> Solitude for the Modern Businessmare
>  by Fahrenheit
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Ladies Don't Mind Loneliness
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hem is wrong. 

The realization settles upon my mind like an unpleasant odor that has pervaded a space so thoroughly that you simply cannot ignore it any longer. The hemline of the gown is wrong—any shorter, and it might as well be a mere sundress. Any longer, and the proportions will look absurd. I could change the silhouette of the dress, of course, and bring the hem in that way, but this fabric deserves a flared cut; it will not catch the light unless it is free to move.

I float my pincushion out of the way and sigh, reaching for the fabric that thwarts me so. It all but flows across my hooves, and even the slightest movement of my forelegs is enough to send a dazzling array of colors shimmering across its pale pink surface. Golds, lavenders, a hint of cerulean, the softest touch of pure silver—the fabric is pure iridescence. 

I allow myself a small smile. As becoming as modesty is, a lady is perfectly entitled to feel some small modicum of pride for a job well done. The fabric is exquisite, and it is entirely the result of my hoofwork. A shudder works itself through me as I remember how scratched, scuffed, and scraggly my poor hooves were after grinding gemstones into a powder fine enough to imbue the fabric with. 

The damage was nothing that a regularly-scheduled hooficure couldn't fix, of course. And my, was it ever worth the effort. Upon the ponnequin before me is a fabric that needs no embellishment, no trim, no added flair. It is a masterpiece, and all that remains to do is to frame it, to piece it into a shape that drapes upon a mare the way that its shifting color drapes across the silk-soft surface. All I must do is figure out the cut of the dress.

And the hem is wrong.



With a weighty sigh, I let the fabric fall from my hooves and turn to exit the atelier. If the pincushion slams upon the table as I leave, it is none of my concern. Nor is the abrupt slamming of the door behind me, and if my steps are a tad too... ah... violent to be ladylike, well—who is there to notice?

Nopony stays this late, after all. I might as well be a ghost, as I float through the empty Canterlot Boutique. A glance out the darkened window informs me that it is well past closing, and a note on the registry counter reassures me that Sassy Saddles has performed all the necessary closing rituals. She's likely at home now, curled up in the embrace of her special somepony—an esteemed food critic from Manehattan, if my memory serves me well.  

No, I tell myself, as I wrap a suitably chic shawl around my mane and slide into my tailored wool coat. Sassy and my customers have places to be, on this rainy holiday evening. 

Ah, there's the soft nudge of nostalgia, pushing a small smile to my lips. I am rather fond of Hearts and Hooves Day. Truly, I am. 

It's just... it is a bit difficult to remember how much you love the taste of chocolate when all you've done is stare hungrily from afar, is it not? Hearts and Hooves Day is meant to be shared. It is a flower that only blooms when beheld by a pair.

It is a flower that I have not buried my nose in for quite some time, now that I think of it. 

But that's quite enough of that. Ladies do not brood. At least not when trotting down the street. Back straight, head held high, stepping with quick, light steps—the lack of another soul upon the dreary, puddle-lined Canterlot streets is no excuse for poor posture.

The wind nips at my shawl as I briskly make for the modest flat I have reserved for nights such as these, when I have a project that must be attended to on a daily basis for a respectable length of time. A strand of deepest violet hair escapes from my mane as I trot, embracing the wind and reaching for the cloud-strewn sky as though it could simply abandon its connections and fly free into the twilight. 

Ah, Twilight and the girls...

I will see them soon enough, I assure myself, stepping lightly over a puddle. After all, this is merely last-minute preparation for Canterlot Fashion Week. We shall be reunited before the month is up.

I nod politely to a patrolling guard (even flashing a smile, simply for the sake of it), and am about to turn down West Sky Street when I spy a lone figure standing before the dim windows of the local book supplier (though, to be frank, dealer might well be the more accurate word, considering how Twilight gets when she hasn't purchased a new read in some time). The figure—a mare, from the looks of it—is not shivering, nor does she appear to be in distress. Rather, she is simply peering into the closed shop, breath fogging against the glass. 

I hesitate, torn between curiosity and a desire to get out of this damp, chilly ick. The wind makes my decision for me; a gust almost bowls me over as it blusters down the avenue, cutting right through the wool of my coat and spinning me around to face the lamplit street that leads home. 

Obligingly, I pick up the pace—my awaiting flat may be dark and devoid of any romantic interest, but it is at least warm.

It is a simple matter to trot up the few steps to the door. I find it much harder to turn the handle.

The room awaiting me will be dark. 

Come, now. Don't be silly. It's hardly becoming for a lady to be scared of a few shadows.

There will be nopony sitting in the kitchen, awaiting my arrival with a cup of tea. No welcoming smiles. No inquiries about my day. 

And there wasn't before. Tonight is no different from any other. Just because... 

"Oh," I moan, slumping against the door. The tip of my horn grazes the painted wooden surface. It is the evening of Hearts and Hooves Day, and I will be spending it alone.

The inevitable emptiness of the space behind the door is suddenly unbearable. It matters, much as I try to convince myself otherwise. It matters, and I cannot find the willpower to face it. 

Fine. If I am too much a coward to spend tonight alone, I might as well indulge my curiosity. The mare I saw earlier is likely long gone, but it is at least something to do. 

Lifting my head, I whirl around and dash down the stairs. The wind pulls at me joyfully, every bit as chilled as before, but the welcome, familiar fire of determination has ignited in my heart once more, spurring me back down West Sky Street until I'm standing before the deserted bookstore. 

I look around wildly, too giddy from the infectious joy of spontaneity to care that my breathing is a bit more ragged than is proper. Curiosity has gotten the best of me, and it is exhilarating. Rainbow Dash would undoubtedly accuse me of spending too much time bent over my stitching. Perhaps she would be right.

But now is not the time for such speculation. The mystery mare is not here; and I refuse to even consider returning home without at least a greeting. Is that her, across the intersection?

I trot briskly down the road, occasionally sidestepping a puddle (but charging through far too many of them, unfortunately), and then I find myself breaking into a canter as the mare rounds a corner and briefly disappears from view. 

With a final burst of speed, I skid around the building, and nearly run face-first into a startled Equestria Games Inspector.

"Ms. Harshwhinny?" I gasp. 

Very slowly, almost painstakingly so, she looks me up and down. "May I... help you?" 

I desperately try to regain some of my composure, all too aware of how flushed my cheeks are becoming. "Ah, well. I merely saw you outside of the bookseller's, and..." 

Why had I chased her down? There are a thousand sets of circumstance that could lead a pony to a store at night, and is it really any of my business if she desires to spend her holiday evening out in the cold?

Squaring my shoulders, I continue, "I simply wanted to wish you a good evening." There. Let her think me a fool; there are worse thing in life to be accused of than excessive congeniality. 

She levels what can only be considered a Look at me. All professionals have one: the publisher's face alights when she stumbles upon literary gold, the fashion critic's entire expression shrivels up as he processes the clothing paraded before him, the photographer eyes the world as though they have a viewfinder before them... Well, who knows with Photo Finish?

But Ms. Harshwhinny? 

Ms. Harshwhinny stares into every fiber of your being as though Princess Celestia were her only daughter whom you had just asked to wed. I daresay I can feel the air being incinerated; she—oh heavens, she's looking at my overcoat. I hold my breath and await judgment.

"Hmm. Well, good evening to you, Miss Rarity," she says slowly, still frowning. Leaning in to scrutinize my attire, she asks, "Is that a Stone Cold design, by any chance?" 

It's all I can do to keep from sighing in relief. Once again, fashion has averted a social disaster. 

"Indeed! You have a remarkable eye, if you don't mind me saying so."

Flattery. Flattery won't get you everywhere—as some might have you believe—but it is rarely uncalled for. I like to think of it as that extra, precautionary stitch; it might not be necessary, but if the seam is stretched too far, it might very well be the only thing holding a garment together. 

At the very least, the compliment appears to put Ms. Harshwhinny at ease. She purses her lips and hmps softly, but the suspicion is gone from her eyes. 

"How kind of you," she mutters, glancing up and down the street. "It's reassuring to know somepony in this city still has an eye for the classics. All I see nowadays is frou-frou nonsense."

I can't help it. I toss my head, preening slightly. "Why thank you, Madam Inspector. I do think the austere silhouettes of Stone Cold's more recent designs have deviated from the elegance of his early lines, but does this coat not simply sing with—"

"The noble strength of simplistic beauty?" she finishes, peering at me intensely. "Quite characteristic of him. I must admit, it’s exactly why I consider him the designer of choice for the working professional."

In that moment, I realize that perhaps chasing a whimsy down the cold streets of Canterlot is the best decision I've made all month.

"Say," I begin, beaming at the inspector. "Do you have any plans for this evening?"



Were this any other night of the year, we would be hard-pressed to find a reputable establishment open at this hour. As it is, we just barely manage to squeeze into a snazzy pastry cafe—and only then because Ms. Harshwhinny is apparently on good terms with the hostess; she nods at the mare behind the welcome podium and we are led to a quiet booth in a corner of the cafe. 

Around us, the soft chatter of couples engrossed in each other's conversation winds through the air, their voices melding with the gentle cello music flowing from the opposite corner. Between that, the warmth spilling out of the kitchen, and the hazy glow of the candles, the scene feels all too much like a dream. 

Ms. Harshwhinny requests a coffee—breakfast blend, medium roast—with a cranberry walnut biscotti. She merely chuckles when I raise a brow at the time, but at her recommendation, I order a raspberry hot chocolate. We don't speak much until the drinks arrive.

"How is it?" she asks, sipping at the coffee in her hooves. I eye it warily, but she seems unconcerned by the caffeine. 

I magic my cup back onto my saucer. "It's quite pleasant. Fruity and fresh, but without sacrificing the richness and depth of flavor that accompanies the chocolate..." 

"Precisely why I find it fitting for vivacious young mares," she agrees. 

My cheeks are suddenly warm. I risk a glance up from my cup, but she appears to be staring off into the distance, lost in thought. 

I clear my throat. "So why the breakfast blend and biscotti, then?"

"Hmm?" She refocuses her gaze upon me, the lead back in her brows.

"The coffee and biscotti," I prompt, frowning. "If raspberry hot chocolate is appropriate for young ladies, why is coffee appropriate for the Madam Inspector of the Equestrian Games?"

I don't know what I've said, but something in my question completely strips the perpetual annoyance from her face. In its absence, she merely looks tired.

We sit for a moment, allowing the murmured pleasantries of other ponies' lives to flavor our silence with a facsimile of contentment. For a moment, it feels as though we are simply two strangers passing each other by, sharing a table but still mired in our own worlds. Despite all the ponies surrounding us, I feel alone. 

"Why are you in Canterlot, Miss Rarity?" she asks at last. "You're from Ponyville, no?"

I nod, idly stirring my hot chocolate with a spoon. "I opened a boutique here some few months back, and what with Canterlot Fashion Week coming up, I've been spending an absurd amount of time in the atelier preparing for it."

"So you are here to work," Ms. Harshwhinny states. She dips the biscotti into her cup and takes an elegant bite. When she's finished dabbing the stray crumbs with a napkin, she continues, "Do tell me: is your job satisfying?"

I bristle, but can't help wondering if my artistic frustration is really so obvious. "Of course it's satisfying! Designing isn't simply a means to pay the bills, Madam Inspector. It is my life, I simply—"

She waves a hoof dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know. It's what your cutie mark is telling you, etcetera. Perhaps I should rephrase my question. Is your job tiring?"

"Well... Business is certainly good, and my staff is delightful. I've hired a few more seamstresses—they've helped a great deal with managing the workload, but..." I trail off.

I think of the dress with the faulty hemline hanging abandoned in the atelier, awaiting a stroke of inspiration that is nowhere in sight. I think of all I have yet to do, and the remembrance of all the evenings that have ended with me alone in the boutique gives me pause. 

I close my eyes and focus on the scent of raspberries rising from my cup. It is a welcome reminder that I am not, in fact, cooped up alone in my flat.

"It is a bit tiresome at times," I admit, struggling to keep an easy lilt in my strained voice. "But it will be worth it. Fashion Week will come and go, and I'll return to Ponyville with the girls and take a much-needed respite."

"Are your accommodations in Canterlot not to your liking? Forgive me," she drawls in a tone that requests exactly no forgiveness, "But you don't strike me as the type of pony to enjoy twilit walks in the cold rain. Surely you have a warm hearth awaiting you." 

I do my best not to fidget. "Ah, well, you see, Madam Inspector, I just... I merely..." 

She awaits my explanation with an arched brow.

I sigh. Best to just get it out. "It's Hearts and Hooves Day, Ms. Harshwhinny, and I saw you by the bookstore on the way to my flat, and in a fit of self-indulgent whimsy I... Well, I sought out company."

It might be the candlelight playing tricks on my eyes, but I think I see a tiny smile grace Ms. Harshwhinny's lips. 

"Unaccustomed to being alone on holidays, Miss Rarity?"

I shake my head. 

She places her cup back on the table and pulls a bitpurse from a pocket. After counting out enough change to cover the drinks, she rises from her seat and raises a challenging brow.

"In that case, I have a proposition for you."









"Are you quite certain we're dressed appropriately for this?" I hiss out of the corner of my mouth, carefully maintaining a charming smile, should the mare leading us down the hallway turn around.  

Ms. Harshwhinny tsks lightly, an amused lilt in her voice. "Miss Rarity, I wouldn't show up in anything else."  

I size up our overcoats. While my Stone Cold design could, by all accounts, pass for formalwear, I'm not sure if either it or Harshwhinny's silken scarf and blazer could truly pass for black-saddle attire. 

Leaning closer to Ms. Harshwhinny, I mutter, "You neglected to mention that this 'get-together' of yours was being held in the Royal Palace. I can't attend a high-class soirée in twelve-hour-old mascara!"

"You know as well as I do that an outfit is a statement," she replies absently, eyes focused on the party beyond the doorway. 

"And just what is our statement?" I ask, but at that moment we are ushered into the room and her response is lost in the noise. 

The party is—to use the popular terminology—turnt. 

The music thuds through the air, heavy and rapid and positively begging to be danced to. In the center of the spacious room, a group of ponies have indulged its call. Their swaying forms gleam in the colored lighting bursting from the glass sconces scattered about. I spy a few guards in the mix, chestplates glittering amidst the whirling shadows, but the majority of the crowd is garbed in taffeta and silk. 

Just as I feared. Wait, is that one of my designs? 

I suspect an accessory of some sort would ease my mind, but there's no going back now. A hasty fluff-and-twirl to the curls in my mane is all I can afford before Ms. Harshwhinny pulls me into the throng. 



At first, I think we're dancing; the beat swallows us and we're all but floating through swaying tails and nodding heads. I resist it at first—after all, this is a palace party—but eventually I relax enough to let the music spin me around.

Ms. Harshwhinny shows no such reluctance. Somehow, she manages to move to the song without sacrificing her upright demeanor. Rather than letting go of her bearing, she simply seems to loosen—her head remains high, but gone is the near-painful rigidity of her posture. She flows across the floor, slipping between couples without sparing them a glance nor a courteous pardon me.

Though, I doubt they would hear her. The ponies partaking of these festivities are only half-here—most of their attention is obviously focused on their partners. And should their attention wander, the volume of the music serves as a deterrent for anypony trying to engage in pesky conversation. 

Indeed, when Ms. Harshwhinny looks back and mouths something to me, I can only shake my head apologetically and point to my ear. With a roll of the eyes that is only half-annoyed, she spins me around so that her lips are but a hair's breadth from my ear.

"It's busier than I expected," she says.

I have to shout my half of the conversation. "Is this normally a quiet affair, then?"

"I have absolutely no idea," she laughs. Her breath is warm against my hair. "This is the first time I've taken Upper Crust up on her invitation."

I frown. "Upper Crust?" 

The music transitions into something more traditional and feisty. Without missing a beat, Ms. Harshwhinny takes my hoof in hers and launches into an impossibly complex string of steps, dips, and twirls. There is no opportunity for me to hesitate—I am swept up in the dance without a second thought.



If Ms. Harshwhinny flows to the music, dancing with her is like drifting away in the grasp of a polite current: the gentle firmness of her hoof leaves no room for error, but she is not so domineering that I feel chained. Indeed, it seems as though we glide across stars rather than than stone tiles.

"Upper Crust is an old... acquaintance of mine," Ms. Harshwhinny supplies, when the dance pulls us face-to-face again. Her eyes are unfathomable in the glittering light.

"We've met," I inform her. She launches me out of her forelegs like a shooting star.

At the next opportunity, I am treated to a humorless, sympathetic chuckle. "You have my condolences." 

Before I can respond, she spins me one final, furious time, and then we're twirling to a halt with nopony around us. Looking around, I realize we've traversed the entire dance floor and have merely emerged on the other side.

"Well," I gasp, tugging at my collar and sincerely regretting my overcoat. "You're quite the dancer."

"It's the only way to get through the crowd, I'm afraid," she laughs apologetically. "But come, it's only polite that we greet the hostess." 

As she leads me toward a small archway, I can't shake the feeling that something is off. Perhaps it is the determined gleam in Ms. Harshwhinny's eyes, or the way she remains close by my side, the sleeves of her coat brushing against mine—ugh. I can't seem to place it. 

Through the archway lies a small sitting area. Here, the party is more subdued—courtiers lounge about, sampling sweets and cider, and the music isn't quite so overpowering. Small talk winds through the air, and we slip into the social current undisturbed. 

Upper Crust looks up as we approach. Her husband is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't appear to have hampered her enjoyment of the evening; the glass at her side holds the dregs of a familiar golden liquid and the gown she wears looks like it must have cost hundreds. Before she can think to greet us, Ms. Harshwhinny steps up and lightly pecks her on either cheek. 

"Upper Crust, dearest, it's been ever so long," she drawls. 

"You came," the mare responds, staring at the Inspector. 

Ms. Harshwhinny half-scoffs, half-sighs. "Yes, it seems we did." She gestures toward me. "Miss Rarity and I were in the area and supposed we might as well drop by. It's been positively ages since we've had a proper chat, yes?"

Upper Crust's gaze slides over to me. It almost looks like my presence irritates her, but of far more interest is the expression upon Ms. Harshwhinny's face. 

Her smile is small, but the arch of her brow as she watches Upper Crust scrutinize me is positively predatory. Wait, no, that’s not quite right.

It's smug. Yes, smug is more correct.

Upper Crust's frown deepens, but it isn't until Ms. Harshwhinny asks, "So where might Jet Set be found, on such a romantic evening?" that I figure it out.

I am being paraded. The truth of it is written in the proud lines of the Inspector's brow, the amused tug at the corner of her lips. 

Ms. Harshwhinny needn't worry about changing into something more suitable for a party because I have been her accessory for the evening. Whatever falling-out she and Upper Crust experienced, it's led to the former arriving at the latter's soirée with a young mare at her side, visibly flaunting the benefits of her unmarried lifestyle.

Betrayal, indignation, flattery, irritation—a myriad of emotion thunders through my veins, and I can feel my cheeks flush with the rush of them. Vowing to fully interrogate Ms. Harshwhinny afterward, I decide that the best course of action is to oblige. It always behooves a lady to pick her battles, and a room filled with the most powerful socialites in Canterlot is not where I want to begin a shouting bout.

Well, that and the fact that she did hoof the bill at the pastry cafe. I can at least afford her this small victory.

Besides, from what I can tell, the Madam Inspector is merely indulging in a bit of a petty display, and I?

I am a glutton for petty exhibitions.

It's all too easy to toss my mane—just right, so it fully catches the light, shining bright before the shadows deepen the violet back to navy—to put on a dazzling smile and bat my eyelashes lazily. 

"Ever a pleasure to see you again, Madam Crust," I say, doing my best to match Ms. Harshwhinny's elegant drawl. Dropping my eyes to her gown, I exclaim "You simply must tell me where you got your dress! It's exquisite—do you think I could perhaps purchase one, too?"

It's petty. I know it is petty. Deep down, I can almost hear Fluttershy fidgeting uncomfortably, and so when Upper Crust mutters out the name of a rival designer, I try to be a bit more generous with the authenticity of my smile. 

"Thank you," I say sincerely. "I'll be sure to let Miss Slipstitch know the dress looked so magnificent on you that I just had to have one." 

Flattery. It may not get you everywhere, but it certainly seems to take some of the malice out of Upper Crust. 

I turn my smile on Ms. Harshwhinny. 

"Harshwhinny, dearest, don't you think it's high time we went on our way? I imagine Madam Crust would appreciate being released from the hostage of our conversation. Besides, we have places to be." I add a coy wink for no reason other than it seems fitting.

"Very well," the Inspector acquiesces, straightening her scarf. She nods curtly to Upper Crust. "Good evening to you."

"And to you," the mare replies, still a bit sourly. 

I simply smile.



There isn't a trace of amusement in my face when I drag Ms. Harshwhinny out into the hallway. 

"What was that?" I demand.

She raises a brow. "Beg your pardon?"

"Back in there!" I jab a hoof (daintily, of course) toward the party. "You were flaunting me!"

Gone is the easiness from the dance floor. In its place, a cold indifference draws her brows together. 

"Was I now?"

Down the hall, a clanking indicates that we're about to be interrupted by the nightly patrol. With an irritated hmph, I magically grab her by the scarf and pull her onto to nearest balcony. The frigid air does little to cool my temper.

"You know quite well that you were!" I insist. "You've made no effort to hide your lack of fondness for Upper Crust, you've apparently never attended any of her parties before, and when you finally do decide to grace her with your presence, you ensure the first thing you do is saunter over to show off your new toy."

Ms. Harshwhinny's glare could freeze a Windigo in its tracks. "Forgive me, Miss Rarity, but you hardly seemed to oppose being shown off."

I whirl away from her and gulp down the air, desperately trying to soothe the tightness of my throat. My voice is audibly high and strained when I continue. 

"It's just... I've dreamt my whole—my whole life of being successful, attending extravagant parties, having every eye upon me... But now— I just..." My voice has grown tiny. "So this is how I spend Hearts and Hooves Day now? As an accessory?"

Is that all she sees me as? 

Ms. Harshwhinny says nothing.  

I swallow, then let out a dry laugh that sticks in my throat. "All that time as a filly, spent dreaming of being Canterlot's darling, and I'm an accessory. Perhaps that's why I can't finish the dress. I'm not meant to climb any higher."

The sound of solitude falls around us once more.

"For what it's worth, the first thing I did was not 'show off my new toy,' it was dance with you—and I truly enjoyed every minute of it,” Ms. Harshwhinny offers at last, voice soft. “I did not realize the interaction with Upper Crust would upset you so. But if I may be frank, Miss Rarity, it sounds as though you have grievances with more than just my motives."

I sigh and prop my forelegs upon the balcony railing. 

"My first Hearts and Hooves Day was a roaring success," I begin, idly tracing a pattern into the stone. "Much like this year's, I was working on what would be my greatest design to date—a fabulous gown that was sure to astound all the ponies in my class. I had just gotten my cutie mark, see, and I was determined to put it to good use."

"And?" Ms. Harshwhinny gently prompts.

"And I'm afraid it makes for a terribly boring story," I chuckle. "I succeeded in attaching an absurd number of gemstones to an equally-absurd amount of tulle, and all my classmates were enchanted. My Hearts and Hooves card box ended up overflowing. The dress, the holiday, the response..." I gesture helplessly at the night sky. "It was all perfect."

I straighten up and turn around, seeking out her eyes in the moonlight. 

"I can't help but compare. Isn't that sad? That my best Hearts and Hooves day was in kindergarten?"

She moves to lean against the railing with me. Down below, the city carries on with its subdued festivities. Beyond that, all of Equestria stretches out in the distance. I feel as though should I look hard enough, I could see all the way out into eternity, into all the Hearts and Hooves Days yet to come. 

"Holidays..." Ms. Harshwhinny trails off, as though selecting her words carefully. "Holidays are waypoints, Miss Rarity. They are nothing more than massive trees upon which we hang our memories. Of course everypony sighs over the baubles of yesteryear—we must reach around them to hang new ones."

She reaches a hoof out and gently lifts my chin, turning my face up toward hers. "We simply cannot get caught up in trying to replicate our favorite memories, lovely they might be. You've an eye for aesthetics. A tree adorned in but a single color would make for a dreadfully dull sight, no?"

I shake my head. "I suppose it would."

"Very good," she says, her tone businesslike once more. "Now, tell me about this dress struggle of yours."

I sigh. "There's not much to tell. I am at an impasse with my latest project—everything I try to do with it is objectively wrong. I've invested so much effort into it that I absolutely must complete it, but I'm spending so much time working on it that everything else has fallen by the wayside."

"It's a matter of inspiration, then? Or creative overexertion?"

There is a moment of silence as I toy with the hem of my coat, wondering how best to frame the depths of my artistic agony for a professional planner. When I finally respond, I say it slowly, as though speaking too quickly might cheapen the confession.

"This dress for Canterlot Fashion Week— it has taken so much of me that I fear there will be nothing left when it is finished."

There. Let it not be said that Rarity shies from the truth.

A smile that can only be described as devious spreads across the Madam Inspector's face.

"In that case," she grins. "I most certainly have something to show you."








"I don't suppose you have a spell for this," Ms. Harshwhinny mutters, jiggling the door handle. She eyes my horn meaningfully. 

"I most certainly do not," I retort, stomping a hoof against the cobblestones. The sound echoes throughout the darkened street.

"Sorry," I whisper, appropriately sheepish. 

I don't need the feeble glow of the streetlamps to see her roll her eyes. With a silent sigh, she leans in toward me and buries her face in my mane. 

I freeze. What in Equestria—

My mind hasn't quite restarted yet when she withdraws, a single hairpin clamped in her teeth. Reaching up, she stretches the thin metal out, then guides it into the lock and begins fiddling with the deadbolt. 

Oh.

Somewhere down the avenue, the sound of hoofsteps echo against the cobblestones. I look left and right frantically, and spot the telltale torchlight of an approaching patrolpony heading directly toward us. 

"I don't mean to harry you," I hiss, restraining the urge to prance in place nervously. "But is there any way you could perhaps hurry this along? We aren't exactly in a sheltered location, here."

"I'm aware," Ms. Harshwhinny grunts. With a click, she twists her head, spits the pin out, and opens the door. We all but fall into the shadowed house, collapsing atop a lush rug as the door swings shut behind us with a resounding slam. I wince. It's entirely too loud for comfort. 

Ms. Harshwhinny gets to her hooves, cursing under her breath. "Blasted Fancy. Would it really kill him to leave the spare key in a consistent location?"

I perk up. "Fancy? Is this Mister Fancy Pants' establishment?" 

"Indeed," she replies. "Now could I please bother you for some light?"  

"Pardon? Oh, of course." Obligingly, I light the tip of my horn. A soft blue light springs from its fluting, illuminating the lavishly-decorated foyer we stand in. A massive stairwell sweeps down from above, dominating the space with its mahogany balustrades. All is quiet—nopony witness our ascent as we mount the steps, save for the ever-watchful gazes of the portraits lining the walls. 

"Now, Mister Pants is undoubtedly still at Upper Crust's party, but it would behoove us to remain quiet," Ms. Harshwhinny cautions as we trot down a thickly-carpeted corridor. "The guards in this section of the city have an unfortunate habit of inspecting the most insignificant disruptions to their perfect peace. One of the many reasons why they haven't been selected to host the Equestrian Games in over twenty years."

"Oh?" I prod, intrigued. 

She rounds a corner and continues up another, smaller, stairwell. "Mmm? Yes, the over-sensitivity of the population means they couldn't well tolerate the rambunctiousness—have you heard the Games? The noise doesn't stop for a week."

The aggravation in her voice makes me giggle. She speaks of Canterlot's shortcomings as though personally injured by their proposition of serving as host city. 

"And certainly, being perched atop a mountain makes for convenient housing of pegasus teams and fans," she continues, gaining momentum. "But everypony else would be hard-pressed to find a room within the city. The prospect of transporting several thousand ponies up and down a mountain every day is simply a logistical nightmare. Really now! Whoever thought that would be a good idea deserves a swift kick in the—oh, here we are."

We've stopped before a grand set of double doors. Polished to perfection, they reach for the ceiling with all the elegance I would expect in Fancy Pants' home. Undaunted by their beauty, Ms. Harshwhinny grasps the handles and pushes them open.



Twilight would die from sheer envy, is my first thought. My second is something along the lines of how relaxed Ms. Harshwhinny looks, here among the books. Well and truly at ease—she glides across the floor, dragging a hoof along the spines of the tomes as she passes. It's the first time I've seen her so completely unguarded. 

She catches me staring (Careless, Rarity!) and merely smiles.

"I've spent many a Hearts and Hooves Day either here or at Speed Read's place," she says by means of explanation. "She owns the bookstore you found me at. Never was one for parties, but it seems Upper Crust or Fancy Pants finally wore her down."

I move to walk beside her as we amble through the library. "You enjoy reading, then?"

She laughs. "You could say that. I enjoy travelling, Miss Rarity. And a mare can journey thousands of miles in but a few hours if she picks the right book."

"That's quite the romantic sentiment," I murmur, studying her face. A shadow passes across it—sorrowful and brooding and dripping with melancholy—but it's gone in an instant. 

"It has its benefits," she agrees softly. 

"So what do you do when the Games aren't in session, if you don't mind my asking?"

She waves a hoof. "Ah, mostly more traveling. I freelanced as a food critic for a while, but found writing guidebooks to be much more rewarding. Though," she chuckles. "The Games do keep me busier than you might imagine. Grows tiring, but nothing a good breakfast blend can't remedy. A mare hardly needs a home, when she has that."

"Beg your pardon?"

She clears her throat. "Back in the cafe. You asked me why a Games Inspector drinks coffee and biscotti. The truth is that I can order it anywhere in Equestria, and it will taste the same. It's a constant. I'm a traveler, Miss Rarity. My line of work hardly lends itself to establishing a domicile. 

"So I don't have one. But no matter how many miles I travel, or where in Equestria I open my eyes, I can order a medium roast breakfast blend with a freshly-baked biscotti and begin the day with a cup of home."

The admission hangs in the air, and for all my skill at conversation, I find myself unable to offer her anything but an uncertain "I see." 

She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head and gestures to the wall. "Never mind me, though. This is the cause for all the subterfuge. I always found it rather daunting, but perhaps it will serve to inspire you."

I squint up at the wall, brightening my hornlight. In the increased illumination, the portrait hanging above our heads blossoms into view. 

In it, a young mare stands next to a fountain, looking coyly over her shoulder at the painter. Her dark blue mane lays coiled around her shoulder—much as one would expect to see in the early days of Princess Celestia's reign—and the pale cream of her coat perfectly complements the ruby red masterpiece draped around her form. 

I stare, openmouthed, as Ms. Harshwhinny supplies the identity of the mystery mare. 

"She's the youngest daughter of Princess Platinum—Fancy Pants insists he's descended from her," she mutters in an undertone. In her normal, half-bored tone, she continues "She was one of Canterlot's first true courtiers, but I imagine you're intrigued more by her attire than her identity."

Oh, am I ever. 

"This is perfect," I breathe. "Vintage, why didn't I consider a vintage silhouette?"

Minimal sleeves, tapered hemline, long train, a cinched waist—the dress Platinum's daughter models for the portrait is everything I never knew my design was missing. Granted, the multitude of bows and pleats is something I will be able to bypass, given the nature of my fabric, but oh, the cut is perfect.

Whether from inspiration, delight, or sheer relief, I begin to laugh. It bubbles up out of me, spilling from my lips in waves of giggles. The Inspector stares at me, dumbfounded, but I throw my hooves around her.

"This is exactly what I needed," I half-laugh, half-whisper into her coat. "How did you know?"

“If you fear you will spend all your talent trying to finish the gown, then perhaps you were digging too deep,” she replies carefully. “There is no need to destroy yourself looking for inspiration when you are swimming in it.” 

In that moment, I don't care that it's late. I don't care that my behavior is unladylike, or that I've likely made a fool of myself. The dress can be finished, now. I have a plan. 

"Come on, darling!" I sing, pulling Ms. Harshwhinny back toward the front door. "There's so much to do!"

Back outside, the stars are shining, the chill in the air is dizzyingly fresh, and Ms. Harshwhinny's eyes are sparkling as she finally throws back her head and joins me in laughter. Even the guard galloping down the street seems excited to see us. 

"Alright, hold it right there, ladies!" he barks, slowing to a trot. 

Oh. Maybe not, then.

"I know full well that neither of you live in Mister Pants' abode, and if you think—" he stops and sniffs the air, eyeing us suspiciously, "Are either of you ladies intoxicated?"

I glance over at Ms. Harshwhinny. She's biting her lip so tightly that I fear she might injure herself, and I'm only barely holding back my gales of laughter. I swallow down a giggle and remove my hoof from my mouth. 

"Ahem. No, sir, we are not under the influence of any illicit substances, though I could see how one might easily arrive at that conclusion." I quickly scan him up and down, trying to gauge his receptiveness to my next approach. "Your dedication to your patrol is truly admirable, I must say. Why, I imagine the whole of Canterlot rests easy, knowing such a competent stallion is guarding their streets."

I shoot a wink at Ms. Harshwhinny, who smirks approvingly.

Flattery. 

"Yeah, sorry ladies, but you were still trespassing."

Ah, well. I suppose it can't get you everywhere. 

"Nonsense," Ms. Harshwhinny says brusquely. "I know for a fact that Jet Set regularly engages in midnight rendezvous with half the street and you don't bat an eye. Fancy Pants and I have been friends longer than you've been assigned to your post, you incompetent wretch. If you can't be bothered to perform your job correctly the first time, why in Equestria should you attempt to begin now?" 

And with that, she turns on her hoof and marches off. I hasten after her, torn between ogling her with wondrous admiration and maintaining some semblance of dignity. Taking my cue from her uncompromising posture, I turn my face to the street before us. We make it seven paces before the guard's shock wears off.

"Ladies, please don't—hey, come back here!"

"Should we run?" I mutter out of the side of my mouth.

"Indeed!" Ms. Harshwhinny squeals, taking off at a dead sprint. 

To my undying shame, I whoop joyously as I follow. 



I must admit, I never expected criminal activity to be so—exhilirating. 

We gallop down the street, our hooves thundering against the cobblestones. Around a corner, into an alleyway, across a plaza—I don't know where we're headed, only that I feel alive. I suspect my partner in crime feels much the same—with her mane fluttering in the wind and her scarf trailing along in the air behind us, she looks free. 

I wonder if this is what it's like to fly as the Wonderbolts do, I think, as my hooves sail over cobblestone and concrete alike. Do they feel this powerful? This invincible?.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind than we charge straight into a fountain. 

Ms. Harshwhinny claps a hoof over my mouth before I can shriek at the sudden shock of cold. To my horror, she pulls both of us down closer to the waterline, pressing our backs flush against the lip of the fountain. She holds me there, pulling me closer when my trembles become fully-fledged shivers. When the guard bolts past us a minute later, she relaxes slightly. 

Released from her forelegs, I am finally able to look down at my authentic Stone Cold overcoat, soaked and heavy with water. A sort of serenity clouds my mind, smothering the internal screaming that is my sense of fashion.

"Well, if this isn't unfortunate," I observe, my voice oddly high.

"Rarity?" a familiar tomcoltish voice calls. I look up right as Rainbow Dash's head pops into view. "What are you doing in the fountain?" 

Perhaps the adrenaline has me drunk. Why else would I give the water a playful smack, sending an arc of glittering droplets toward my friend's confused face?

"I'm enjoying my Hearts and Hooves Day, Rainbow Dash—what else does it look like?" I drawl, rolling my eyes. "How about you, darling? What have you been up to this evening?"

Rainbow jerks her head towards the castle, oblivious to my sarcastic tone. "Well I was at this sweet palace party with the rest of the Wonderbolts, but I stepped outside for a moment and heard a splash, so I figured I'd dart down and see if someone fell in."

Ms. Harshwhinny chooses that moment to sit up. 

"Oh no, we're having a marvelous time wading about here in the dead of winter..." She waits a beat, then snaps, "Of course we fell in! Don't be dense!" 

Rainbow goggles. "Ms. Harshwhinny? You're down there too? Rares, what are you—Hearts and Hooves—are you—Ms. Harshwhinny?" 

Her eyes dart between me and the Madam Inspector as she writes her own conclusions. 

Despite the freezing water, I bristle at her tone. "Whatever do you mean to imply, Rainbow Dash?"

She gives me what can only be described as a Look.

All friends have them, naturally. There's the all-important 'We need to have a talk immediately' look, the eyebrow-raise-accompanied 'Did she really just say what I think she said?' gaze, and even the elusive 'Shopping spree and hooficures? Shopping spree and hooficures.' 

Rainbow Dash is rarely so eloquent, though, and the Look she gives me is a flabbergasted blend of 'But,' 'Huh,' and 'You friggin know what I mean.'

A muffled shouting from the castle draws our attention. Rainbow turns to the commotion and furrows her brows. I suddenly notice she's wearing a dress—a slightly-crumpled navy number that was likely retrieved from the depths of her closet, since I haven't been around to browbeat good garment care into her air-deprived head. 

"Ah, ponyfeathers. That's probably my date."

Oho. Ohohoho.

I raise a brow delicately, and in my sweetest, most innocent voice ask, "Your date? Whoever might that be, Rainbow?"

Rainbow's face reddens to match the streak in her hair. "Nopony! I mean—uh—what date? Who said anything about a date? No no noooo. You've got the wrong pony, pegasister." 

From inside the Castle, the noise grows louder—now distinctly the sound of Rainbow's name being called.

"Is that so?" I ask coolly. "Well, perhaps the Madam Inspector and I can simply sit in this fountain and we can all have ourselves a good chat until your date joins us, yes?" 

Rainbow Dash zips us out of the fountain and halfway down the street in less than five seconds. 

"Don't. Tell. The others," she growls into my face. With a threatening glare at Ms. Harshwhinny, she leaps into the air and flies back inside the palace.

"Well then," I huff, torn between indignation at Rainbow's abrupt departure and relief at our escape from the fountain. 

"You should get out of the cold, Miss Rarity," the Inspector says, her words fogging in the air between us. 

"Of course!" I agree. "Come, it will be plenty warm back at my Boutique. We'll have the place to ourselves—the staff certainly won't be there at this hour—and we can chat while you dry off and I finish up my dress and it'll be just lovely, it'll be positively—"

"No, Rarity," Ms. Harshwhinny says, cutting off my babbling with cool, precise words. "My hotel room will suit me just fine, I'm afraid."

I search her face with wide eyes, hunting for any sign of displeasure. I find only a bemused sort of self-assurance."But... I thought..." 

She shakes her head gently. "I've greatly enjoyed your company, and would love to steal more of it, but you need to return to your Boutique alone, Miss Rarity. Your dress is waiting."

"I see," I reply softly. Straightening up, I offer her my hoof. "It's been a pleasure, Madam Inspector. I do hope our paths will cross again."

"That it has, Miss Rarity," she replies, ignoring my proffered hoof and swooping in to place a light peck on either of my still-damp cheeks. "That it has."

As I trot off toward the Boutique, shivering and anxious to return to the dress, I could swear I hear her murmur,

"See you at Canterlot Fashion Week, Madam Designer."

I swallow and hasten my return to solitude.









Back at the atelier, my world dissolves into a mess of dress patterns, chalk markers, and pins. No delay is possible; my cutie mark demands that I make use of my newfound inspiration, my sudden enlightenment. 

As I throw myself wholeheartedly into the project, I begin to understand why Ms. Harshwhinny insisted I be alone for this, for it is in solitude that my art blooms. Only in silence can I hear the songs of creation echoing through my soul.

So I surround myself with a hurricane of design—cutting and pinning and pressing and stitching until time blurs and I can no longer tell where I end and the dress begins. True to the styles of ancient Equestria, I pull out the previously-stubborn hemline, allowing it to drape down into a proper train.  The iridescent length of my prized fabric is free to flow about, rippling with each step of its wearer. I can practically see the movement already.

I tie off the hemline with one extra, precautionary stitch, and then the dress is done. 

It is done.

I gaze at it for a moment—standing nobly before me as though it had leapt from the annals of history and crossed through dreams to reach this time—before allowing myself to take in the mess that is my workshop.

It's undoubtedly rude of me, but perhaps I'll simply leave it for the others to clean up. Yes, that sounds appealing. I make a mental note to bring the other seamstresses coffee and scones to make up for it.

Stifling a yawn, I scribble a note for Sassy Saddles and head downstairs. My coat—now fully dried—hangs waiting for me on the handle of the boutique. When I slide it on, a stiffness in the rightmost pocket reveals an elegantly-designed business card for one Ms. Harshwhinny, Guidebook Author. The edges are slightly bent, and dye from my coat has bled into the ivory cardstock—likely the work of the fountain. 

The lettering is clear, though, and it is undeniable proof that I didn't merely dream the events of the last night. It is proof of what was, and it is a promise of what still lies ahead. 

My smile accompanies me all the way back to West Sky Street. 









It is impossible to be alone with Canterlot Fashion Week in full swing. The number of ponies running about backstage is positively staggering; much as I would love to be involved in every aspect of my show, there simply isn't enough time. Our timetable requires that we have a pony in charge of moving dresses, a pony overseeing shoes, and an entire team of stylists for the models' manes and makeup—to say nothing of the ponies involved in last-minute alterations. 

Sassy Saddles, thankfully, is perfectly in her element back here; she orchestrates the chorus of activity with a calculating eye and a voice that begets no missteps. With the bulk of the management under her control, all that remains for me to do is fuss over my masterpiece. 

"Miss Rarity?" The model asks, as I'm rearranging the diamond-studded hairpins scattered about her mane for the fourth time.

"Mmm?"  I slide the pin into her navy locks just so.

To my irritation, she moves, pointing a hoof into the throng of ponies bustling about around us. 

"I think you have company."

I turn around to see a familiar mare striding toward me, an unamused security pony hot on her tail. 

"Ms. Harshwhinny?" The exclamation is out of my mouth before I can stop it. 

Ms. Harshwhinny inclines her head and shoots a pointed look at the guard. Laughing nervously, I wave him off. 

"Whatever are you doing back here?" I ask, handing off the hairpins to the nearest manestylist and turning to give the inspector my full attention. 

"I've come to wish you good luck, of course," she replies. 

She's certainly dressed for the occasion: her usual gold-and-pink earrings have been replaced with a classy set of pearl posts, she's traded her plum blazer for a deeper violet gown (to be fair, the dress looks as though it would be just at home at a press conference as it would a fashion show), and the silken scarf around her neck carries traces of iridescent embroidery. My own attire—the mint and gold number from my Femme Mystique Chic line—is nearly plain in comparison. 

Nearly.

"Well, that's certainly kind of you," I murmur. "I'm afraid I had no idea you intended to come back here, else I could've alerted security—"

"No matter." She waves a dismissive hoof. "I've dealt with them plenty during the Games. It's entirely likely they still wouldn't have let me in. Say, isn't your show about to start?"

It is. Oh dear heavens, it is! I turn around wildly, searching for the model wearing The Dress, but even its eye-catching fabric has been lost in the fury of the crowd. A firm hoof on my shoulder pushes me away from it all, up toward the waiting curtain.

"Don't you dare think about jumping into that mess," Ms. Harswhinny growls into my ear. "Your assistant has it quite under control."

Sure enough, Sassy stands on a stool in the middle of it all, a general commanding her army.

I take a breath. It is so very warm backstage. One could suffocate, almost. 

"Are you ready?" My companion asks me. 

"I suppose," I squeak. "A bit nervous, perhaps." 

I risk a peek out of the curtain. Good heavens, everypony in Canterlot seems to be in attendance; the rows of heads stretch out farther than my spotlight-hindered eyes can see.

I close my eyes and exhale. "Small correction: make that quite nervous."

A hoof wraps itself around mine and squeezes gently. 

It's pitiful. It's the pitiful fear of a filly, but I can't help but whisper, "What if they don't like the dress?"

Ms. Harshwhinny does not mock me. She's quiet for a moment, but when she speaks, her voice is the most determined I've ever heard it.

"Dignity, Miss Rarity. Dignity will always be your saving grace. If the masses see fit to crown you with laurels, then wear them nobly. This day may very well be a victory for you."

From the other side of the curtain, the music begins to play. 

"Who knows? Perhaps someone else will take the spotlight this week. Do not forsake your dignity. Should you find yourself invisible, graciously acknowledge the fact that you are no less a champion—ah, a talented designer—because of it."

The first model steps onto the runway.

"And should you find your worst fears realized, and your designs rejected—well, everypony stumbles eventually. But I wouldn't worry too much," the inspector adds with a reassuring smile. "At the end of the Games, laurels draw more eyes than scuffed hooves."

I smile gratefully. We peek out of the curtain together, watching as model after model takes to the runway. Despite my nerves, I must admit it's a dazzling sight, seeing so many of my designs paraded before the biggest names in Equestrian fashion. My masterpiece (Sassy and I determined it would be best served as the closing piece) is only a few moments away from hitting the stage when a sudden urge overtakes me. 

"Would... Would it be terribly forward of me to kiss you?" I ask tentatively, eyeing the mare beside me.  

Ms. Harshwhinny chuckles. "Were you a courtier of Upper Crust's station, then yes, my dear. It is my understanding that ladies must wait to be kissed."

I turn away, chastising myself, but the inspector catches my flushed cheek and turns my face back to hers. Upon seeing the twinkle in her eyes, I relax slightly.

"But you're no lady, Miss Rarity. You're a businessmare, so it's only fitting I make you an offer." She grins conspiratorially. "You may kiss me, but only if I may take you out to a proper dinner after the show." 

My heart skips a beat, but my voice betrays nothing but easy assurance when I reply, "You have yourself a deal, Madam Inspector."

My lips brush hers right as the final model steps onto the runway.