightly.
Whiskey huffed. “Pumpkin and Pound did the cake.”
“I decorated it,” Foxie corrected herself, in the same tone. “We all did ourselves, and I did you.”
Pinkie turned back to stare at the cake. Dang,that kid is good. A juvenile effort, of course—but, then again, Pinkie herself hadn’t been that good at age nine. Even in its current, rough state, she could still see clearly the makings of a master cake decorator.
Too bad we pretty much sell just bread, she thought.
But even this thought was not enough to stifle her joy. Pinkie let out a little squeal, then scooped them all into an enormous hug. “You guys,” she said, “you didn’t have to do this…”
“Yes, we did,” Tango said. “Aunt Cheerilee said—”
“Missus,” Foxie corrected.
Tango shot her a glare. “Mrs. Cheerilee said that we have to do nice things for the ponies we love—”
“And we love you,” Foxie finished for him.
Whiskey looked up and smiled. “So,” she said, “We made you a cake—just like you make us all those cupcakes for school!”
Pinkie squeezed them all a little tighter. “Love you too, you little boogers,” she whispered. “Love you—and thank you. So much.” She smiled. “You’re all a mama could ask for.”
At that, Foxie giggled, Whiskey beamed, and a slow smile spread across Tango’s face.
Pinkie held them like that for a while, then looked up at the clock and gasped. “Right,” she said. “It’s way too early for you boogers to be up.”
“But you’re up this early,” Whiskey said, accusingly.
“Because I have Mama things to do,” Pinkie replied. “Now, get on back upstairs and try and get some sleep. And we’ll have that cake for lunch, okay?”
“O-o-okay,” Tango groaned—then yawned.
Pinkie giggled herself, then set them down. “Now, get,” she said, nudging them forward. “See you in the morning.”
She watched the three of them as they climbed the stairs, then listened as they trooped into their bedroom and closed the door. Pinkie chuckled to herself, then walked to the foot of the stairway and re-hooked the “PRIVATE” chain across it. She went back into the kitchen, clicked on the radio to some soft old rock ballad, loaded up the coffee maker with four generous scoops of coffee grounds, then stepped outside. She walked to the white picket fence surrounding their little yard—doing her best not to notice the flaking paint, nor the weeds poking up through the grass—then leaned on the fence by the gate and stared out at the horizon, the first, faint light of the summer dawn just beginning to make itself seen.
She watched it for a moment, listening to the silence of the sleeping town, then chuckled to herself. This was not the life she would have chosen, if she’d been given the chance—midway through her twenties, with three kids already, and no one to help her out… waking up at four in the morning to keep everyone happy, healthy, and fed... spending so much of her time helping others that she barely had a moment for herself…
But—she thought back to the kitchen, to the hoofmade cards, to the Father’s Day cake, to the feeling of those three warm little bodies pressed up against her—and smiled. It was hard—but mornings like this made it all worth it.
Aunt Applejack and Uncle Soft Shoe danced to the slow, jazzy record playing the corner. Applejack held Uncle Softie in a tight embrace, her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. They took a step forward, then a step back, then turned, gliding smooth as applesauce. Soft Shoe led his wife into a twirl—which made her grin even wider—then dipped her, so low it almost looked like he would drop her. But he followed after her instead, kissing her deeply, passionately, on the lips, and she, wrapping her arms around him, returned it.
Whiskey stared, eyes wide, watching them through the little side-window next to the path. She felt dirty, somehow—it was bad enough that she had lied to Mama, but she felt like this was something private, something important, something that only the two of them should see. But, even then, she couldn’t look away. Seeing them like this stirred something in her own heart. Something deep. Something unhappy. Whiskey didn’t know that she had the word for it—but she sure felt it, burning deep down inside her.
Whiskey turned away—the two of them weren’t even trying to dance anymore—and walked around to the front. Her gut churned uneasily; she barely knew Uncle Soft Shoe, and he wasn’t home much anyways. But she’d heard about him a whole bunch, both from her Mama and from Aunt Applejack: Auntie was good friends with a famous musician, and she’d needed help running her show. Applejack didn’t know much about music, but she knew a lot about how to run things, and the job paid a lot of money—so, leaving the farm in the care of Uncle Mac and Aunt Cheerilee, she went on tour. With the money she was sending home, the Apples were finally able to fix up the farm—but, more important, she met Uncle Soft Shoe, one of the dancers. They got along real well, and got married while still on the road. Auntie was gonna stay with him, but then she got pregnant with Johnny, and had to move back home. Uncle Soft Shoe still toured a lot, and was away for months at a time—but, when he was home, they were always kissing and hugging and playing with their kids--both of ‘em. Little Johnny was only three years old, and he already had a younger sister, Ginger Gold, and—Mama had made her promise not to tell anyone—another little brother or sister on the way.
Whiskey finally reached the front porch of the old, creaky farmhouse. She climbed the steps slowly, carefully, then hesitated in front of the door for a long, long time. Finally, she reached up, paused, and knocked on the door twice. She closed her eyes and strained her ears. She heard the music stop—she heard the hoofsteps walk down the hall—across the carpet—onto the hardwood—then on the linoleum—then the turn of the doorknob—
“Whiskey!” Auntie Applejack said, warmly. “What‘re you doing here?”
She opened her eyes and looked up. Auntie Applejack stood in the doorway, bareheaded, her hat left where it had fallen in the living room. And behind her—Whiskey swallowed—stood Uncle Soft Shoe.
Uncle Softie was tall and slim, but very strong. He had a purple coat and a light blue mane, and always a smile on his face. He really was handsome, Whiskey had to admit—and, as she stared at him, he smiled a little wider.
“Whiskey?” he repeated. “You’re, uh… Pinkie Pie’s kid, aren’t you?”
Whiskey stared at him then looked down and nodding. She said nothing more.
Soft Shoe nodded back. “Good to finally meet you! Jackie’s told me a lot about you three.” He crouched down a little to catch her eye. “So,” he said, “What d’ya need?”
Whiskey jerked her head up. She glanced briefly between Soft Shoe and Applejack, then swallowed. “I wanna know if—” Suddenly, her gaze jerked back to Soft Shoe, and her eyes went wide. The second half of her question trailed off into an incoherent mumble.
Soft Shoe returned her stare for a moment, then slowly straightened up. Applejack frowned the slightest bit. “C’mon, sugarcube,” she said gently. “Go ahead and tell us—what can we do for ya?”
Whiskey tore her gaze away from Soft Shoe again, but turned and stared at Applejack. Applejack met her trembling gaze—then watched it harden. She set her jaw and stood up a little straighter.
“I want you to teach me to dance,” she said to the two of them.
Uncle Softie practically squealed. Whiskey shot him a startled look, and Applejack sighed.
“Are you serious?” he asked excitedly. He put an arm around his wife. “Jackie, I think she’s serious!”
Applejack rolled her eyes. “Jinge and Johnny’re too young yet,” she whispered to Whiskey. “He’s been driving me crazy talking about how he’s gonna teach ‘em…”
Whiskey nodded faintly, her eyes wide.
Soft Shoe turned and practically skipped back to the living room. “We’ll get you started with some basic ballroom steps, and, if you want, maybe we move onto some modern—”
“Softie,” Applejack called after him. “Slow down a bit, Honeycrisp. Don’t wanna scare the poor filly off.” She looked back at Whiskey and nodded over her shoulder, deeper into the house, then turned and walked down the hall, Whiskey following close behind. “We’re gonna do something nice and simple today, and that’ll be it.”
Whiskey stepped into the living room and stared. She’d been here a couple times before, but never when Soft Shoe was home—and it almost looked like a whole different house. The furniture had been pushed aside and stacked carefully in a corner, leaving a wide-open space in the middle of the floor. Space for dancing. She swallowed, listening with half an ear as Uncle Softie spoke.
“Jackie,” he almost whined, “You know I can do it—”
“I know, Honeycrisp,” she said with a smile. “And I know how bad you’ve been hankerin’ for it. But we’ve only got the weekend, and not everypony can pick up your dancin’ overnight.”
Uncle Soft Shoe sighed. “I know,” he said quietly. He thought for a moment, then turned to Whiskey. “We can teach you a little,” he said, “But you really need a proper instructor—”
Whiskey shook her head firmly. “Nuh-uh,” she said.
Soft Shoe raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked.
She hesitated, then seemed to deflate. “...Mama doesn’t know I’m here,” she said.
Both of them stared back at her. She wanted to stop talking but it all started spilling out:
“I just wanna dance so bad, but Mama doesn’t have much money, and she thinks I’m at Aunt Fluttershy’s gettin’ some flyin’ practice, and I don’t want anybody knowin’ I wanna dance, ‘cause everyone thinks I’m tough, and—”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Soft Shoe said, stepping forward and putting a hoof on her shoulder. Instantly, Whiskey fell silent. “Slow down, kiddo,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Whiskey shivered. From where he touched her, a strange, electric sensation spread across her body, leaving a weird, almost-pleasant, almost-painful tingle where it had gone.
Soft Shoe had not noticed her reaction. “There’s nothing wrong with dancing,” he said. “Everypony does it sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Whiskey nodded numbly. She didn’t want him to take his hoof off her shoulder ever again.
Soft Shoe chuckled. “Heck,” he added. “I just hope my kids will be half as willing as—”
“Daddy!” a small voice cried, high above them. “Lookit me!”
All three of them looked up. Whiskey’s eyes widened, Soft Shoe paled, and Applejack gasped.
“Jonathan Beauregard Appleseed, you get down here this instant!” she barked.
Balanced on top of the antique radio, at the very pinnacle of the stack of furniture in the corner, stood a tiny, bright-red earth colt, absolutely beaming.
“I mean it, Johnny,” Applejack growled, walking towards him. “Get down from there now, or I’ll—”
Johnny grinned wider, then crouched down a little, sticking his tongue through his teeth.
“Jonathan—” Soft Shoe cut in warningly.
With a joyous squeal, Johnny leapt from the top of the stack, bounced off the sofa with an expensive-sounding sproing, then turned and ran, shrieking with laughter, from the room. Applejack growled and sprinted after him.
Both of them flinched when the front door slammed. Soft Shoe sighed, then sat back on his haunches. “He’ll be okay,” he said, mostly to himself. He turned to Whiskey. “I think Jackie’s right,” he said to her. “Let’s start you with something simple. Do you know any dances already?”
Whiskey turned to stare at him—and Softie was astonished to see fire in her eyes and a snarl on her lips. But, as soon as they made eye contact, all the anger drained from her face, leaving her wide-eyed and quiet. He waited for her to respond, but she did not speak—simply stared. After a moment, Soft Shoe swallowed. Was she… trembling…?
At that moment, the front door opened, and both of them looked up. Applejack walked in, both irritated and triumphant, a pouty Jonathan held by the scruff of his neck in her teeth. She marched straight to the back of the house, rounding a corner as she did. They heard a door slam, and she walked back into the living room, head held high. “Sorry about that,” she said. She glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Y’all made a decision on where you wanna start?”
Soft Shoe gave her a pained look. “We started, but…”
Applejack rolled her eyes, then turned to Whiskey. “So,” she said, “what are ya thinkin’?”
Whiskey did not move. She simply stared at Soft Shoe.
“Whiskey?” Applejack repeated.
Suddenly, she seemed to jerk awake. She looked up at Applejack apologetically. “Sorry, Auntie,” she said. “It’s just…”
And then she trailed off again.
Applejack cocked her head a little. “You feelin’ alright, sugarcube?” she asked. “You’re actin’ mighty funny…”
Whiskey looked at her for another moment—then, silently, nodded.
“Let’s try this,” Soft Shoe said. He stood upon his hind legs, pulled his wife up to stand next to him, then gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He took one of her hooves in his, and slid the other down to her waist, while she rested her free hoof on his arm. “Let’s show you a few and see how you feel. This one’s a waltz—”
Whiskey suddenly gagged. Both of them looked at her, and saw her making a face of utter disgust.
“Ah, so… so that’s off the table, then?” said Soft Shoe uncertainly.
“It’s her real name, Honeycrisp,” Applejack whispered to him. “She don’t like it much.”
Soft Shoe nodded. “Gotcha. So, no waltz then.” He thought for a moment, then shifted his forehooves, Applejack repositioning hers almost automatically. “This one’s called the samba,” he said to Whiskey. He turned to Applejack, then began to count aloud: “One, two, three and four…” He began counting over again, and he and Applejack shuffled forward and back, then to the side. “One, two, three and four…” They did it again, this time, adding a little more spice: Applejack began to sway her hips as she moved, and Soft Shoe pressed himself a little closer to her. “One, two, three and four…”
And suddenly, they stopped. “See?” Softie asked. “Nice and simple.”
Whiskey just stared.
Soft Shoe looked back at Applejack. “What do you wanna show her next?” he said. “Rumba? Cha cha? Country swing?”
Applejack smiled knowingly. “I thought we were gonna save that one for after the kids went to bed,” she whispered.
Soft Shoe blushed deeply, and Applejack laughed. She turned to Whiskey. “We’ll just try a few more,” she said, “and you tell us when you see something you like—”
“Samba,” Whiskey said immediately. “I want to dance the samba.”
Applejack nodded, then released Soft Shoe. “I’ll get the music,” she said, walking to the record player in the corner.
Soft Shoe stepped close, squatted down, and took Whiskey by the forehooves. “Now,” he said, “you’re a little short to get your hoof up on my shoulder, but we’ll manage, I think. So, I’m gonna count for us, okay? It’s one, two, three, and four—” he demonstrated the quick, shuffling step. “—and you follow, just like me, alright?”
Whiskey nodded faintly.
“Alright, let’s try it—one, two three—”
Soft Shoe suddenly stopped, then looked up at her.
“Whiskey,” he said patiently, “You need to move your hooves, too.”
Whiskey remained frozen for just a moment longer—then jerked her head up and looked, nervously, into Soft Shoe’s face. “O-okay,” she said quietly.
Applejack sighed. “Sugarcube,” she said, “If you ain’t feelin well, then we—”
Whiskey shook her head sharply. “No,” she said “I-it’s okay.” She took a deep breath, fear in her eyes, but determination in her grip. “I wanna do it,” she said to Softie.
Soft Shoe nodded. “Alright,” he said, “let’s try again. Now: one, two, three and four…”
* * *
The sun was almost setting by the time that Whiskey re-emerged from the farmhouse. She walked with a slight limp; she’d been using muscles she’d never used before—not like that, at least—and she was really going to feel it tomorrow.
“You gonna be okay, Whiskey?” Applejack called after her. “I could walk ya home—or you could stay for dinner—”
“No,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m fine—and Mama’s waitin’ for me.”
“You sure?” Applejack said again. “It’s no trouble—”
“I’m sure,” she repeated, firmly, then turned and walked confidently away.
As soon as she heard the door shut, though, she stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder at the house one more time. She thought she could see, through the little side-window, Soft Shoe kissing Applejack again, then picking up one of his children—Johnny or Ginger, she couldn’t tell—and kissing them on both cheeks. She felt a lump in her throat, then turned and broke into a run.
Whiskey realized she wanted to hurt something. She wanted to break down crying. She wanted a hug. She wanted to scream. She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she knew she wasn’t getting it.
She hated her life. She hated not having a Daddy. She wanted a Daddy for her Mama to love. And she wanted her Daddy, not someone else’s, to teach her how to dance. And she wanted Johnny and Ginger to realize just whatthey had—even though he wasn’t home all the time. Even though he was away for so long. If she had a Daddy, she would be so good. Never make trouble. Never climb up on the furniture. Never run away and make Mama chase her, never do anything to take her Mama away from him. Even half a Daddy was better than none at all.
She ran on into the darkness, weeping, tears streaming down her face, at the cold, painful cruelty of the life that would leave her always on the outside, always looking in at someone else’s happiness through a tiny side window.
* * *
The next day, she would come back after school with Tango and Foxie. She would dance with Tango, and make Uncle Soft Shoe dance with Foxie. They would dance for an hour or two, and learn the samba all over again, then the rumba, and then—at the insistence of Tango, his eyes twinkling mischievously—the waltz.
Neither of her siblings would understand why she had dragged them along. She made a big show of not wanting to be there—of going only because Pumpkin had said that Soft Shoe wanted to teach someone to dance—but neither of them saw the way she watched him move. The way she watched him hold her sister as he walked her through her first, fumbling dance steps.
When they left, tired and sore, Whiskey knew they would not be back. Foxie could never keep all the steps straight, even when Soft Shoe was saying them aloud, and, though Tango picked it up just fine, he never actually saw the point.
Whiskey hardly spoke all the way home, and, when she did, it was in monosyllables. When they got back to the bakery, Whiskey went up to their room and closed the door; when Mama sent Foxie to go get her for dinner, she found her dead asleep, tears dried on her cheeks. She did not tell them why she had been crying, nor why she had been acting so strange over the past few days, instead opting to eat her spaghetti in silence.
What she would never tell anyone was that, somehow, she wished she could have made her brother and sister jealous. That she could show them just what they had been missing. That she could see one or the other of them, like her, completely fall apart at Soft Shoe’s touch. She hoped that, somehow, this would help them—all of them—to, somehow, help their Mama find their Daddy again.
This was her secret shame, a hidden failure that she would take to her grave.
Twilight had worked hard on the old Friendship Castle. It was a nice enough residence to begin with, to be sure, but it seemed the Tree of Harmony hadn’t really understood how modern ponies actually lived. Oh, it had been alright when it was just her and Spike and Starlight, but, after the wedding—after she got pregnant—it was time for a change. She and her growing family needed someplace to themselves, where they could go to relax after a long day, something more than just another empty office marked “Private.” So, under the guidance of Cadance’s best lithomancers, and with some input from Flash, Twilight had sealed off a whole wing of the palace and converted it, bit by bit, into an actual, livable apartment—quite cozy, if she said so herself—accessible from an exterior stairway that was almost invisible from the front gates.
Twilight was nervously straightening the foyer of said apartment when a knock sounded at the door. She smiled, trotted over, and swung it open, revealing Pinkie Pie, with Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot at her hooves, all four of them wearing saddlebags packed almost to busrting. “Come on in,” Twilight said brightly, stepping back to admit them.
“Thanks so much, Twilight,” Pinkie said, following her three little ones inside the castle.
“Mama said you have a dragon!” Whiskey practically exploded. “Where is he?”
Twilight smiled a little, then shook her head. “I used to,” she said, “a long time ago.”
Whiskey gasped. “What happened?” she asked, suddenly concerned.
“He grew up,” she said. “One day, he just…” she shrugged. “...just walked out the door, and didn’t come back for a month or two. I was so worried about him…” she sighed. “But, that’s just what dragons do when they start growing up—they start looking for a cave of their own.” She had a sad, distant look on her face--almost as if she had forgotten they were there. “He still comes back every so often… and brings us some gems, too, while he’s at it. It’s good to see him, but...” She shrugged. “It’s just not the same.” She was quiet for another moment, then looked down at Whiskey and smiled. “Would you like me to invite you over next time he’s around?”
“Yeah!” Whiskey cried excitedly.
“Alright then,” Twilight said with a chuckle. She looked between all three of the little ones. “Why don’t you say bye to your mom, then go on and set your things down?”
Pinkie smiled, then knelt and pulled all three kids in for a hug. Twilight shook her head—they were getting so big already, she could barely believe it. She still remembered seeing them for the first time in the hospital, so tiny… and to think, it had been eight years already…
Pinkie kissed each of them in turn, then smiled. “I love you guys,” she said. “Be good, okay? Auntie Twilight is being very nice to all of us.”
Foxie and Whiskey nodded eagerly, and Tango smiled brightly. “Okay, Mama,” he said.
Pinkie smiled. “Good. Now, go put your things away, and I’ll see you on Monday, alright?”
“Okay!” they said in unison. Tango and Foxie took off running down the hall, and Whiskey glided after them.
“Spare bedroom!” Twilight called. “Second door on the left!”
They heard a door slam, and Pinkie sighed. “Thanks, Twi,” she said. “Sorry to spring this on you.” She chuckled a little. “I mean, I was gonna have ‘em out at the Apples’ place… after all, they sure wouldn’t mind all that room to run around in.” She shook her head. “But, y’know, little Hoedown came a little sooner than AJ was expecting, so...”
Twilight nodded. “Do you know if Softie was able to get back in time?”
Pinkie shook her head. “Don’t think so,” she said. She paused, then chuckled. “No big deal, really—they’ll have another one next year, after all!”
Twilight smiled. “What are they odds they’re already planning for it?”
Pinkie chuckled again. “Oh, come on, Twilight,” she said, “I don’t think they’ve planned a single one so far!”
Twilight snorted, and Pinkie chuckled.
“Speaking of,” Pinkie said, leaning slightly to one side, and glancing down, “How are you doing?”
Twilight smiled, then turned her body slightly so Pinkie could see her swollen abdomen. “Not bad,” she said. “Morning sickness has settled down, at least.”
Pinkie rolled her eyes. “Thank Celestia for that,” she said.
Twilight nodded. “But, another few weeks, and then the real fun starts.”
Pinkie took Twilight by the hooves. “You’ll do great,” she said. “I mean—you’re a Princess after all. You can do anything.” She chuckled. “Not to mention that you have Cadance for a sister-in-law; I’m sure she’d be happy to help.”
Twilight blushed a little. “Thanks,” she said. She looked into Pinkie’s eyes, then leaned forward and pulled her in for a hug. “Oh, I miss hanging out like we used to,” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “What happened?”
“They happened,” Pinkie said, a faint note of sadness in her voice. “I mean—we all got a little older, a little more married, a little more pregnant—”
“And I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world—” Twilight added.
Pinkie nodded in agreement. “—but they don’t make things any easier, now, do they?”
Twilight shook her head.
They held each other in silence for a moment, then Twilight pulled away and held Pinkie at arms’ length. “Have fun at your convention, okay?” she said.
Pinkie nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. “It is a business trip, after all.” She chuckled. “And I’ll be sharing booth space with Pony Joe again, so we’ll see how that goes.”
Twilight smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You’ll do great. Now go out there and knock ‘em dead.”
Pinkie laughed. “That’s a health code violatio-o-on!” she sing-songed with a grin. She reached up and patted Twilight’s hoof. “I know what you mean. Thanks,” she added..
Twilight smiled. “You better get going,” she said.
Pinkie pulled her in for another hug. “Keep in touch,” she said.
Twilight nodded. “I will.”
Pinkie smiled, then pulled away and walked to the door. She opened it, then stepped halfway out, before turning back and calling over her shoulder: “Bye, kids! Love you! Be good!”
“We will!” came the faint, familiar chorus.
Pinkie smiled, then stepped out. Twilight watched her go with a smile on her face, then sighed, turned, and walked towards the bedroom.
Twilight knocked at the door, then poked her head inside. The room was a little small, but she’d managed to fit three little trundle beds in here, side-by-side. Whiskey was already laid out on one of them, staring up at the ceiling, Tango had already upended his bags on his bed and was rooting around for something, and Foxie was carefully spreading a quilt on hers, making sure the edges and corners were all even.
“Hey, kids,” Twilight said softly, and all three of them looked up. “When you’re all done in here, go on and head into the living room. There’s books and games and stuff in there, and I think Rory might be waiting for you, too.” She grinned. “And I’ll bring some cookies by in just a minute, okay?
Whiskey and Tango nodded, and Foxie replied with an “okay” of his own. Twilight left, pulling the door closed behind her. When the latch clicked shut, Whiskey rolled off the bed and stretched her wings, Tango finally found what he was looking for—a well-worn copy of The Moon Has A Harsh Mistress, by R.A. Hamloin—and Foxie glared at her work, then scoffed irritably and turned away. The three of them filed out, Tango with his book in his teeth. As soon as they were in the hallway, they froze.
The three of them looked up and down the hall, but every door looked exactly the same. Whiskey fluffed her wings nervously. “Um… she said the living room?” she said. Foxie nodded.
Tango sighed, then spat his book on the floor. “Auntie Twilight?” he called.
“Yeah?” came the faraway reply.
“Where’s the living room?”
A faint pause. “Three doors to your right, left side,” she called back.
“Thanks!” Tango replied brightly. He picked up his book off the floor again, then trotted away, head held high. Whiskey and Foxie glanced at each other, then followed.
They stepped into the living room and glanced around appreciatively. Like the rest of the castle, this room was purplish crystal, but this one was carpeted, making it a little easier on the hooves. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, but, rather than thick reference volumes, these were filled with storybooks, novels, music records, and board games. A few feet inward from the shelves stood a ring of deep, plush couches, with lots of room on the rug in the middle for playing, wrestling, dancing, or just lazing about.
And, in the corner, sat Rory.
She was a few years older than they, so they knew her basically by sight only. She was a unicorn, with a pink coat and a dark blue mane, with stripes of aqua throughout. She had pulled up a small writing desk to the corner where two couches met, with books and worksheets spread on the cushions around her. She glanced up as they entered, and they saw she held a pencil crossways in her teeth, and, with the bags under her eyes, she looked extremely tired. She scowled at them a little, then turned back to her homework.
Tango made a beeline for the nearest couch and climbed up onto it, then cracked open his book. Whiskey strolled over to the shelves and began examining the records—maybe looking for one of the classical dance pieces she was always fussing about. And Foxie trotted towards Rory, with a broad smile on her face. “Hi Rory,” she said. “How are you?”
Rory sighed dramatically, then dropped her pencil and gritted her teeth. “‘Princess Aurora,’ if you please,” she said testily.
Tango looked up as the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. Foxie stood frozen in the middle of the carpet, mid-stride, her eyes wide, staring at the imperious Aurora sitting on the couch.
At the sight of the look she was shooting his sister, Tango growled to himself, then closed his book and hopped down from the couch.
“But Rory,” he said plaintively to her, “I thought only alicorns could be princesses.”
“I’m half alicorn,” she responded, turning to him. “That’s good enough.” She tilted her head back slightly, staring down her nose at him. “At least, good enough for you.” She turned back to her homework and picked up her pencil. “Now, be quiet and let me work.”
Tango growled—then grinned wickedly. Foxie glanced towards him and saw the grin—and she took several sudden steps backwards, her mouth making a little “o.” Whiskey, hearing the commotion, poked her head back around the couch, and, seeing Tango’s half-manic smirk, trotted around to the front of the couch and sat down, smiling. This was going to be good.
Tango cleared his throat, making an effort to smooth out his smile, then bowed low. “My deepest apologies, your Highness,” he intoned gravely. “‘Twas a grievous error on my part to think you less than your station.”
Whiskey giggled, and Aurora turned to stare at him, eyebrow raised.
“After all,” he continued, eyes glittering “not only are you the daughter of Her Royal Highness, Auntie Twilight, but your patience, your humility, and, not to mention, your good humor are all worthy of veneration themselves.”
Aurora slowly set down her pencil, her face an expression of mixed confusion and dawning fury. Whiskey snorted and let out a laugh, then tipped over sideways and lay, wings, spread, kicking her legs in the air as she tried to stifle further giggles. Even Foxie was starting to smile.
“I mean,” Tango continued, with just a glance at his sisters, “With such a personality as yours, it’s only a matter of time before you are granted you your wings. After all, only the greatest and most worthy of equines, the paragons of righteousness and grace, are granted alicornhood—and, as you’ve said yourself, you are, indeed, worthy of the honor.” He paused, then cocked his head. “Well, to be honest, you haven’t said it… but, with an attitude like that, you don’t really need to…”
Whiskey laughed again, a sharp, barking guffaw, and demure little Foxie giggled. Even Tango himself, as he glared daggers at Rory, had a little hint of a smile on his face.
Aurora stared in disbelief between the three of them, then snarled. She didn’t know how, but this dumb little brat wasn’t just teasing her—he was humiliating her. In her house. In her living room. When all she wanted was to be left the hell alone.
This could not stand. It was time for the gloves to come off.
And she knew just where to stick the knife.
Aurora took a deep breath, then looked Tango in the eye. “At least I have a daddy who loves me,” she snarled.
Instantly, Tango’s expression fell—from smug self-satisfaction, to uncomprehending horror. Foxie clapped her hooves over her mouth, tears already forming in her eyes, and Whiskey, still on her back, froze.
Aurora grinned. Then she twisted the blade.
“After all,” she continued, “Whenever my mom goes to Canterlot, she always takes me with her. She doesn’t just dump me in someone else’s lap, make someone else take care of me. Maybe that’s why your daddy doesn’t love you,” she said. “Because no one loves you.”
Tango, tears running down his cheeks, tried to fake a snarl. “You take that back,” he hissed, his voice trembling.
“No,” she snapped. “Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
Tango whipped his head away, as if he had been struck. Whiskey rolled onto her stomach and began to stand. And a tear ran down Foxie’s face. Aurora glanced between the three of them, then grinned to herself. That’ll learn ‘em.
Then, without warning, Whiskey flared her wings.
And Aurora realized, very suddenly, that she had made a mistake.
* * *
“Are you sure about this?” Flash Sentry asked nervously.
“Sure about what?” Twilight said, pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven. She examined them carefully, then set them on the counter: golden brown, perfect circles—just like the recipe. She tried to make dinner and treats for everyone whenever her duties allowed, which, as much as she hated to admit, wasn’t very often; though she wasn't as good a homemaker as Pinkie Pie, she’d read enough cookbooks and culinary texts that she knew the basic principles, at least. And it just seemed like the motherly thing to do, anyways.
“Having WTF over,” Flash answered. He reached for a cookie, and Twilight gently slapped his hoof away. “Sorry,” he said, then sighed. “I mean… they haven’t exactly been kind to the neighbors, and, uh…” he swallowed. “I know you could use your rest…”
Twilight laughed, reaching for a spatula. “Come on, Flash,” she said. “I’m pregnant, not dying. Besides,” she said, “I’m in my second trimester. Now’s the easy part.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for your concern, though.”
He sighed, then ran a hoof through his mane. “I’m concerned for the castle, too,” he said, as Twilight scraped the cookies off the sheet and onto a plate. “I mean—Rory will bounce back. She always does. But…” he swallowed nervously. “What if they try one of their stunts in here? I can’t imagine how long the crystal will take to grow back from… well, from whatever it is they’re planning…”
Twilight laughed again, then pulled a jug of milk from the fridge. “Flash,” she said, now digging for a few glasses, “You worry too much.”
He grinned. “Dearest,” he said gently, “I’m the captain of your guard. It’s my job to worry.”
“Doesn’t mean you need to be so darn good at it,” she said with a smile. She arranged the glasses and milk on a tray, then lifted the plate of cookies in her magic. “Come on,” she said. “Grab that tray. I just hope—”
Suddenly, a scream echoed down the hall, followed by a crash. Twilight froze, then dropped the plate, shattering it on the floor, and sprinted down the hall, Flash galloping right behind her. Twilight skidded to a halt in front of the living room and threw the doors wide.
The doors opened on a scene of carnage. Scattered papers fluttered through the air. Whiskey straddled Aurora where she lay on the carpet, pummeling her with her with her hooves and shrieking incoherently, while Tango and Foxie frantically tried to pull her off. Aurora herself screamed, tears running down her face, hooves raised in a futile effort to stave her off. Whiskey raised her arm again, and blood dripped from her hoof.
“STOP,”roared Twilight.
Light flared from her horn, and Whiskey and Aurora were torn apart. Flash and Twilight ran to Rory, who now hung in the air, sobbing incoherently. Flash took her in his arms, and Twilight, with a sharp eye and little probes of magic, did a quick examination: nose bloodied, but not broken. Third incisor loose; it’ll heal. Bruise rapidly forming over left—no, both eyes. Hurt, but not injured, thank Celestia.
Twilight reached in and hugged her blubbering daughter, kissing her on the forehead. She looked up and into the eyes of Flash, who shot her a hard look. Twilight nodded, then turned to face the kids. She felt a black rage boiling up inside her—here she was, helping them! Giving them a place to stay! And they attacked her daughter! How dare they—?
And then she saw them. And the fire went out of her, as if quenched by cold water.
Whiskey lay where she had fallen, her wings flapping disjointedly, like some stricken bird, weeping—not crying out of fear or anger, but weeping, pouring out all the sorrows that her little heart could hold. Tango and Foxie had extracted themselves from the heap the three of them had fallen into, and were trying to shush her, but to no avail. As Twilight watched, Tango glanced up at her, then away—but, in that splinter of a second, she saw the tears on his cheeks, too.
Almost without thinking, Twilight lunged forward and swept the three of them into a hug. Whiskey reflexively wrapped her arms around her and squeezed tight, sobbing even harder. Tango and Foxie embraced Twilight too, and began to bawl themselves.
Twilight closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the three little bodies shuddered against her. Put away the Mama Bear, Twi, she told herself. It’s time for the Friendship Princess to come out. The Princess, not the Mama Bear...
“Flash,” she said carefully, “Take Rory to her room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Dear,” he responded, just as carefully, “Do you know what you’re doing? Or shall I—?”
“Flash,” she repeated. “Take Rory to her room. Please.”
For a moment, he did not move. Finally, Twilight heard him murmur something fatherly to Aurora, then turn and walk from the room, closing the door behind him.
Twilight pulled the kids in tighter. “Don’t worry,” she said to them, starting to rub Whiskey’s back. “Don’t worry… you’re gonna be alright…”
The three of them lay still in their little beds. Whiskey lay curled up under her covers, like a corpse in a morgue, and had not moved for hours. Tango lay on his side with one of his books open on the bed beside him; he had been staring at the same page for almost ten minutes now. Foxie aimlessly traced a pattern on her quilt, feeling the stitchwork under her hoof as she stared blankly up at the ceiling, humming the same wordless tune over and over to herself.
They heard someone’s hooves clip-clop down the crystal hallway towards them, stopping in front of their door. The handle turned, and the door swung partway open, revealing Aunt Twilight standing in the hall.
“Hey guys,” she said, gently.
Tango lifted his head, and Foxie turned to look at her. Whiskey did not move.
Twilight nodded back over her shoulder. “Could you come here for a minute?” she said. “I’ve got something for you.” She glanced between the beds. “All three of you.” She spoke gently, but firmly, and all three of them knew that this was not an invitation.
Twilight turned and started back down the hall. Foxie gingerly climbed from her bed, and Tango reached over and shook Whiskey gently. “C’mon,” he said, “Time to go.”
Whiskey unfolded herself, then climbed mechanically out of bed, following Tango as he left the room. Twilight was only a few feet ahead down the darkened hallway, walking slowly enough for them to catch up. They fell into line beside her, and the four of them walked in silence for a moment.
“There’s a bathroom there, if you need to wash up,” she said with a nod. “Otherwise, we’ll be in the kitchen.”
She looked up, and the three of them followed her gaze. Though the sun had set a while ago, and most of the castle was in darkness, one of the spotlights over the island in the kitchen had been left on. Next to the island stood three tall barstools, and, in front of each was a bowl of ice cream, with two perfect, white scoops each, glistening under the lights. In a small cluster at one end stood bowls and bottles of toppings—nothing too fancy, but with all the basics (chocolate sauce, caramel, whipped cream, and so on) present and accounted for.
“Go on,” Twilight prompted.
Slowly, Tango took a hesitant step forward. He turned to look questioningly at Twilight, and she nodded encouragement. He trotted to one of the stools and climbed up into it; he was followed a moment later by Foxie, and, finally, by Whiskey.
Twilight was no Pinkie Pie—after all, Pinkie probably still had the ice cream preferences of every pony in Ponyville memorized from her party days—but she always found it interesting how ponies ate their ice cream. Tango made an artful swirl of chocolate, then caramel, and topped it off with a light dusting of peanuts. Foxie laid on the whipped cream thick, with a generous helping of colored sprinkles, and a single, aesthetically-perfect cherry on top. Whiskey did not decorate hers at all, and instead dug right in.
Twilight waited until everyone had begun eating before she spoke.
“I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon,” she said.
Whiskey turned sharply away, and Tango dropped his spoon. “Rory started it,” he blurted. “I mean, I kinda did too, but I was just playin’, and then she got mean—”
Twilight held up a hoof, and Tango fell silent. Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“I know she started it,” she said. “I’ve already talked to her.”
“Is she okay?” asked Foxie timidly, earning astonished glances from both Tango and Whiskey.
Twilight nodded. “Only thing that really got hurt was her pride,” she said. She smiled, then leaned in conspiratorially. “And, between you and me—she’s deserved a good thumping like that for a while now.”
Tango snorted into his ice cream, and Foxie giggled. Whiskey’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth, then resumed its motion.
“I know she started it,” she repeated, more serious now. “But I also know that you did too, Tango—and you escalated it, Whiskey.” She swallowed. “Some ponies like their space, and some don’t like to be teased. Rory is both of those.” She shrugged. “Maybe because she’s an only child…” so far, Twilight added mentally, “...but she’s never learned quite how to have fun the way you guys do.” She sighed. “I wish she took things a little easier, but…” She shrugged. “Well. There’s still time.”
Twilight was quiet for a moment, then looked up again. “Be that as it may,” she said, “that does not mean that hitting her was the right thing—”
Whiskey’s spoon clattered against the counter, and all three turned to look at her. She glared back at Twilight, fresh tears forming in her eyes, matching the tear tracks already on her cheeks. “She talked about Daddy,” she said, her voice trembling. “Said Mama didn’t love us because we didn’t have a Daddy. Said—”
Twilight held up a hoof again. “I know,” she said. “We’ll get to that in a moment.”
Whiskey glared at Twilight, then picked up her spoon, and took another big, angry bite of her ice cream.
Twilight took a deep breath, then continued. “There are some times where you have to fight,” she said quietly. “And sometimes where maybe you should.” She sighed again. “And, believe me—I know how much words can hurt.” She glanced up at the three of them, a faint smile on her lips. “I mean, I had to deal with my fair share of bullies back in my day, too.”
Foxie stared back at her, eyes wide. “You mean—bullies used to pick on you? You, Princess Twilight?”
Twilight shook her head. “I wasn’t a princess back then,” she said. “But I was smart, and I liked to read. And that made some ponies jealous.” She chuckled. “In fact, I might have deserved a little of it—I was a bit of a stinker, back in the day…” Her smile faded. “But that didn’t make it any easier, sitting by myself with my books at lunch… In fact, I… I almost gave up on friendship, back then...”
Tango swallowed another bite, watching her carefully. For just a moment, Twilight’s gaze turned inward, and Tango thought he saw, just for a second, a glimpse of the little, awkward schoolfilly she once had been. Some ponies might have been scared by such an experience. But not Tango—in that moment, Tango realized that he loved his aunt.
Another moment of silence, and Twilight looked back up at them and smiled. The spell was broken.
“I know it’s hard,” she said. “But violence isn’t always the answer. There are times where you need to fight—but not all the times. When you get mad like that, you might end up doing something you’re going to regret.” She sighed. “And, though it might feel good in the moment, it’s not worth the heartache.” She looked at each of them in turn. “So: I know there’s some times where you can’t avoid it, and other times you can—but please. Think before you use your hooves. Okay?”
Foxie nodded immediately, Tango after Twilight turned to look at him, and Whiskey only after a long pause.
Twilight returned the nod, then sighed. And now the hard part.
“Rory, she…” she swallowed. “She told me a little of what she said. And, um…” she fluffed her wings nervously. “It sounded bad.”
The three of them nodded slowly.
“For what it’s worth,” Twilight said, “I’m sorry she said that. She shouldn’t have. And she said she’s sorry, too, though I expect you’d like an apology from her directly.”
More hesitant nods.
Twilight returned the nod herself. “I’ll see what I can do. I think she’s scared of you three now,” she said with a slight smile, “so I don’t know how willing she’ll be.” She shook her head a little. “In any case,” she said. “I wanted to ask…” She hesitated, then proceeded gingerly. “Um… you guys… you…” She swallowed. “You really miss not having a daddy, don’t you?”
Foxie looked away. Whiskey hung her head, making her mane fall in front of her face. Tango looked between the two, sighed, then put down his spoon. “I, uh…” He trailed off uncertainly.
Twilight nodded at him. “Go on,” she encouraged.
Tango swallowed, then looked up at her. “I don’t know what they’ll say, but…” He looked down again and started poking at his ice cream. “I don’t miss my daddy,” he said. “I don’t know who he is, or what he wanted, or why he didn’t stick around.” He shrugged. “How can you miss something you never had?” Whiskey slowly turned to look at him from under his mane, but he continued. “What I miss is what a daddy means,” he said.
Twilight waited for him to continue, but he had apparently said his piece. “What do you mean?” she prompted, after a moment.
Tango sighed. “All the books I read,” he said slowly, “all of ‘em talk about having a daddy. They talk about going hiking, and fishing, and wrestling with your dad. Of getting dirty and going hunting for bugs and talking about fillies and swearing. And even the other colts do it,” he said, looking away. “Their daddies teach ‘em how to fight and throw balls, and take ‘em to Colt Ranger meetings and all that.” He shrugged. “I mean, a whole lot of that doesn’t sound fun… bugs are kinda gross…”
Foxie nodded sagely. Whiskey pushed her mane out of the way and stared at them.
Tango swallowed. “But everywhere I go,” he said, quieter now, “Everyone says that’s how it should be: a mama, a daddy, and a buncha kids.” He closed his eyes. “Even in some of my stories, when someone’s daddy gets space-plague, or killed by robots, or lost in an asteroid field or something, it’s just an accident. He didn’t want to go. He always meant to come back. But our daddy...” He took a deep, shaking breath. “...I don’t even know his name.”
As he fell silent, Twilight felt her eyes fill with tears. She bit her lip and shook her head a little. No. She was the adult here—it was her job to be the emotionally stable one.
Finally, Tango looked up at Twilight. “So that’s what I mean,” he said. “Mama’s the best mama ever—but she’s not a daddy. And that makes us different. Makes us weird.” He snarled. “And I hate being weird.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment. Twilight looked between the three of them, then lowered her head and sighed. “Thank you,” she breathed.
The three of them looked up at her, wonderingly. After a moment, Twilight lifted her head and showed a weak little smile.
“That can’t have been easy, to say that,” she said. “But, if it makes you feel any better, I appreciate it.” She sighed and looked away. “And,” she said, slowly, “for what it’s worth—I’m sorry. I… I can’t imagine what it’s like… and I don’t think anypony deserves to feel that way.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tango bow his head, and heard him let out a long, low, shaking breath. It sounded as if he was on the verge of tears.
And then, Twilight chuckled a little. “Actually,” she said carefully, “I think that you and Rory might have more in common than you might think.”
Tango opened his eyes again, then stared up at her.
“You see…” Twilight chuckled to herself. “She has a mom and a dad… but, I’m so busy all the time, with all the princess things I have to do, she doesn’t get to see me a lot. And she’s just getting to that age where she needs a mom. Things are gonna start happening to her soon, and…” She hesitated, then swallowed. “Anyway. I think, maybe, she might be a little jealous of you. You don’t have a daddy, but she doesn’t have a mommy. Or, she doesn’t think she does.” She glanced at them, then smiled. “I mean, I’m trying to do better, but…” She swallowed. “Go easy on her, okay? If you can?”
The three of them stared at her blankly. Twilight smiled, then lit her horn.
“Now,” she said, “I know it’s a little late, and I know that you’re supposed to eat dessert after you have dinner, but how do you guys feel about grilled cheese sandwiches? And then we’ll go play some card games with Uncle Flash?”
Foxie swallowed. “Won’t that make Princess Aurora mad?”
Twilight chuckled. “Please,” she said, “don’t call her that. She already has a big enough head as it is. ‘Aurora’ is fine, or ‘Rory,’ if she’ll let you. And,” she added, “she’ll be fine. We already had ice cream and a talk earlier. And she actually wanted to spend time in her room. Like I said—I think she’s a little scared of you now.” She sighed a little. “We’ll make it up to her later. So,” she said brightly, “who wants to help with the sandwiches?”
Foxie climbed down from her stool almost immediately, and helped Aunt Twilight get out the ingredients. Tango joined her in short order, and helped Foxie butter the bread while Twilight dug out the frying pan. And, by the time the pan was almost ready, Whiskey climbed down from her stool, tied back her mane with a tie Aunt Twilight offered her, and helped to grate the cheese. She even smiled a little when Aunt Twilight cracked a dumb joke.
They were halfway through eating their sandwiches when Tango swallowed a bite, then turned to watch Aunt Twilight nervously. “Are you gonna tell Mama about this?” he asked.
Twilight chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. Then, she grinned. “I think it depends on how good you guys are.”
Tango rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Auntie,” he replied.
Twilight smirked. “That’s what grownups are for, isn’t it?” she replied.
Foxie giggled, Tango laughed, and even Whiskey smiled.
* * *
Late Sunday evening, a knock came at the castle door. Pinkie cracked the door open and poked her head inside just as Twilight, trailed by Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot,, bags already slung over their shoulders, entered the foyer.
When she saw her, Foxie’s eyes went wide. “Mama!” she cried, and broke into a run, followed close by the others. Pinkie crouched and swept them into an enormous hug, then gave each of them a kiss on the head.
“Oh, you little boogers,” she said, tears starting to form in her eyes, “I missed you so much.”
Whiskey squirmed a little. “It was only three days,” she muttered.
“I know,” Pinkie responded, kissing her again, making her squirm even more. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.” She set each of them down, then smiled. “You ready to go?”
“Almost,” Tango piped up. He set his bags down, and, before Pinkie or Twilight could say anything, he grabbed something out of them, and, holding it in his teeth, trotted off down the hall.
Twilight turned back to Pinkie and pulled her in for a hug. “Welcome back,” she said. “How was Canterlot?”
“Tiring,” she said, “but good—managed to meet a bunch of my old contacts, not to mention some new ones.” Pinkie grinned. “How were the kids?” she asked. “Didn’t give you too much trouble, did they?”
Tango, in the hallway, froze. He could almost hear Whiskey and Foxie holding their breaths.
“Oh,” Twilight said nonchalantly, “they had a little trouble adjusting at first, but they settled in pretty quick.”
Tango let out a long, nervous sigh.
“That’s good,” Pinkie said. “I was a little worried—”
Tango started trotting again, and rounded a corner as their conversation faded into a mumble. He glanced nervously at all the identical doors and started counting. Fifth door on the left, he paused. He took the object he held in his mouth in his hooves. He stared at it for a moment, then swallowed hard, reached up, and knocked on the door.
After a moment, he heard somepony approach the door from the other side, fumble with the doorknob, turn it, then start to pull the door open. Tango squeezed his eyes shut, then thrust out his arms.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Tango opened one eye gingerly.
The door had only been opened a few inches. In the crack stood Aurora, staring at him, an ugly bruise over her eye. Behind her were the pink pastel shades of her bedroom.
“What’s this?” she asked, glancing at the object he held in front of him.
“A peace offering,” he said nervously.
Aurora narrowed her eyes, then examined the book he held out to her. “The Lunar Chronicles,” she read off the cover. She looked back up into his face. “Isn’t Broad Berry above your grade level?”
“A little,” he said defensively.
Aurora stared at him for another moment, then suddenly took a step back and closed the door.
Tango let out the breath he was holding. He lowered the book, and stared again at the old, familiar cover, printed on cheap cardstock, worn white where he had held it, caressed it, over the years. He opened the cover and looked, once more, at the title page. In the top corner, was an old, worn, ink stamp (“PR-PERTY OF THE G-L-EN OAK LIB--RY”), and, underneath that, a red-and-white sticker (“The Grania A. ‘Granny’ Smith Memorial Library”), a line of black marker through its barcode. And, underneath that, someone had written, in the shaky pencil script of a child, the words TaNGo P. He closed the book again and held it up to his nose, breathing in its old, familiar scent one more time—a mix of age, of dust, of old glue, and the faintest whiff of woodsmoke. The smell of history. The smell of a life well-lived. He held it there for a moment longer, then slowly lowered it.
As he stared at the book, a soft, sky-blue glow enveloped it and lifted it gently from his hooves—and replaced it with an equally well-worn volume. He glanced up to see Aurora watching him through the crack in the door, then glanced back down at the cover and examined it carefully.
“Ivanhoof?” he read uncertainly.
Aurora nodded, then opened the door a little wider. “I prefer the classics, myself,” she said with the slightest smile.
Tango stared at the book for a moment longer, then pulled it close to his chest. “Thanks,” he said with a smile.
“You’re welcome,” she said. She hesitated, then took a deep breath. “...I’m sorry I said those things,” she said hesitantly. “About your dad, I mean.” She looked down. “I… I didn’t mean it, if you’ll believe me. I just…” she shook her head. “When I get mad, I tend to just… say things. Without really thinking about it. Y’know?”
Tango nodded carefully. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry I teased you. It’s, uh...” he chuckled. “It’s what I do when I get mad.” He thought for a moment, then held out his hoof. “Truce?”
Aurora smiled, and opened the door a little wider. She reached out her own hoof and clicked it against his. “Truce,” she said. She smirked, then tilted back her head. “Your princess has received your offer to resume diplomatic relations,” she said, with an airy tone of mock-haughtiness, “and she is pleased to accept.”
Tango grinned, then made a sweeping bow. “And your humble servant is glad to hear it, Your Highness.”
Aurora and Tango shared a giggle, before Tango glanced nervously back down the hall. “Sorry,” he said, “but I gotta go. Mama’s waiting for me.”
Aurora nodded. “Enjoy the book,” she said.
Tango smiled and nodded. “You too,” he said.
Aurora watched him go, then closed the door. She walked to the bed, sat down on it, then opened the book and began to read:
One minute, it was the dead of winter, icicles hanging off the trees, and ponies wrapped up tight in their coats.
Aurora snuggled deeper into her covers.
And then, a wave of summer warmth washed over the little town…
Foxie groaned to herself as Mr. Rich stepped to the front of the room. As he began to lecture on profit margins and macroeconomics, she slowly let her head drop to the desk. Career Day.
Well, at least it wasn’t spelling.
To be fair, it wasn’t all bad; Candy Stripe had gotten her aunt, Nurse Redheart, to come in, and Uncle Softie had told everyone about his new dance studio (he said he’d quit touring so he could be closer to his family, drawing more than a few disbelieving stares). She already knew all about the studio—Whiskey had been going regularly almost since the doors opened—but it was nice to hear someone talk about something she understood, at least.
But Foxie already knew what she wanted to do, for sure. She didn’t need someone telling her about what it was like to be a taxi puller, or a storekeeper, or a farmer. She wanted to be a baker, just like her Mama.
Plus, all too often, Aunt Cheerilee introduced them as “so-and-so’s father.” After years of this, it had almost started to feel like she was rubbing it in. And it was working—each time, Foxie felt a little twinge of jealousy. Not a big twinge, mind you—just a little one. After all, Mama was all the parent she’d ever need. She was kind, and loving, and hardworking, and always there. And she’d even started to show Foxie how to make bread and mix cakes on her own.
But still: sometimes it would be nice to have a daddy. Especially since that meant that Mama could come to Career Day and show everyone else how awesome it would be to be a baker.
After a moment of resting her head on her desk, Foxie felt someone’s gaze burning into her, and she knew, without looking, that it was Auntie—no, Mrs. Cheerilee. She didn’t like being called Aunt, not in the classroom. But Foxie picked her head up anyways and tried to pay attention.
Within minutes, she was starting to nod off.
Foxie gritted her teeth, then sat up and pulled out a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper. She glanced up attentively, as if she was taking notes—but her pencil moved in a different pattern entirely. Soon, under the point of her pencil, skating this way and that across her paper, a pony began to materialize: an enormous Filthy Rich, mouth wide open, an endless stream of bits spewing from his mouth and running off the end of the page. Another few strokes, and a crowd of foals slumped in their seats underneath him; a few strokes more, and they were all snoring, loud enough to shatter glass.
Foxie sat back and examined her drawing. It was a little mean, perhaps—but it really wasn’t all that bad of a resemblance. She smiled to herself and put her pencil down.
Whiskey looked over, stared at the drawing for a moment, and snorted. Mrs. Cheerilee looked up and glared at the two of them just as Foxie, smiling brightly, turned her paper over. She picked up her pencil again, then began to write, as if she was taking notes: Mr. rich is stupid and boring, and no one likes economiks except him. And career Day is stupid and boring too. And I like mrs.Aunt cheerilee better as an aunt than a teacher.
At that moment, the bell rang.
Mr. Rich looked up at the clock, then sighed dramatically. “Oh, darn it,” he muttered. He glanced over at Mrs. Cheerilee. “Shall we continue after lunch, or—?”
Foxie opened her desk and stuck her head inside, surfacing with the brown paper bag that held her lunch. Without waiting for Mrs. Cheerilee’s answer, she pushed her chair back noisily, then stood and started from the room. By the time she made it to the door, most of the class was on their hooves and rushing to escape.
Some of the foals immediately ran to the playground, but most of them scattered for their usual lunch-eating spots. Foxie glanced over underneath the apple tree, and sighed; since Pumpkin and Pound had gone off to Dream Valley Union High at the beginning of this year, older kids had started taking the spot they all used to share—this time, it was Azalea and Dew Drop. They saw her looking and sneered at her; Foxie took her bag from her teeth using her magic, then stuck out her tongue.
By the time she had turned back around, Whiskey and Tango had already taken their increasingly-accustomed spot against the schoolhouse itself. Whiskey already had her sandwich out—cheese, on Mama’s best crusty white bread—and was shoving it into her face with big, desperate bites, while Tango had started delicately on his apple. Both of them had their little cardboard boxes, tied with a bow, no more than three or four inches across, sitting on the grass beside them.
Foxie sat down and took her sweet time unpacking her lunch—after all, if something was worth doing, as Aunt Rarity had told them during one of her visits, it was worth doing properly. She dug her napkin from the bottom of her bag, then spread it carefully on the grass. Next, she pulled her sandwich (peanut butter and raspberry jam) from her bag, carefully unwrapped it, and set it in the center of the napkin. Next, she dug out her apple, polished it a little on her coat, and set it in the upper-right corner. Finally, she pulled her little cardboard box from her bag, tied with a pink ribbon, and set it just left-of-center, beside the sandwich.
She took no small pleasure from the exasperated glares she drew from her siblings during the whole production.
As she settled her box down, Whiskey put down her sandwich, and Tango his apple. Together, the three of them picked up their little boxes, then held them close together, each examining them carefully.
“...Chocolate,” Tango said first.
“Spice,” Whiskey added.
“Vanilla,” Foxie said slowly. “...with lemon-cream filling.”
Whiskey shot her a look as she tore the ribbon off her box, revealing a stunningly beautiful cupcake. She, as always, yanked it from the box and took a massive bite without hesitation. Immediately, she groaned.
“Fee god it,” she grumbled to Tango, spraying crumbs on him.
Tango rolled his eyes, then turned to Foxie. “How do you do it?”
She shrugged, still fussing with her box.
“No, seriously,” he said. “Mama makes a different flavor every day, with no real pattern—I’ve been taking notes,” he added, puffing out his chest a little. “But you’ve gotten, like…” He did some quick calculations in his head. “At least four of the last five right. How do you do it?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just get a feeling.”
“A feeling,” Tango repeated, voice flat.
She nodded, but said nothing more—instead, she finally got the lid of her box free, and lifted it. As she did, she let out a little gasp.
Carefully, she lifted the cupcake free from its little box using her magic. It was a cupcake, to be sure—but it was also a work of art. The frosting, a brilliant sky-blue, had survived the journey in her bags unscathed, and had been sculpted into a perfect, mountainous swirl. It was crusted over with big, clear sugar crystals, making the whole thing look more like an ice sculpture than an afternoon treat. And, of course, there was the vanilla cake—hoof-mixed to one of Mama’s custom recipes, the ones she had spent her entire life perfecting, stuffed with mouthwatering lemon cream.
She spent a moment more just staring at it, turning it this way and that, letting it twinkle in the sunlight. She should probably stop being amazed by now, but every single day, all three of them were treated to a new creation of Mama’s, carefully packed in the little cardboard boxes she had bought just for them. Every day, a new cake flavor—which had, of course, led to their guessing game—and, every day, a new, intricate decoration, three identical copies. Foxie knew they only did cakes by special order at the Bakery, so all the batters, all the frosting, all the decorations were just for the three of them. And even though it probably took her hours each night, on top of everything else she had to do, Mama did it all just for them. Her little way of saying “I love you,” of giving them a little hug even when they were at school.
Foxie smiled. She’d like to see Mr. Rich do something like that.
She stared for a moment more, then frowned, and lowered the cupcake. A couple yards away sat a small knot of colts and fillies. They had been busy with their own lunches, but, had stopped to stare at the cupcake with Foxie. When they saw her staring back at them, they quickly turned back to their own food—but not before one or two of them shot jealous, hungry glances back over their shoulders at her.
The three of them ate in silence. As always, Foxie saved her cupcake for last—and, when she finally bit into it, a little shiver ran from the base of her neck, all the way down her spine, and into her tail. She leaned back and moaned softly, then kicked her little hooves in pleasure.
She’d told Mama, so many times, that she needed to start actually selling these things. She told her that they’d be rich—but, every time, she’d just smiled and said she’d think about it. Foxie realized suddenly that, even if she did start selling her cupcakes, that they wouldn’t be the same—that they wouldn’t be for them anymore. That she wanted to keep it it all special, just between the four of them.
She took another bite, then leaned back against the schoolhouse beside like Tango and Whiskey. Foxie turned to watch the foals on the swing for a while, before she heard Whiskey scoff.
Foxie turned to follow Whiskey’s gaze. Apparently, it was lunchtime for the grownups, too; Uncle Softie was wiping Johnny’s mouth with a napkin, and, a few steps away, Uncle Mac was lying back on the grass, sharing lunch with Mrs. Cheerilee. And, over there, under the other tree, was Uncle Flash and Aurora. Tango waved at Rory, and, though she quickly looked away, Foxie saw her shy little smile, and the half-wave she sent back at him.
“Where does she get off?” Whiskey grumbled suddenly.
Tango and Foxie turned to look at her. Whiskey noticed their stares, then turned to face them.
“Aunt Cheerilee,” she said. “Everyone’s dad is here, but there’s like, two moms…” she waved her hoof irritably at where Nurse Redheart sat with a filly with a pink-and-white mane—her niece, Candy Stripe. “...and she doesn’t count,” she added. She sank a little lower against the building. “Mama woulda come,” she grumbled. “If she’d been asked.”
They all knew it was a lie. Pinkie would do anything for the three of them, but she was all by herself, and the mornings were when she did all her prep work for the day. She would come—if it didn’t mean that they might lose out on a whole day of sales. If it didn’t mean they might not make rent that month.
Foxie watched as Whiskey wiped away a budding tear. “It’s not fair,” she grumbled, mostly to herself.
Tango leaned back against the school with a sigh. He had that look again—that turned-inward look, where you could tell that he was no longer quite listening. He had retreated into his head, to do whatever it was that he did in there—fly his spaceships, probably.
Foxie watched them quietly. As she watched them—each dealing with their great shared heartache, in the only ways they knew how—she realized that she loved them. Oh, she’d known it before—but it was always in the background, in the same way that you know the sun has risen, even if you weren’t looking at it.
But now, she knew it, for sure. And these three little foals—herself included, for she wasn’t entirely free of it either—had one thing that was keeping them from being truly happy.
And suddenly, she clenched her jaw.
She stood. “Let’s do something about it,” she said.
Tango and Whiskey looked up at her.
“Do something about what?” Whiskey asked, blankly.
“Daddy,” she said. “All we need to do is find him, and he’ll come right back. I mean,” she added, “we love him, and Mama loves him, too—she said it herself. And she makes the best bread and cakes in Ponyville. And we’re practically the best-behaved kids around!”
“Kinda,” Tango interjected.
“Kinda,” Foxie agreed. “So, why wouldn’t he come back?”
Whiskey looked up at her, the faintest glimmer of hope in her eyes. “But,” she said, “where are we gonna find him? Equestria’s a big place…”
“Canterlot,” Foxie said eagerly. “Mama said she met him in Canterlot, and they lived there awhile. That’s where he is. And that’s where we’ll go.”
Whiskey sank just a little. “But we don’t even know his name,” she said. “How are we gonna find him?”
Tango scoffed. “Canterlot can’t be that big,” he said. “I’m sure, once we get there, all we need to do is start looking, and we’ll find him in no time. After all,” he said with a grin, “you meet half the ponies in Ponyville just walking through town square—not to mention all of Mama’s customers. Can’t be too much different there.” The paused, then tapped his hoof against his chin thoughtfully. “But, the train isn’t free…”
Foxie deflated a little. She’d forgot about that detail…
And then, Tango looked down and smiled.
Foxie followed his gaze. He was staring at the half-eaten cupcake still sitting on Foxie’s napkin.
Foxie swallowed. She had an idea where this was going—and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
But, if this is what it was going to take to fix their family, then…
It was a bright, sunshiny spring day, with fresh leaves on the trees, and the smell of flowers in the air. Pinkie Pie took a deep breath as she trotted down the lane, then nodded greetings to a pair of ponies she passed. Today was a good day, she thought. Spring was her favorite season, and days like this were the reason why—nice and warm, with the birds singing in the trees, and with everypony smiling.
Plus, the boogers had finally gone on that field trip, the one they’d been talking about for months. It was just a short daytrip to the Natural History Museum in Canterlot, not a big trip by any means—but, well, baking didn’t allow for many extras, and even a trip like this was huge for them. Whiskey was excited to see the dragon skeletons, Tango the astronomy exhibit, and Foxie the gem and mineral collection. In fact, they had been so excited that, this afternoon, she’d closed up shop for an hour or so—enough time to meet them at the station, to see their bright, smiling faces, and to hear about their big adventure all the way home.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost missed Cheerilee as she passed her.
Suddenly, Pinkie froze. She heard a sound in the back of her mind, like a single piano note, played on an instrument in desperate need of a tuning. Slowly, she turned around—and there she was, bobbing away down the street, headed the opposite direction. Pinkie swallowed, then jogged after Cheerilee, catching up with her in a few steps.
Cheerilee plodded along, head down. She wore enormous saddlebags, packed full to bursting, with worksheets and essays poking out the top. The bags under her eyes were almost as large.
“Heya, Cheery,” Pinkie said as she fell into step beside her. A quick waterfall of isolated piano notes jangled in her mind, like someone had dropped a wingnut on the wires. “How you doing?” she asked her, trying to ignore the sound.
Cheerilee looked up and smiled—but, far too quickly, her smile collapsed again. “Hey, Pinkie,” she said. “I’m doing alright. Just…” She shrugged, jostling her saddlebags, making the papers inside rustle pointedly. “The joys of being a teacher.”
Pinkie nodded. “I know what you mean,” she said. She swallowed, valiantly trying to ignore the pony who had started playing Chopsticks on that broken old piano of theirs. “I mean,” she continued, “I haven’t graded many papers myself—but get a little behind on bakery orders, and…”
Cheerilee nodded. “Everything just piles up.” She sighed heavily. “But, to be completely honest,” she said, “things were a little easier today. After all, your little ones were out.”
Pinkie’s eyes went wide. A pause—then the piano in her head began to play rapid scales.
Cheerilee hadn’t noticed. “I know that I’m their aunt and all,” she was saying, “but I hate having to teach them, too… I have to be the stern disciplinarian in the classroom, and the ‘cool aunt’ when I see them at home—”
“The, uh…” Pinkie interrupted. She hesitated again, then swallowed. “The kids weren’t at school today?”
Cheerilee glanced over at Pinkie uncertainly. “No,” she said slowly. “Weren’t they sick? I found a doctor’s note under the door this morning…”
The scales grew louder—louder, and more frantic. She swallowed, trying to force them down. “B-b-but wasn’t there a f-field trip today?” she stammered. “C-Canterlot? F-for the fifth graders?”
A second piano had joined in, pounding so loud that Pinkie almost couldn’t hear.
Cheerilee frowned. “Field trip?” she asked, confused.
Crack. A piano wire snapped. And suddenly, all was very, very still.
Cheerilee walked a few more steps before she realized that Pinkie was no longer beside her. She turned and walked back to where she stood in the middle of the road, stock-still and eyes wide. “Everything alright?” Cheerilee asked uncertainly.
For a moment, Pinkie did not move. Then, she spoke, so quiet she was almost inaudible.
“I have to go,” she said.
Pinkie turned and sprinted for home. In her head, a whole flock of broken pianos, joined by a full-sized brass band, had started pounding out William Tell.
* * *
Pinkie threw open the front door, sending it crashing against the plaster. “Kids?” she shrieked into the silent bakery. The brass band had swelled to a whole satanic orchestra, screaming the 1812 Overture. And someone had started breaking windows.
Cheerilee ran up beside her, panting. “Check the kitchen,” Pinkie barked. She knew they would not be in the kitchen.
Pinkie ran for the stairs, vaulted the “PRIVATE” chain, and took the staircase three steps at a time. “Kids?!” she screamed. She ran to their bedroom and practically tore the door off its hinges. She looked inside and froze.
The room was spotless. Tango’s books were neatly organized on his shelf, Foxie’s colored pencils had found their way into their box, and Whiskey’s dance flats had finally been tucked under her bed.
But the blankets and pillows were gone. And their saddlebags were not hanging from their pegs.
And, taped to the wooden foot of Foxie’s bed was an envelope marked “Mama.”
Pinkie leapt forward and snatched up the envelope. She tried frantically to open it, scrabbling uselessly at the paper, until Cheerilee appeared by her side and took the envelope, gently but firmly, in her hooves. She silently gripped one of the short edges in her teeth, tore it free, then handed it back to Pinkie. Pinkie upended the envelope, and a single sheet of lined paper fluttered out. She unfolded it with shaking hooves, as the orchestra in her head settled into an agonizing drum roll:
Dear Mama,
We have gone to Canterlot by ourselves. We are going on the train. Don’t worry. We are going to go find Daddy.
FWHEEEEEEEEEEEE
A steam whistle exploded in Pinkie’s brain, its high-pitched squeal making her knees wobble and collapse. “They’re—they—we—”
Cheerilee took the letter and scanned it. “They left this morning,” she said. “Number four train. They should be—”
She looked up and paled. Pinkie had scrambled out of the room. “Pinkie!” she cried, and dashed after her.
Pinkie ran into the town square. She looked up frantically. Train station—where— But all she could see was color, whirling colors, blues and greens and whites and dark brown and cream and pink and oh god, the kids—
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t scream. Clouds gathered and the colors swirled and the sky grew darker and the clouds turned purple and—
“Pinkie, breathe,” Twilight commanded.
She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Again.”
Pinkie took a second one, and, slowly, the colors started to resolve. She was in the town square. And ponies were milling about, some looking at her. And Cheerilee stood off to the side, looking worried. And Twilight Sparkle had her gripped tight by the shoulders.
“That better?” she asked.
Pinkie did a little half-nod—then gave her head a half-shake—then the walls started to close in again—
“Pinkie, stay with me,” Twilight barked. “Breathe.”
Pinkie took another deep breath, then stared up at Twilight.
“The kids—” she gasped. “They—they’re—” And her eyes started to glass over again.
Twilight gave her a little shake. “Pinkie, snap out of it!” she cried. “What happened?”
Cheerilee stepped forward and handed her the note. “They left this,” she said. Twilight unfolded it and read it carefully—then folded it up again decisively. “Right,” she said. “They’re in Canterlot. So that’s where we’re going.”
Pinkie looked up at her. “We’re—?”
“We’re going after them,” she finished for her. “I’m sure they’re okay, but we need to get them. Canterlot’s not a bad town, but it’s not a place for three little foals on their own.” She looked over at Cheerilee. “You coming?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I’m needed at home,” she said. “And, uh…” she swallowed. “I think Pinkie’s in good hooves now.”
Twilight nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “We’ll keep you posted.” Twilight grabbed Pinkie by the hoof, then marched towards the train station. Pinkie followed, mystified.
“W-what are we gonna do?” she whimpered.
Twilight glanced back at her, then looked straight ahead again. “We’re gonna find your kids,” she said again.
“B-but how?” she almost-whined. “Canterlot’s so big, and…”
Twilight looked back at her again, and examined her carefully for a moment. “Do you remember when I had them over for a weekend, a year or two ago?”
Pinkie nodded.
Twilight sighed. “Well, I… I put a tracking spell on them.”
Pinkie looked up in alarm, but said nothing.
“I did it for Rory years ago,” she said. “And I thought they could use it, too. Now, all we need to do is get to Canterlot, and I can take you straight to them.”
Pinkie nodded blankly, only the faintest spark of comprehension making it past her fear.
Twilight tugged on her arm. “Come on,” she said, “let’s pick up the pace. There should be a train leaving soon…”
* * *
Foxie pressed her nose to the window. “Look!” she cried. “Canterlot!”
Whiskey and Tango joined her at the window.
As they watched, the train rounded the mountain, bringing the gleaming white castle of Canterlot, and the city surrounding it, into view.
“Whoa,” Whiskey said, breathlessly.
Tango whistled appreciatively. He watched the city for a moment, then let out a long, slow sigh and bowed head. Foxie couldn’t blame him; this had been his idea, and, after months of scheming—of planning—of scrimping and saving—it was finally paying off. Everything had almost fallen apart at the last minute this morning: the nine o’clock train had been delayed, so they’d had to play regular hooky for a while—and, when it had finally arrived, it took them two or three stops to realize they were going the wrong direction. But now everything was right again, and they were almost there. Close enough that they could almost taste it.
Tango kept his head down for several long heartbeats. Finally, he raised his head and stared at the city again. “It’s big,” he said. “A lot bigger than Ponyville…”
Whiskey shook her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We’ll be okay.”
Foxie grinned. The city was big, true—but it was also beautiful. It shone in the mid-afternoon sunlight, almost like one of Mama’s cupcakes.
Mama…
Foxie peeled herself away from the window and sat, then bowed her head. Whiskey noticed her first and pulled away from the window, then sat beside her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Foxie glanced back out the window; Tango, still standing beside it, was watching her with worry. “It’s, just…” she shrugged. “I feel bad for Mama.”
Whiskey and Tango looked at each other. Tango sighed, then sat down on her other side. “Me, too,” he said. “I mean—we’ve played plenty of pranks. But this is different. This time, we actually tricked her.”
Foxie nodded, as did Whiskey. “And the cupcakes,” Whiskey added. “She tried so hard for us…”
“An’ we sold ‘em,” Foxie interjected, bitterly. “Sold ‘em at lunch for whatever change they had.” She shook her head. “All her effort, wasted...”
Tango looked up sharply. “It wasn’t a waste,” he said, quickly. Both of his sisters looked at him; he stared back, his gaze hard and flinty. “Mama made those cupcakes because she wanted to make sure we were taken care of,” he said. “And now, because she made them for us—” he turned his gaze back to the city. “Now we’ll get taken care of better than ever.”
Foxie watched him carefully, then slowly nodded. She sat back against the seat and sighed. Yes, she thought. Better than ever.
If we can just…
She shook her head, then looked out the window again, at the fast-approaching city.
* * *
“Thanks,” Twilight said, curtly. She picked up her two tickets, then turned and pulled Pinkie towards the platform. She followed, easily enough, but still walked in a daze.
Twilight thought for a moment, then sighed. She really couldn’t blame her—after all, if anything happened to Rory, or to little Borealis… well, probably react like Pinkie was. Worse, even.Either that, or she’d tear Equestria apart to find them.
She whispered a little prayer to Celestia that she would never have to find out which.
Twilight led Pinkie across the platform, then onto the waiting train. The conductor had agreed to hold the train for Her Royal Highness Princess Twilight Sparkle for a few minutes (one of the few times in recent memory she’d enjoyed using her full title). As soon as they were aboard, one of the conductors closed the door behind them then hurried to the front. A moment later, and the engine began to chug, and the car lurched forward.
Twilight stumbled, but kept to her hooves. She pulled Pinkie along, and guided her into a seat. As she sat down across from her, she sighed; she hadn’t liked lying to Pinkie like that. True, she had cast a tracking spell on her kids, but it was only good for the weekend, and would only let her know if they were going someplace they weren’t supposed to, like up onto the rooftop, or into her personal office, or into the library. No spell she knew of would last a year and a half, nor would it let her find them that easily. She had hoped that it would help calm Pinkie down—that, if she had a little bit of hope to hold on to, that she would start to see sense.
Well. Time for a different tactic.
“Pinkie?” she said gently. Pinkie did not react.
“Pinkie,” Twilight repeated, a little more insistent. Pinkie jerked her head up, as if snapping awake.
“Huh?” she said, distractedly.
“Pinkie,” Twilight repeated again, “We need to think. Why are they going to Canterlot? And what are they hoping to find there? That would give us a place to start, at least.”
Pinkie’s bottom lip started to tremble. “I thought you said you had a spell—”
Twilight nodded vigorously. “I do,” she said. “But we need to have an idea where to start looking. The spell has a limited range.”
Not a lie; the range was “within eyesight.”
Pinkie swallowed. “W-well,” she said, “I… I don’t think I’ve told them much… at all...”
Twilight nodded. A little surprising, but not unexpected.
“B-but… I think they might have overheard me, once...” Pinkie looked out the window and fell silent.
Twilight watched her carefully, but she did not speak again. Finally, Twilight cleared her throat. “And where do you think we should start?” she said.
Pinkie looked back at Twilight, her expression blank. “I-I don’t know where they’re gonna go, but…” Something sparked behind her eyes. “Maybe…”
Twilight leaned forward, expectantly.
Pinkie set her jaw. “A dance hall,” she said. “I first met Tricky at a dance hall.”
Twilight cocked her head. Tricky…?
* * *
The train whistle blew as the three little foals disembarked. Tango looked around, and his eyes went wide.
He walked across the platform, through the train station, and into the streets—and stared. He had read about Canterlot, of course—but knowing its population numbered in the tens of thousands was different than actually seeing it. The road was packed with more ponies than he had ever seen in his life—and all the side-streets and skyscrapers only spoke of more.
He sat down, hard, on the sidewalk, the mass of moving ponies flowing around him like water. Whiskey and Foxie walked up beside him as he stared, wide-eyed, at the crowd. For a moment, all three were silent, just taking it all in.
“Tango, you blockhead,” Whiskey growled suddenly. “How are we gonna find Daddy in all this?”
Tango looked back up at her, mystified. She glared back at him, tears just beginning to gather in her eyes.
He swallowed. “I dunno,” he said uncertainly. “Ask around?”
“Who do we ask?” Whiskey snapped. She cocked her head and began to speak in a nasally whine. “Hello, policeman? We’re three foals in need of a daddy. Do you know of a daddy in need of foals?”
“Hey, can it!” Tango spat, climbing to his hooves. “This was your idea, too—don’t put this on me!”
“Yeah, well, you’re the egghead who was supposed to think this all through!” she shot back. “That’s your job, isn’t it? Mine is to beat people up, and yours is to use that brain of yours, and Foxie’s—”
She glanced over his shoulder, and suddenly fell silent. Slowly, she leaned to one side to get a better look at whatever was lurking bheind him. Tango followed her gaze uncertainty—and saw Foxie, standing tall, with her head held high and her eyes closed, humming quietly to herself.
It took Tango a moment to realize that she was swaying slightly on her hooves, and, as she leaned this way and that, the pitch of her hum slid up and down.
“Foxie?” Whiskey said carefully, “What in Equestria are you doing…?”
“Shshshsh,” Foxie hissed under her breath. She turned her head slightly to the left, towards the two of them, and held that pose for a moment, before taking a single side-step towards them.
Tango stepped backwards and Whiskey flared her wings. “Watch it, Foxie,” Tango said warningly. A big stallion walking down the sidewalk with the crowd huffed irritably, then, with his nose up in the air, joined the throngs walking around them.
But Foxie did not notice. She turned her head the other way, her humming getting higher and higher, then staggered two or three steps to her right until she was facing the flow of traffic. Suddenly, her hum ended with a pleasant little flourish.
Foxie opened her eyes and smiled. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder, “Daddy’s this way!” And, with that, she broke into a bouncy little trot.
Tango and Whiskey looked at each other, then scrambled after her. Tango caught up to her first, and fell into step beside her.
“Daddy’s this way?” he repeated incredulously.
She nodded cheerfully. “Yep!”
He frowned. “But… how do you know?”
She looked over at him. She held her gaze for just a moment—but, in that moment, her smile hardened. Her look was no longer schoolfilly glee—but fierce determination.
“I have a feeling,” she said, with all the gravity her little body could muster.
And she picked up the pace, Tango beside her, Whiskey struggling to follow in the crowd.
* * *
“Pinkie,” Twilight said, gently, “I think it’s time we... talked. But I don’t mean to pry—so, please say so if you don’t want to answer—”
Pinkie nodded encouragingly.
Twilight took a deep breath, then spoke. “What… what happened? Between you and… you and, um… Tricky?” Twilight glanced up at her. She opened her mouth, and, before she knew it, she was babbling again: “I mean, it’s none of my business what you do behind closed doors, but I think it might be important now since the kids are going after him and…”
Pinkie stared at her, eyes watering, then reached out and touched her hoof. “It’s alright,” she said.
Twilight stuttered to a halt, mid-sentence. She swallowed, then looked up at Pinkie with apologetic eyes.
“It’s alright,” she repeated. “I… I think I can talk about it, now.” She smiled a little at Twilight, then turned to look out the window. She was quiet for a long time—so long, in fact, that Twilight thought she might have forgotten her, lost somewhere in the hallways of her own mind.
And then, suddenly, she spoke.
“Hat Trick,” she said.
Twilight opened her mouth. She held it there for just a moment, almost as if was going to speak, but quietly closed it again.
“Hat Trick was his name,” Pinkie repeated quietly. “He… he was a distributor. Sold party supplies, including food dyes—that’s why he was at the baking competition, you know. Wanted to see who was using what, and who he might be able to sell to.” She was quiet for just a moment. “He was young, he was smart, and he loved to party. And he had the money for it, too—inherited the business from his dad, or something. Small, but profitable.” She sighed. “He saw me there, covered in frosting—musta caught his eye then—but it was only later, when we bumped into each other at the dance hall, that something just clicked. He was handsome...” She chuckled. “...but I was still a little frazzled from baking. And still, he…”
Pinkie trailed off, watching the rolling hills outside her window. Twilight shuffled awkwardly.
“Whirlwind romance, I think, is the word,” Pinkie began again. “It was all so sudden—but that just made it feel like a fairy tale. ‘Love at first sight,’ and all that. One minute, I was at the competition… the next, we were dancing at one of the clubs… and, the next, we were in his room, doing an entirely different kind of dancing.” She chuckled darkly. “For a little while, it was beautiful… But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.”
Pinkie was quiet for another moment. “Tricky… He was funny, and smart, and we had so much fun together. But, I’m a giver—always have been… and Tricky was a taker. And I mean that. Almost everything he did, he took.” She hesitated. “Every business deal—even with me—was always about him. How much he could squeeze out of the pony on the other end. And when we partied—well, I always tried to make sure everyone was having a good time. But Tricky was only there for him. He wanted to have fun, no matter who else got ignored. Or hurt.”
Twilight sucked in a breath, but said nothing.
Pinkie continued as if she hadn’t noticed. “It came in other ways, too,” she said. “Like, whenever we disagreed, he always played the victim. ‘How come we always do what you want to do,’ that sort of thing. And yet, despite all that…” She sighed. “I was happy.”
Twilight caught sight of her smile in the window—and watched it turn to a frown. “Or, at least, I thought I was,” she said. “I don’t even know if I can explain it—as long as we were doing what suited him, whether it was dancing, or drinking, or sex, it was so much fun. More than I’d ever had. I thought I’d found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—a stallion who could take care of me, who I could have fun with, who would stay by my side forever. And, all his little spots of tarnish could be polished away—I could solve them, just like any other friendship problem we’ve ever had.” She hesitated. “And then...”
She was quiet for a long time, this time. Twilight looked away, then glanced back—and saw her face in the window again, tears rolling down her cheeks. Twilight’s eyes widened, then she leaned in and put her hoof on her shoulder. Pinkie straightened up, as if electrified. She stayed that way for a moment, then sagged.
“I had planned a romantic dinner and everything,” she said quietly. “I was a month or two along by that time—you know how it goes. And I wanted it to be a special moment, for both of us. This would be how we would fix things. This would be the answer to all our problems. This would be what we needed to really be happy. And, when I told him—” she shivered. “He blamed me for it. Said it was my fault. That I had liedto him. That I was being selfish. That I was going to ruin his life.”
Slowly, she turned to look at Twilight. Twilight shrank back—Pinkie’s gaze was a pit of hollowness and fear.
“He said that he never wanted kids,” she said. “And that I was a moron for thinking he ever would.”
Whiskey saw him first. She didn’t need to know his name, or what he looked like, or have some weird sixth sense to tell her—this was her Daddy.
He stood across the street, and a block or two down. He was facing away from them, and talking to a pretty mare, a trilby hat perched jauntily on his head, just behind his horn. His coat was deep, dark-chocolate brown, just like hers—and he had four white socks, going halfway to his knees, just like Tango—and something about his bearing, the way he carried himself, reminded her of Foxie’s bounciness. As she watched, he reached up and stroked the mare’s face, then leaned in and kissed her, tenderly. Just as she knew he would do to Mama.
And something exploded inside of her.
“Daddy!” she shrieked, and flung herself skyward.
She spread her wings and weaved through traffic, leaving honking horns and swearing drivers in her wake. She dived, then slammed into his hind leg and hugged him tight, feeling his warmth, his strength, feeling him. “Daddy,” she gasped, tearfully.
“What the hell?” he yelped in surprise, looking down at her.
The mare looked down at her as well. “I, uh.... I have to go, Tricky,” she said uncomfortably, then turned and left.
Daddy—Tricky—turned after her. “Aw, come on,” he whined. “Don’t be like that…”
The other mare looked over her shoulder at him, but kept walking.
“Damn it,” Tricky muttered. He looked down at Whiskey, then tried to pull his leg out of her grasp. “Get off me, kid,” he snapped.
She was so surprised that she let go of her own accord.
Tricky hmphed. He took a step away, then looked back—and saw Tango and Foxie crossing at the streetlight. He looked down at Whiskey, and back up at the other two, and something seemed to catch in his brain. He paled slightly, then turned and slipped into a nearby alley.
Whiskey sat there on the pavement, wide-eyed, until Tango and Foxie grabbed her under her arms. “C’mon, get up,” Tango said, “Let’s go after him.”
Whiskey allowed them to pull her to her hooves, and the three of them followed Tricky into the darkened alley. Tricky himself was still trotting down it, and almost out the other side.
“Wait!” Tango cried.
And, to everyone’s astonishment, he did. He turned his head to see who it was, but they were already running towards him.
Just as the three of them closed to leap-hugging distance, he spun to face them and planted his hooves. “What do you brats want?” he snapped, lighting his horn.
The three of them skidded to a halt. Whiskey’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. This isn’t how she thought it would go—not at all.
She heard Foxie clear her throat, then take another step forward. “Mister,” she said, in the most polite voice she could muster, “I think that you might be our daddy.”
“That’s a lie,” he snarled. “I’m no one’s daddy.”
Foxie let out a little gasp and shrank back. Tango looked at her anxiously, then back up at him. “I think she’s right,” he said. “Our mama’s named Pinkie Pie, and—”
“Pinkie Pie?” he gasped, straightening up and dousing his horn.
Whiskey raised her head and stared at him, feeling the hope in her heart grow a little brighter. Was he finally…?
He looked down at them, his shock melting into a glare. “What does that bitch want now?” he snapped. “She after my money again?”
Whiskey’s mouth fell open.
“N-no,” Tango said, his voice barely a whimper.
“And why are you here?” he barked. “What do you want?”
Tango quailed, but Foxie stepped up to the plate.
“We wanted to meet you,” she said. “We thought you’d be happy to—”
“Listen,” he hissed, bending down low to them. “That slut—if she really is your mother—is a cheat. She lied about being pregnant to scam me out of everything. And, if you believed her, you’re either morons, or liars yourselves.“ He glared at the three of them—Foxie with tears in her eyes, Tango recoiled in horror, and Whiskey with her mouth hanging open. “Now, get out of here before I call the cops for harassment,” he snapped. “Harassment and extortion.”
Whiskey squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. No. This couldn’t be happening. This was all wrong. This isn’t what Daddy was supposed to do. He was supposed to love them. Scoop them up in his arms. Take them out for hayburgers and bring them home for a sleepover. Not scream and swear and threaten them. No. She had waited ten years for this—and it was all going wrong.
And then, it happened, almost without her thinking. Whiskey planted her hooves at an angle to her body, like Uncle Flash had shown her. She pivoted around, feeling Uncle Softie’s hooves moving over her body, guiding her movements all over again. She shifted her weight onto her forehooves and lifted her back legs, just like Uncle Mac did on the farm. And, with a scream of bottled-up fury, of ten years of heartache, ten years of frustration, ten years of burning rage—Whiskey bucked Tricky in the muzzle with a sickening crunch.
Tricky clapped his hooves to his nose and stumbled backwards three or four steps, cursing darkly. Whiskey landed, then spun back around to face him again, her chest heaving. Tango and Foxie glanced at her, and saw her staring at Tricky, eyes full of hatred, tears running down her cheeks.
Tricky swore again, then pulled his hooves away from his face. They came away bloody. He stared at them for a moment—then looked up at the three foals, fire in his eyes. He took a step forward, straightened himself up to his full height, and lit his horn.
And Whiskey realized, very suddenly, that she had made a mistake.
* * *
“Pinkie,” Twilight said, horrified, “Tricky, he… he never hurt you, did he?”
Pinkie shook her head slowly. “No,” she said, “Not with his hooves, at least. Or his horn.” She took a breath, then let it out. “But I think that’s only because I knew where his lines were.”
She swallowed.
“That’s because I knew when to stop.”
* * *
Tricky took another step forward. “You goddamn brats,” he snarled.
Whiskey, Tango and Foxtrot each started backpedaling, the three of them pressed together, shivering.
“I’m gonna wring your filthy little necks,” he breathed, advancing, “and them I’m gonna—”
The kids bumped up against something solid and froze.
“No, you won’t,” said a voice immediately behind them.
All four turned to stare. A mare stood in the center of the alleyway, with Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot pressed up against her forelegs. The bright sunlight at the end of the alley left her a black silhouette.
Tricky straightened up and looked down his nose at her. “Excuse me?” he said, trying to force a note of authority into his voice.
“I said,” she repeated, unfazed, “you will do no such thing.” Her voice was cold and level, but with a sharp, steel edge.
“Who are you to threaten me?” he snapped. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“No, I don’t,” she responded, in that same, level tone. “Nor does it especially matter, when I have you on tape threatening three minors with assault and homicide.”
A flash of worry crossed his face. “I’m in the right here!” he shot back. “She is guilty of assault, and—”
“No jury in Equestria,” she cut him off, “will convict a filly of assault against her father who owes her ten years of back child support.”
Tricky took a step backwards, mouth open, but said nothing.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” said the mare.
Tricky looked at her, incredulous. “I’m not going anywhere until—”
“I think you misunderstood,” she said, cold and level as ever. “I said, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
She put no extra emphasis on her last word—nor did she need to.
Tricky stared at her—and then, the three of them watched something break inside of him, watched as he seemed to collapse in on himself. He turned, and, glancing back over his shoulder, broke into a trot—then a run—until he disappeared around the corner.
The three kids let out a breath they didn’t realize they’d been holding. Tango took a step forward, then turned and bowed his head.
“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “I… I don’t know what we would’ve done without you…”
“Run, probably,” Foxie joked, with a smirk.
Whiskey nodded. “Thanks,” she added.
“No problem,” the mare said. Her voice had softened just a touch, lost its steel edge, but remained otherwise unchanged.
Tango lifted a hoof to shade his eyes, and squinted up at her. “Why’d you help us, anyways?”
She lowered her head, and, as she grew closer to them, they could finally see past the shadow—and into soft, emerald eyes, set in a gentle gray face.
“Because,” she said, “I’m one of your aunts.”
* * *
Pinkie leapt off the train almost before it had rolled to a stop, She whipped her head this way and that, frantically searching for her children, straining her eyes against the burning sunset.
Twilight stepped off behind her. “Calm down, Pinkie,” she said. “We’ll find them, don’t worry.”
Pinkie swallowed. “B-but it’s almost night time,” she said. “They’re out there, alone, and it’s almost dark! What are they gonna do? How are we—?”
“Princess Twilight?”
Both of them looked over at the stallion who had spoken—one of the security guards for the train station, judging by his uniform. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but this was left at the office for you.” He held out an envelope, with an official-looking seal in the top-left corner, addressed, in perfect print, to “Twilight Sparkle & Pinkie Pie, ℅ Canterlot Central Station. Deliver Immediately Upon Arrival.”
Twilight took the envelope and tore it open, Pinkie hopping anxiously behind her. Out fell a single notecard and two tickets. Twilight read the card carefully, while Pinkie examined the tickets. They looked up at each other.
Pinkie spoke first. “What in Celestia’s name has this got to do with anything?”
Twilight shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s as good a place to start as any.”
Twenty minutes later, they stood outside the Canterlot Museum of Natural History. Twilight presented their two tickets and the notecard to the guard at the door; he took their tickets, then muttered something into his radio. Within a few minutes, a short, skinny mare appeared, who adjusted her glasses as she approached.
“Highly unusual,” she grumbled. “We’re due to close in fifteen minutes, and the Princesses need to schedule their visits ten days in advance—”
Twilight handed her the card. She read it over, and her eyebrows shot up. “In that case,” she muttered, under her breath. She turned and lead them wordlessly through the hall of dragon bones, up one of the grand marble staircases to the second floor, and into a warren of tight, twisting corridors that smelled of dust and chloroform. She paused outside a dignified wooden door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
Twilight stared, and Pinkie clapped her hooves over her mouth.
There they were—Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot, Pinkie Pie’s three most precious things in the world, safe and sound. Whiskey was hovering up by the ceiling, examining a sketch of a fossil-bearing strata. Foxie was marvelling at a display case of shining crystals. Tango sat at the giant desk, filled with rock samples, staring up in awe. Beside him on the desk, in a space cleared for it, sat a nearly-empty box of pizza (“Johnny Cavallo’s—Best in Canterlot!”), and four popsicle sticks, still fresh with spit. And, sitting at the head of the desk, quietly explaining the intricacies of geology to Tango, sat their aunt.
Maud Pie.
Pinkie stared at the tableau for a moment of agonizing silence, tears welling up in her eyes. Could this be real? Were they actually okay? And—she started to tremble—was that really Maud? The sister she hadn’t spoken to since… well, since it had all started? Here, with her children?
Pinkie tembled. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Kids!” she shrieked.
All four of them turned to stare at her. For a moment, no one moved.
“Mama!” Foxie cried suddenly, then lunged for her. Pinkie held out her arms, and Foxie slammed into her, hard, and wrapped her arms around her as Pinkie tipped backwards onto the floor. Whiskey and Tango leapt on her next, Whiskey wrapping her arms around her neck, and Tango planting a wet, sticky kiss on her cheek.
“Oh, kids,” Pinkie cried, kissing each of them fiercely in turn, as tears streamed down her face. “Oh, I was so worried—”
Tango held back a sob of his own. “We’re sorry, Mama,” he said.
Whiskey buried herself into her shoulder. “We d-didn’t want to scare you...”
Pinkie pulled them all a little tighter. “I’m so glad you’re safe—” She kissed them each again, in turn.
Twilight stood in the hallway, watching the display with a faint little smile. Maud stepped from her office, delicately edged around the pile of sobbing pink bodies in the hall, and stood by her side. After a moment, she wordlessly offered Twilight a tissue. Twilight took it with a nod, then dabbed at the corner of her eyes.
* * *
The clock on the wall chimed eleven to itself, the time echoing softly through the dark of Maud’s tiny apartment. On the floor of the living room, in an uncoordinated mess, lay Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot, wrapped in their blankets and snoring soundly. On the couch lay a pillow, untouched, and a folded blanket, covered in an undulating pattern of oranges and browns that looked like nothing so much as stripes of bedrock.
In the nearby kitchen, by the half-light from the bulb over the stove, sat Pinkie, Maud, and Twilight. Between them lay the cooling remains of a second pizza, with bits of crust left on the paper plates in front of Twilight and Pinkie. Three chipped coffee mugs sat beside them, still steaming: Twilight had taken hers black, Maud au lait, and Pinkie with a packet of hot cocoa mixed in, with cream and sugar besides.
Pinkie gazed at the three little bodies huddled together on the floor and sighed. “I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I tried to be the best mama I could, but I didn’t know it meant so much to them. How badly they wanted a daddy…”
Maud shook her head. “Not your fault,” she said. “You did your best…” she turned to look at the kids herself. “And you should have heard what they said about you. All afternoon, they wouldn’t stop talking about you, how much they cared for you, and hoped that you had found their note…”
Maud fell silent. No one spoke—though Pinkie wiped away a tear with her hoof. After a moment, she turned back to Maud
“And Tricky really threatened them like that?” she whispered.
Maud nodded solemnly. “He did. I don’t know that he meant it, but he said it.”
Pinkie pounded her hoof on the table, making the coffee mugs jump. “That—asshole!” she hissed. “What kind of douchebag would say that to his own kids?”
“Personally,” Maud replied mildly, “I prefer the term coprolite.”
“Douchebag,” Pinkie muttered again. “Asshole.” She thought for a moment, then grinned slightly. “Assbag douchehole,” she offered.
Twilight rolled her eyes, then took a sip from her coffee. “How’d you find them, anyways?” she asked Maud. “Sounds like you got there in the nick of time…”
“Maud sense,” Maud replied immediately. “It had been bothering me all morning. Doesn’t come in use often, but, when it does…” She took a sip from her own coffee, then nodded at the sleeping Foxie. “She has it too, I think,” she said. “She knows things she shouldn’t. Nothing wrong with that, of course,” she added, “but it’s something to think about.”
Pinkie glanced over at her daughter as well, and smiled to herself.
Twilight leaned forward a little. “Speaking of,” she said, “The kids talked a little about what you said to Tricky. How’d you know all that about them?”
Maud cocked her head thoughtfully. “Fifteen percent prior knowledge,” she said slowly, “twenty-five percent quick thinking…” her eyes twinkled. “And sixty percent bluff.”
“Sixty percent…?” Twilight let out a low whistle. “Sweet Celestia…”
“I have an excellent poker face,” Maud said mildly.
Twilight shook her head. “I don’t doubt it,” she said, setting down her coffee. “Remind me never to play cards with you.”
Pinkie giggled. “It’s easy,” she said. “You just need to know her tells!”
“Well,” Maud said, noncommittally.
Pinkie snorted into her cup, then set it down and giggled quietly, her shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. Even Twilight smiled, a little. But Maud took a sip from her coffee, then put it down and sat there quietly, a sudden, faint sadness in her eyes.
As Pinkie’s giggle-fit subsided, Maud reached out and put her hoof on hers. “Pinkie,” she said quietly, “come home.”
Pinkie’s face fell, and she looked away. “...I can’t,” she said. “I—”
“At least for Hearth’s Warming,” Maud interjected. “Mom and Dad have been asking about you. Have been for a long time.”
Pinkie’s eyes went wide, and she fell silent.
Maud took a deep breath. “Limestone’s colt and filly want to meet their aunt, too,” she said, “Not to mention Limestone’s husband. And Marble thinks you’ll like what she’s done to the place.”
Pinkie leaned back in her chair, but said nothing.
“Please,” Maud continued. “We used to be close. But it’s been years, and…” She fell silent, then looked away.
After a long pause, slowly, Pinkie nodded. “I’ll try,” she said.
Maud, still looking away, returned the nod. “Good,” she said simply.
They remained quiet for a long time, then, suddenly, Pinkie yawned. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m not ordinarily up this late… Usually down by nine, up by four…”
Maud looked over at her and nodded. “Baking,” she said. “You were always good at it.”
Pinkie smiled. “Good enough to feed the family with, at least,” she said. She stood, then stretched. “Can I use your bathroom?” she asked.
Maud nodded. “Second door on the left.”
Pinkie nodded her thanks, then stepped into the hall. Twilight heard her walk down the carpet, flick on the light, and close the door behind her.
Suddenly, Maud leaned forward. “Your Highness,” she said, a faint note of urgency in her voice.
Twilight waved her hoof dismissively. “Please,” she said, “I don’t like using my title, it’s—”
“I know,” Maud interrupted. “But I’m not asking the pony. I’m asking the Princess.”
Twilight turned to look at her, eyes wide. “W-what?” she said.
“I know my sister,” she said. “She’s proud, though she doesn’t look it. She doesn’t like making mistakes, and she doesn’t like owning up to them. She’d rather sweep things under the rug, make them disappear, and, with her personality… it works, more often than not.” She hesitated, just for a moment. “And I… I think that’s why she stopped talking to us,” she said. Maud swallowed, hard, and, for the first time in her life, Twilight saw a faint mist of tears in her eyes.
“Please,” Maud continued, urgently. “She won’t come for Hearth’s Warming. She’ll make some excuse, or make herself busy, or something. Please,” she repeated, “don’t let her.”
Twilight opened her mouth. This was a side of Maud she had never seen before—a side of her, she guessed, that no one had seen.
“She’s been alone for too long,” Maud said. “She needs somepony. She needs family.” She took a deep breath. “As Princess… can you make it happen? Can you make her come home?”
Twilight stared at her, wide-eyed, for a long moment—then nodded.
Maud let out a sigh and bowed her head. “Thank you,” she breathed.
They stayed like that until the bathroom door clicked open again. Suddenly, Maud stood and started hurriedly gathering mugs and plates. “So,” she said, a little too quickly, “I can feed you guys breakfast tomorrow, but I’m needed at the museum by eight-thirty. We have another shipment of rock samples coming in, and they need my help analyzing them.”
Twilight nodded as Pinkie walked back into the room. “That’s fine with me,” Twilight said. “I don’t know when the train starts in the morning, but Pinkie needs to get back home, and the kids need to catch at least part of the school day. We should probably head out early ourselves.”
Pinkie glanced at Maud, now standing at the sink, facing away from them, rinsing out the mugs. She stared at her, eyebrow raised, for a long moment, but said nothing.
“Princess,” Maud said, “You can take my bed if you want. I can take the floor.”
“No,” Twilight replied, shaking her head. “It’s not a problem. I don’t mind.”
Maud looked over her shoulder at her, her expression a near-perfect replica of her normal, passive stare again. “I insist,” she said, her voice quiet but insistent. “A favor for a favor.”
Pinkie looked at Twilight questioningly, but Twilight only nodded. “O-okay then,” she said, slightly nervous.
The clock on the mantlepiece ticked quietly as it stood, tall and proud, in the midst of the herd of small stone figures grouped around it. Outside the window, the snow was gently falling, covering the land in a thick frosting of white. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, shedding its warm glow on the Pie family, huddled together on the floor of the old farmhouse in various states of wakefulness.
Limestone lay on top of her husband—a massive griffon named Gage—nuzzled deep into his chest feathers. No sign remained of the blow-up from that afternoon (the third that weekend), save for the aftermath of the aggressive kiss-marks on Gage’s beak, and the little love-bites on Limestone’s neck and shoulders.
Gage smiled as he stroked Limestone’s back. “You dirty horse,” he said, with a fond little smile.
She reached up and gently kissed him on the tip of his beak. “Fledgling peacock,” she murmured sleepily, nuzzling back into his feathers.
Beside them lay their two hippogriff children, Gooseberry and Grasshopper. Their anatomy had drawn more than a few stares from Whiskey and Tango, and some eager questions from Foxie: their front halves looked quite similar to their father’s (thick, dark feathers, strong, golden beak, and long, sharp talons), but their back halves looked just like any other pony’s (with regular hooves and a long, swishy tail), Gooseberry with a lime-green pelt, Grasshopper with a lighter, more minty green. They two of them lay snuggled together under a quilt, and, beside them, pressed close, lay Whiskey. The three of them had hit it off surprisingly well, and, though Grasshopper—the little colt—hadn’t quite mastered flying yet, Goosey and Whiskey had spent most of the afternoon exploring cloudbanks together.
As Pinkie watched, Whiskey yawned, then stirred uncomfortably; Whiskey’s cousins had nodded off almost immediately, but Whiskey herself had settled into an uneasy doze. Perhaps it was her excitement for the morning, Pinkie thought.
On their other side lay Maud—and, beside her lay Andesite, a bright-red crystal stallion that everyone had taken to calling “Andy.” They had snuggled together, and both had fallen asleep; Maud barely making a sound, save for heavy breathing, and Andy resting on her shoulder with a goofy, lovestruck smile on his face. Pinkie had already joined the pool for when he was going to pop the question, but, three years on, they seemed quite comfortable as they were: not quite lovers, not quite friends, but somewhere in between.
In the back corner, Marble was quietly playing checkers with Foxie. She wore her mane in a ponytail now, and had a number of nicks and scars visible through her pelt. She had proven to be surprisingly adept at running the farm, and it showed: she was still quiet and painfully shy, but she showed a gentle determination, a subtle sort of stubbornness not unlike the rocks she farmed alongside her father.
Tango sat in the middle of the room with his back to the fireplace, using its dim light to read his present from Aurora, the one that Pinkie had let him open early for the train ride: The Old Mare and the Sea, by Earnest Hockingway. Pinkie watched him turn the page, then smiled to herself: this was their fourth Hearth’s Warming running where he and Rory had traded gifts of books. She didn’t quite understand it, truth be told—not after they’d gotten off to so rough a start—but it was good to see he’d made a friend, at least.
Heck, she thought—maybe, after they both grew up a little more, they might become something even more.
Pinkie herself sat on the sofa, nursing a coffee—brewed double-strong, as always, with generous cream and sugar. Beside her sat her mother, Cloudy Quartz, knitting quietly, and, on Cloudy’s other side, old Igneous. The three of them just sat and listened to the heavy breathing of the others, to the cheery crackling of the fire, and the click-click of Cloudy’s needles. It was… quieter than Pinkie usually liked these sorts of things, she thought to herself—but this was nice, too. Really nice.
As she knit, Cloudy Quartz looked up over her glasses at her family, laid out on the floor. Her needles paused in their course—for just a moment—and then she looked back down at her work. She remained quiet for another few seconds before she finally spoke.
“Pinkamena,” she said quietly, “I am… quite pleased that thou hast returned for Hearth’s Warming.”
Pinkie chuckled. “I am too, Mom,” she said. “I am, too.” She sighed. “Sorry it was so last-minute… Princess Twilight had me working on a huge order, due yesterday morning.” She smiled. “I mean, she paid all the express fees and everything, so, I’m not complaining too much—and the kids helped out a little, too—but there was so much to do, I wasn’t sure I was going to finish. So much, in fact…” she frowned suddenly, “...that I couldn’t take… any orders… besides… hers...?”
Pinkie thought hard for a long moment—then shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. If she’d been tricked, Twilight had done a good job at it.
“I, too, am quite pleased,” Igneous rumbled in his deep bass voice. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Hearth’s Warming has… lacked, without thy presence.”
Pinkie slowly turned to look at her father. Igneous was not a stallion given to expressions of love and affection—and this was about as high praise as he had ever given anyone. She settled back into her seat, chills running down her spine.
“Thanks, Dad,” she said quietly. He did not react.
After a moment, Pinkie chuckled. “Yeah,” she said, “the holidays just haven’t been the same without being out here at the old farm, have they?” She glanced up at the rafters with a smile. “Or without this drafty old farmhouse, for that matter.”
Cloudy frowned the slightest bit. “I am fond of our ‘drafty old farmhouse,’” she said with a disdainful sniff.
Pinkie nodded. “Me too,” she said. “That’s why we’re here, after all. Drafty or no, it’s home.”
At that, Cloudy seemed to relax a little. She knit another line or two in silence, then looked back at the sleeping forms. Her eye seemed to linger on Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot. “Thy children are… rambunctious,” she said carefully, “but they have good hearts.”
None of the adults noticed the children’s reactions to her words. Whiskey, still dozing, jerked awake, and looked up sleepily. Tango looked up over the top of his book ever-so-slightly, staring at the wall. And Foxie hesitated, mid-move, and swiveled one ear towards the couch.
“They do,” Pinkie said. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Igneous leaned forward a little, then looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “Art thou in earnest?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “These thy children, who, this spring, left thee for Canterlot?” He leaned back in his seat. “‘Twere they mine, they wouldst be hoeing the back field from here ‘til doomsday.”
Pinkie gave a little half-nod. “Normally, I’d agree…” She sighed. “But, this time,” she said, “I think it’s actually my fault.”
Unseen, Whiskey opened her eyes a little wider. Tango closed his book. And Foxie sat, stock-still, even as Marble captured four of her pieces at once.
“I mean, if I had just talked to them,” she said quietly, “told them about Tricky, then… then maybe they wouldn’t have…” She sniffled, then shook her head.
Cloudy smiled knowingly to herself. “Methinks the problem was simpler,” she said. “Methinks, if thou and he hadst simply come for the blessing of the Choosing Stone first…”
Pinkie shook her head firmly. “Wouldn’t have worked,” she said. “Choosing Stone or not, Tricky is…” she shrugged a little. “He’s broken inside. There’s something wrong with him, and it took me a long time to see that.” She glanced fondly at her children. “A long time,” she repeated. She was quiet for a moment, then turned to look out the window at the falling snow. “I… I kinda wish he was different…” she said. “I mean… we had something good going there, for a while, at least… and, y’know…” she shrugged. “I still get a little lonely, sometimes, late at night…” She sighed again. “But Tricky isn’t the kind of husband I want. Or the daddy the kids need. And I don’t know if he even could be, even if he wanted to.”
Igneous frowned. “Surely,” he said, “thy judgments are most harsh. After all, this is the children’s papa—”
“Sperm donor,” Whiskey called out.
Every adult in the room looked up at Whiskey, now sitting up in her blanket. Pinkie sighed heavily and put her face in her hooves. Limestone and Gage watched her with interest. Marble glanced down and blushed. And Cloudy paled, her needles frozen in place.
“What didst thou say?” she asked.
“Sperm donor,” Whiskey repeated. “Mama told us about where babies come from, and she said that some kids have a sperm donor--a father, but not a daddy.”
Igneous looked over at Pinkie, eyebrow raised, and watched her, face still in her hooves, shake her head. He frowned, then, cleared his throat, then turned back to Whiskey. “Young lady,” he huffed, “That is no way to speak of thy papa—”
“But he is,” she insisted. “Tricky is our father, but he’s not our daddy.” She crossed her arms. “What would you call him?”
Igneous opened his mouth—closed it again—then laid back against the couch, muttering to himself.
Whiskey wormed her way out of her blankets, stretched, then walked forward, carefully stepping over sleeping bodies. “Mama is the best,” she said. “And Tricky… well, Tricky can go buck himself.” Cloudy Quartz let out a little gasp, then twittered uneasily.
Tango put his book down, then stood up beside his sister. “A daddy would be nice,” he added, “but Mama is good enough for us.”
Foxie stood too. “And she always has been,” she said. “Even if we didn’t always know it.”
The three of them stood there, side-by-side in the firelight—and suddenly, on some unseen signal, the three of them leapt forward and into their mother’s arms. She pulled them close and hugged them tight, the eyes of everyone in the room upon her.
As she held the three of them, the clock on the mantelpiece ground to life, and chimed twelve anemic strokes. Midnight.
“Happy Hearth’s Warming, Mama,” Whiskey said, her face buried in her chest.
“Happy Hearth’s Warming, you little boogers,” Pinkie murmured.
Suddenly, her vision blurred—and Pinkie began to weep tears of joy.
And outside, the snow fell gently down, covering the land in a thick frosting of white. That same snow fell across all of Equestria—across Twilight’s castle, where Twilight sat snuggled next to Flash, with Aurora in her lap, asleep, Tango’s gift of The Tell-Tale Horse & Other Stories still open on her chest. The snow fell across Sweet Apple Acres, where Applejack lay sleeping in Soft Shoes’ arms, the presents for their three (soon to be four) children arranged carefully in the living room. The snow fell across Canterlot, where Princess Luna hummed quietly to herself as she plumbed the dreams of sleeping ponies everywhere, ensuring more than a few cases of the proverbial visions of sugarplums—still ignorant of the gift that lay beside her, for whenever it was she chose to return from the dreamlands. The snow fell across Hat Trick, too, whichever hole it was that he’d chosen to crawl into—and it fell across another stallion, as well, still on the road somewhere. He heard the far-off town bells ring in the holiday and paused. He shook a little snow off his hat onto his curly brown mane, then celebrated the morning by whistling a few carols as he began walking again. After all, he still had a while to go yet.
And, with the slow, inevitable grace that comes only with the sunrise, Hearth’s Warming Day broke across the world.
