> Bug in a Blizzard
>  by Paracompact
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> 1. Summons
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I looked back over my shoulder at the progress my partner and I had made on our ascent up the mountain pass. Our visibility through the blizzard had worsened, and at this point it could be said for certain—we had taken our last glimpse of the small winter resort from which we’d set out, and we were now truly alone in the Crystal Mountains.

Isolated as we were, it was hard to believe that we had been called upon by the Royal Guard simply for having been in the right place at the right time.

I felt the tap of a wing on my shoulder. My pegasus colleague was inviting me to look forward, as his eyes were focused on what still lay ahead. Indeed, our journey was harsh, but short lived. Through the billowing squalls, we could see it if we squinted—the so-called Villa Vivant.

The villa’s silhouette sharpened into focus against the cliff face. Its vast, oaken construction stood in proud defiance of the massif’s hazards. Altogether, the property aligned with the description given to us by our superior: that of a vacation home belonging to an exorbitantly wealthy reindeer family hailing from the pinnacle of Canterlot high society.

My colleague, with his youthful enthusiasm, would have no doubt liked to fly up to the mansion without a moment’s waste. Being respectful, however, he accommodated my plodding earth pony hooves, and kept to my pace. We trudged as a pair up a winding stone path all the way to the front door. Upon reaching the iron knocker, I saw fit to do the honors: Clunk, clunk, clunk.

An idle moment passed us by on the portico as we awaited an answer. With some patience, we received one: The grand mahogany double doors sparkled with telekinetic magic, and then yielded. An adolescent reindeer stag peered out at me and my partner.

“Marvelous,” he decreed. A satisfied smirk climbed his cheek. “Am I correct to assume you are the detectives we were told to expect?”

I remained quiet while I fished in my coat pocket for the proper identification, my hooves still numb from the cold. My partner took the opportunity to respond. “Well, ahah, technically, I’m just a cadet. The name’s Bluebird.”

The deer’s smile seemed to sag somewhat, and he looked at me expectantly. Finally, I found the means to identify myself as I flashed him my badge. “Detective Pesco Margherita. At your service.”

“Ah yes, you’ll do wonderfully,” he said, his spirits returning. “The name’s Bon Vivant. Enchanté de faire vos connaissances. Well do come in, do come in you two! Wouldn’t want you catching your death out there!”

Bluebird thanked him on both our accounts as we proceeded inside. Bon Vivant closed the door with the magic from his antlers, exhorted us to hang up our winter layers and to wipe down our hooves, and then wasted no time guiding us down a hallway that led deeper inside. 

Once my eyes had adjusted from the blinding white of the outside, I took account of our surroundings. Our passage was lined with an accented rug, and illuminated by candles fixed to the walls at regular intervals. A foundation of black marble met with tasteful wooden paneling halfway up the wall. Long-dead ancestors stared down their muzzles at us from within their gilded frames. And yet, the true centerpiece of this scene was our cervine host himself, dressed to the nines in a smoking jacket of flamboyant design. Custom-fitted, to be sure, it accentuated the thin, graceful proportions that were common to his kind.

“Nice place you have here,” Bluebird said, admiring a nearby oil painting.

“Why thank you,” Bon glowed.

“And even nicer get-up!” Bluebird continued. “We woulda put on something a little more spiffy and professional ourselves, but we were summoned on pretty short notice.”

He shook his wings of the last remnants of snow from our journey. He also took a moment to tighten his necktie, which was his sole accessory aside from his police-issue saddlebags.

Bon, unamused, brushed from his suit some of Bluebird’s errant debris. “‘Spiffy,’ you say. To what end? Rather to the contrary, I think I quite enjoy the detective’s vintage, ‘hardboiled’ look. There’s no need to change with the trends, I say. You still make it look good!”

It appeared he was referring to my trench coat. I nodded and accepted the compliment, despite Bon’s mischaracterization—I wasn’t that old. As a fashion statement, trench coats had died out in my parents’ generation; I simply took to them for their pocket space and all-around utility, professional stereotypes be damned.

“As I understand it,” I said, eager to get down to business already, “this is your and your sister’s place, yes? Or rather, your parents have entrusted it to you two and your friends over the winter break?”

“That’s correct. This has been our preferred lodging each and every holiday from our studies at Canterlot Country Day—that is to say, our boarding school back home.”

“I’ve heard of that place!” Bluebird remarked. “I had this foalhood friend, growing up in the Canterlot suburbs way back when. He was a unicorn, and a real genius kid, wouldn’t you know. Always reading ahead in class, making up his own spells and all. He studied hard for a placement exam to try to get in at CCD, and… ahah, would you believe it? He still didn’t make the cut! Talk about your prestigious high schools, huh?”

“Truly! Only the cream of the crop.”

I could recognize Bluebird was quickly ingratiating himself with the prideful young buck. Such was my partner’s preferred means of getting information out of witnesses and suspects alike. Myself, I favored more direct approaches. “You mentioned your friends, Bon. If our information is accurate, there are six of you here, yes?”

“Correct.”

“And no one but you six have been around the past couple of weeks? No other friends, no other relatives, no servants, nobody?”

“Indeed. And here I was, afraid we would have to waste time establishing all matters of banal preliminaries! You already seem well acquainted with the situation at hoof, Detective.”

Given the situation at hoof, I thought, you seem awfully amused.

“Really, the Royal Investigator didn’t tell us much more than that, over the phone,” my cadet clarified. “Y’know, that, and what you all found that has us coming here in the first place… coming here despite our vacation leave, ahah.”

In the face of Bon’s inquisitive glare, I explained, “The Royal Guard says they may be a week out from arriving. Inclement weather, remote location, you understand. They heard we were off duty at the winter resort just nearby, and considered it wise to send us as an advance party.”

“I see,” Bon said. “I should hope you two are receiving generous hazard pay, under the circumstances.”

“Well actually, funny thing about that—”

Bluebird reflexively cut himself short as we rounded the corner. We had reached our destination. Inside a spacious foyer—with a ceiling raised twice as high as the hallway, and with decor just as opulent—a group of five diverse youth including our host was gathered:

There was the lean, athletic earth pony in a plain white button-up. Yellow coat, and cutie mark a crossed pair of skis. He gave a hearty smile as he saluted us. But, this was a front: Eyes like mine didn’t miss the vigor with which he clutched the arms of his loveseat.

There was the pair of griffons perched on a divan. The female of the two was dressed in foreign regalia, and she whispered comforts and consolations into the ear of her pale-faced male counterpart, who wore a simple blazer. Despite his anxiety, this latter managed to give us a polite, if half-hearted wave of his wing as we arrived.

There was the bespectacled doe in the argyle sweater. She bore a family resemblance to our guide, but was much more modestly dressed. She currently occupied herself with a sheaf of parchments and a levitating quill by her side, not paying us any mind as she busily attended to her work.

And finally there was our guide himself, who—to the request of nobody—seated himself at a nearby baby grand piano, produced a glow from his antlers onto the keys, and began haunting the room with a dramatic overture.

There were these five kids present, and only these five. We were told there would be six. I made a mental note to bring this up later.

“Wait, weren’t we told there would be six?” my partner thought out loud. “Is somebody missing?”

Bon, engrossed in his performance, had clearly given up his place in the conversation. After a moment, the earth pony spoke up:

“Yeah, uh, Zorn’s been sick with the flu. He’s resting in his room right now. I could go fetch him, if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary. We can interview him when needed,” I responded. But better sooner than later.

“Sounds good. Just so you know, I’m Grid Iron.”

“Nice to meet you!” my partner said. “I’m Bluebird, and I’m the apprentice of the inimitable Detective Pesco here.” He highlighted my presence with an outstretched wing.

The other three—the two griffons, as well as the other reindeer—followed Grid’s lead:

“My name is Gloria. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“… I’m Girard. Pleased to meet you.”

“Blanche Draft. Fraternal twin sister of”—she gestured to her brother—“… our self-appointed entertainer for the night, apparently.” It was at this point she released her telekinesis from her quill, and for the first time looked up at me and my partner. She adjusted her glasses as she continued, “Detective, I imagine you would like to hear my account of things first.”

Haughty, but pragmatic. I like her better. “Yes, if I recall, your name did come up. The one who first called the authorities.” I leaned in for effect. “My superiors tell me that you’ve discovered a fragment of a changeling wing in this very house. Is that true, Ms. Draft?”

“Entirely true.”

The changeling may still be here. “And you all have taken the time to check that there are no obvious signs of break-in or break-out? All your doors locked, all your windows intact?”

“They were the first things we thought to check, yes.”

“Yeah, and I’ve personally searched this place top to bottom twice now!” Grid Iron added.

It may be listening to us right now.

“And this property, teleproofed, I take it?” I asked. “No one is able to pop in or out on a whim?”

“Routinely, twice a year,” Blanche replied.

From his piano stool, Bon added, “Can’t have burglars making off with the family jewels in the night, now can we?”

If it is listening…

I declared, “Then this is a very serious situation indeed. You were right to call as soon as you did.” And then, in the gravest voice I could muster: “Now, it is only a matter of time until the changeling in our midst is exposed—if not by us, then by the Royal Guard regiment on their way as we speak.”

With the scene set, I scanned the room’s reaction to my affected gravitas. Grid Iron gripped his seat a little tighter; Girard swallowed and blinked; Bon’s tempo of play faltered for just a moment before recovering.

“If I interpret your suspicions correctly,” Gloria spoke up politely, “you are implying that one of us has been replaced by a changeling.”

One replaced, or several. Or otherwise hiding out on the premises, despite the earth pony’s efforts. “That is a distinct possibility I have in mind. But let’s not jump to conclusions. Ms. Draft, we would like to verify the credibility of this claim with our own eyes, if you have preserved the specimen.”

“Naturally.”

Blanche levitated a plastic bag at her hooves onto the table in front of her. I walked over to properly examine it.

“From seven to nine o’clock this morning,” she said, “I was occupied with my daybreak writing session. I stepped out to prepare my breakfast and enjoy a brief respite, returning to my room at half past ten. I noticed immediately that my workspace had been disturbed, and it was on this piece of parchment that I discovered the wing fragment.”

Inside the bag was the piece of parchment Blanche mentioned. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve said this was all that the bag contained. After some effort, however, I located the fragment in question: a miniscule, fragile-looking black scrap—no larger than a piece of confetti—which rested atop the parchment. To my eyes, it was of an entirely nondescript shape and texture. Blanche knew to recognize this as a scrap of a changeling wing?

Bluebird eagerly flipped to an empty page of his notepad. “Very prudent of you to include the details, Blanche! If only all witnesses could be so precise. Lemme just jot all that down, and then me and Pesco can begin asking all of you in turn some more specific questions about—”

Bon slammed down on a dissonant chord, an impromptu ending to his overture. “Désolé, monsieur merlebleu. I am afraid I will have to be so rude as to interrupt, just for a moment.”

He stood up from the piano stool and positioned himself to address the room. Girard’s feathers and fur bristled from the loud interruption, while Grid gave Bon a stern look.

“You have an issue with us asking questions, Bon?” I tested.

“Not at all. At least, not per se. No, it is only the means of asking questions that I seek to critique…”

Blanche rolled her eyes at her twin brother’s oration, muttering something about her reasons for calling the actual authorities when she did.

“… For you see, when my sister first brought the wing fragment to our attention, immediately I realized that these were extraordinary circumstances. Not only has a changeling likely compromised one of us and assumed their identity, but he has done so in such a skillful manner that none among this victim’s closest friends have suspected a thing up until now. At the very least, he’s been with us for the two weeks’ duration that we’ve been isolated at the villa. It is clear to me we are dealing with a formidably clever impostor.”

I was not sure whether Bon was ignorant or just uncaring of the effect he was having on his friends, as well as his own image. Curiously, I noticed a faint tremor in his hoof as he paused to clear his throat.

“And thus,” he continued, “my first suggestion: We do not discuss indiscreetly the details of each other’s alibis and observations. Such knowledge will only serve to benefit the changeling in crafting his own alibis, in inferring the backstory of the victim he has replaced, and—if he is so devious—in sowing doubt amongst ourselves.”

He had turned around mid-oration, but now gave a self-conscious look back at his audience, and at Grid in particular. His finer body language seemed at odds with his words and bombastic gestures, as though he were indulging them despite better judgment.

“That’s a frightening thought,” Girard brooded meekly amidst the pause.

“You got that right!” Bluebird agreed. “Ahah, kinda afraid when you say this is only the first of your suggestions, Bon…”

“Oh, only one more, simply. And you needn’t be fearful of it. For it has to do with a stratagem I’ve devised that, properly enacted, cannot fail to out the changeling among us.”

Bon now held all his peers in silent suspense. He prolonged the pause in explanation with a leisurely stride back from the piano to the center of the group.

He then continued, “Changelings feed on love, yes? If Equestrian biologists are not mistaken, it is love which catalyzes their synthesis of magic—Zorn told me that. And magic is their life force which enables, among other things, their ability to maintain a transformation.” In theatrical fashion, Bon adopted a harsh glare before the delivery. “And thus, my second suggestion: We take turns locking up suspects in the wine cellar! Down there, they shall be thoroughly separated from the rest of us. No candlelight, no visits, not an ounce of love. A scene of starvation, for a changeling. If one of us, once subjected to this confinement, exhibits an unusual reaction, perhaps even an outright de-transformation, then—”

“Knock it off, Bon! We’re not gonna do anything like that!”

Grid Iron’s quaking outburst had an immediate effect on the room, not least of all on Bon, who gave a startled yelp and closed up his posture. Bon now stared at Grid as though he were a pair of oncoming headlights.

“Locking each other up in the wine cellar? What’s gotten into you? That’s a form of torture for anybody, changeling or not! You’ll have to tie me up and throw me down there first, because I refuse to take part in something like that.”

“B-but, Grid,” Bon stammered, “surely you recognize that one or more of our friends this very instant is likely hurt, or worse yet—”

“We’ll figure this out some other way.”

Everyone in the room was looking at me and Bluebird, expecting us to play the mediators. But such roles weren’t my strong suit, and Bluebird repeatedly stumbled over his words in trying to validate the concerns of both parties:

“Well, let’s settle down a little, we—uh, I at least see Bon’s point, like we said, this is a serious situation. And, um, but—Grid Iron, was it?—he’s right that torture is a little excessive, even if maybe—”

Finally, Blanche cut through with clarity. “Grid is right. Your ‘stratagem,’ Bon, is not only cruel and unusual, but frankly, stupid.” She raised a hoof. “Do you know how long a changeling can go without love, for example? One can go without food for weeks. And if not an outright de-transformation, what exactly constitutes an ‘unusual reaction’?”

Gloria joined in the chastising. “Would you be the first volunteer to your plan, Bon?”

“I had in mind to draw straws, b-but I suppose I wouldn’t object if—”

“Did you even think of Zorn and his flu?” Grid pressed. “Do you want him to come down with pneumonia? Or what about Girard and his nerves, his claustrophobia?”

With that, the last amount of fight seemed to leave the young deer. “No, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking it through. I’m sorry, Grid.”

The earth pony in particular has a special effect on this one.

Bluebird finally found his words. “All right, everyone, I can tell this is a stressful time for us all. Rest assured, we won’t be taking anyone prisoner. That said, I happen to agree with Bon’s first suggestion; it’s only correct police procedure to interview each of you privately. If nothing else, you’ll feel more comfortable telling us anything—anything at all—about any discrepancies you may have noticed recently, without it sounding like an accusation.”

I nodded in approval of my cadet’s handling of the situation. The resulting silence in the room indicated that they, too, assented to this plan.

After a moment, Blanche promptly stood up, levitating her papers along with her. “Very well. I will be attending to my writing in my room, if I’m needed.”

Scarcely waiting for permission, she departed up a nearby flight of spiral stairs and disappeared into an upstairs corridor. Bon similarly withdrew from the scene, but not before stealing a diffident glance at Grid. Next, Gloria alighted from her perch on the divan and looked back at Girard, who followed her cue in leaving the room.

All that remained was the evidence bag Blanche had left on the table, and a very out-of-place looking Grid Iron. His temper now cooled, he appeared uncertain whether to stay or to go. “I, uh, don’t really like to blow up like that,” he murmured. “I guess it’s like you said, it’s stressful and all… Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Grid, no apology needed,” Bluebird assured him. Myself, I was happy that he had thwarted Bon’s hijacking of the investigation. “I don’t know what all that was about, exactly, but… he kinda was making things more stressful than they needed to be, ahah.”

Grid rubbed the back of his neck, still unsure what to say. I probed, “Do you know what that was about? Does Bon usually take center stage like that?”

“Well, yes and no,” Grid answered with sincerity. “I can say this because he’s a good friend: He can come off as kind of a showboat, a bit full of himself. He calls it his ‘caricature,’ and we can both laugh at it. In the end it comes with his territory, I think, his upbringing, y’know?”

“What sort of upbringing?”

“As a wunderkind, I guess. He can be a bit childlike, but he’s a genius at whatever he sets his mind to, honestly, and always has been. You heard his piano playing, didn’t you?”

Given the circumstances, I’d only thought of it as a noisy annoyance. “Yes, it was very impressive.”

“Even everyone back at CCD is jealous of him. I guess with constant expectations like that, from himself, his parents, and everyone around him, he needs a sort of… persona, they call it? A mask to hide under, when stressed.”

A psychological defense mechanism, in other words. One saw plenty in our line of work.

“I can tell you care deeply about your friends, Grid,” Bluebird said, cupping a hoof on his shoulder. I had a lot to learn when it came to rapidly establishing rapport; in Bluebird, I wasn’t always sure whether it came from a place of genuineness, or merely skill.

It had its effect on the earth pony. “Thanks, I… that’s why, this whole situation, y’know… it kinda has me all messed up… I don’t even want to think about…” He looked down and grimaced.

“I can imagine,” Bluebird consoled. “Now I mean it: I think you’re very attuned to your friends’ personalities. So I feel confident asking, is there anybody among your friends who has been acting out-of-character recently?”

An impostor could only play their part so well.

His head still hung low, Grid answered, “No. None of them are different to me in the slightest.” He looked up. His neck and brow were visibly tense. “Whenever you find this changeling, before you haul it off, do you think I could… have a word with it?”

The fire in the earth pony’s eyes made apparent the euphemism. A euphemism for what, exactly, was best left unspoken.

“We’ll see there’s justice done,” my partner promised, prudently vague.

We let Grid know that if and when we needed a more extensive interview from him, we would find him. Grid agreed to the plan, informed us that in the short term he would be in either the kitchen or the gym, and then politely left us.

I turned to my partner. “So, what are your thoughts on this case, Bluebird?”

Bluebird stood pondering, his hoof to his chin. “Well, what we know of changelings is that they tend to act alone, and on direct orders from the queen. So, if there really is a changeling here, I would have to assume it’s for the connections that one of these rich kids have—or maybe their parents? Who knows. The whole situation seems a tad bit far-fetched to me. In particular, I don’t get how Blanche saw a changeling wing in that little scrap of nothing she showed us.”

He had good instincts. “I agree with your appraisal.”

“So, guessing we should interview her first, then? The witness is a logical place to start, after all.”

“Indeed it is, and you should. However, I myself am going to seek out this Zorn character first.”

“Ah. You worried about him, being on his own?”

“Not exactly. Just call it an intuitive curiosity in who he is, and what he has to say.”
> 2. Interview With the Artist
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before beginning the interview, Bluebird couldn’t help but take a moment to soak in all the details of the room—Blanche's bedroom, that is. The cadet knew how to read a living space for its owner’s quirks and personality through years of experience; this room required no such expertise to get the message:

Beware. Artist at work.

Parchments poured out of half-open drawers, smattered the surface of multiple desks, and threatened to tumble like an avalanche from nearby bookshelves. Designer quills of a common specification were always in hoof’s reach, often commingling with more diverse drawing implements in graphite, charcoal, and conté. The wallpaper was, for the most part, literal paper—the artist's works in progress that simply had nowhere else to go. Little by little, Bluebird’s eyes adjusted to the sheer informational overload, and he began to make out the ley line-like borders of the individual workspaces that existed throughout.

It wasn't just messiness, Bluebird thought. He knew messy folks. He was messy folk. No, this was an intuitive and personal means of organization. It was productivity that didn’t dress itself up. It was utilitarian art.

That said… the doe's room looked like it was in the process of exploding. But that was just his opinion.

Bluebird felt it rude to gawk as he did, but Blanche paid him no mind. She had let him in with only a few words of formal pleasantry before sitting down at a desk and resuming her levitation-assisted writing. Curious, Bluebird walked up behind Blanche and (would she mind?) looked down over her shoulder at her work. A closer inspection revealed that this parchment, like all the rest, overflowed with a combination of cursive prose and artful drawings.

“It’s a shame I never learned to read cursive, ahah,” Bluebird ticked, “but those are some real nice drawings, if I do say so myself!”

Blanche muttered a thank-you while continuing to write. Eventually, she reached what she saw fit as a decent stopping point, released her quill, and turned around. “I’m an author by trade, you understand, though I also do my own illustrations.”

“Wow, an author and an artist, at your age? How many books have you written?”

“Published, about seven. Written, well, many more.”

“That’s incredible. I wish I’d had that kind of motivation in high school.”

“Everyone does. Motivation is fleeting. Work ethic is what’s required,” she said matter-of-factly. “Speaking of work, neither of us are here to chitchat. To cut to the chase: There are some things I have to say that I believe are germane to the case, but which I have been loath to mention to anybody thus far.”

“Oh?” Bluebird flipped open his notepad. “Mention away! And believe me, me and my partner treat anonymous tips with the strictest confidentiality.”

“Thank you. But it’s not an anonymous tip, in the sense that I am casting shade on any of my friends here. Indeed, it’s something I’ve withheld because it suggests some involvement on my part in this incident, when—just to underline it—that’s simply not the case.”

“I see. Don’t worry, I can have an open mind about whatever it is you need to disclose.”

She indicated a nearby stack of parchments with a hoof. “You see, Officer, I am no stranger to changelings, as of my latest work in progress; I have been working for the past couple of months on a novel which features one of these creatures as the main protagonist. Nothing more, nothing less.”

On top of the stack Bluebird spotted what looked to be a cover page of a budding manuscript, bearing a title in elegantly inked calligraphy: Changeling Ringing. In the vicinity, he found a number of technical drawings depicting insectoid anatomy—limbs, eyes, horns, antennae, and (so it seemed most important to Bluebird) wings.

He was just about to ask the question when Blanche answered it for him: “It is only due to my extensive research on the species for the purposes of my upcoming book that I was able to recognize the changeling wing fragment as such.”

The cadet bit on the end of his pen. He teetered on whether to seek clarification on a certain point. “So, you’re sure that’s the extent of the coincidence?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay. Is there any real reason, then, why you’ve withheld this from the others? You know, from your friends?”

The question came off differently than Bluebird would’ve liked it to.

Blanche narrowed her eyes. “I’ve already told you the ‘real’ reason, Officer.”

“I know, don’t worry, I was listening! You said you’re afraid that it’d suggest some untrue things about your involvement. Or, well, lack of it. But I don’t see this info as being damning rather than just… pertinent, you know? What are you afraid your friends would really think?”

“Friends are capable of misunderstanding just as badly, if not worse than strangers. In my omission of these things, I’m simply sparing them the chance to err. It’s easier for everyone this way,” she explained. “Besides, Officer, I came to you voluntarily with this information, didn’t I? You and the detective are the only ones who need to know.”

She spoke with a frankness that would indicate these were just logical facts in her mind. As could be expected, the author was very confident in her verbal delivery. She was just like her brother in that way. And yet, she was just like her brother in another way, too: Bluebird noticed in her body language—the shifts of posture, the distraction of her gaze, the parting of her mane with her magic—the tell-tale signs of anxiety.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried,” Bluebird admitted. “You know your friends better than I do.”

“It’s fine.”

But Blanche was right, ultimately. She had offered this info freely to him, at least. For this reason, Bluebird chalked up the anxiety to some social insecurity rather than anything suspicious. For now, he felt there was no need to press further on this pain point.

Still, he wanted to corroborate some things. “So, about Changeling Ringing. You mentioned some extensive research, yeah? Is that a common process for you, before beginning a novel?”

“Every time, Officer. An author must have a thoroughly factual understanding of their subject matter. Read a hundredfold more than you write, and write a hundredfold more than you publish.”

“And what is this subject matter, exactly? I mean, what is the book about?”

Blanche launched into a faux-dramatic telling, sounding like a dust jacket blurb. “It’s about a changeling who, from its very hatching, realizes the difference between itself and its brethren. Who, from its very hatching, is designated a career as a ‘love farmer’—essentially a warden for the Hive’s prisoners—and is disgusted at the duties expected of it.

“It is high time for a change in Equestria, it decides: a change to the age-old animosity between changeling and pony kind.

“After voluntarily exiling itself from the Hive, it wanders boldly from one pony city to the next, undisguised, causing panic and being arrested at each point, but then hunger striking until public opinion sees it released. And oh, it even falls in love along the way. How touching!

“Eventually, it sparks a political and civil rights revolution, which nearly leads to the signing of a momentous peace treaty between Celestia and Chrysalis—were it not for the tragic kidnapping of our changeling at spearpoint by a band of violent reactionaries. Our hero is never seen or heard from again, but its memory in history is everlasting.”

“Sounds like a thoughtful read!” Bluebird gushed. “I’ll have to check it out once it’s published! You’ve quite the progressive take on the equinity of changelings, huh?”

“Oh god no.” She rolled her eyes; her enthusiastic pretenses had vaporized in an instant. “Disgusting and deceptive creatures, any way you look at them. That ‘love farmer’ thing isn’t an occupation I made up, for the record. No, Changeling Ringing is a potboiler, through and through. A warmed-over soup of clashing clichés. Florid and mushy and feel-good—that’s just what readers expect these days, you see.”

“Huh. That’s a bit of a shame. Are you already treating your job as a writer so… dispassionately?”

“Don’t get the wrong impression of me, Officer,” she said with a sly smile. “While I always need to prioritize my marketability, I still have my fun. For example, Changeling Ringing is actually one of my more intensive experiments in parody.”

“So you mean like, sarcasm? Anyone who reads it, and is maybe a little smarter than me, would know you’re poking fun at the whole idea?”

“Well, surely not everyone, or even most of everyone. In fact, I would be surprised if a single newspaper columnist picks up on the satire. But, I am confident that anyone with a rudimentary literary awareness would understand.” Breathlessly polemical, she continued, “If not during the 300 pages of meandering self-indulgence from the narrator, of juvenile character personalities that are inconsistent from one chapter to the next, of serially unfinished and/or contradictory plotlines, then surely by the reverse deus ex machina that is our protagonist’s sudden and senseless death.”

Bluebird could only take Blanche at her word that the book’s contents were as she described. There was no denying, at the least, that she was very passionate about it.

“So, again, it’s a rule of hoof for me not to leak details of my upcoming books, even to my friends. Even more so if they would—not unreasonably—view this whole incident as something more than the mere coincidence it is.”

Coincidences. Bluebird recalled a favorite saying of his mentor, that coincidences were always the best or the worst places to focus when solving a crime. He could only wonder, which one was this? At any rate, this recollection reminded Bluebird that this really wasn’t like most “crimes” the duo had been summoned to solve in the past:

“So,” Bluebird started anew, “am I correct that you finding this wing fragment is the only thing we have to go on? Not to say it’s not sufficient evidence that there’s a changeling here. I agree that it is, and that you were right to call the authorities. But, there hasn’t been any expressly harmful crime committed, has there?”

Blanche peered down at her interviewer over her glasses, apparently second-guessing his faculties. “Are you already forgetting the most likely means the changeling has taken to infiltrate our group?”

“Well no, I’ll admit it’s most likely that one of your friends has been… I guess it’s too grisly for me to speculate, ahah. But Pesco is always reminding me to analyze the unlikelier possibilities at hoof, as well. What if, say, a changeling is around, but he’s just skulking as some inanimate object, maybe hiding out from the blizzard? Or what if he’s, I guess, always been one of your friends, and you just never knew?”

“I doubt that’s what it is doing here.” The author shook her head. Incredulous but reconciling, she added, “Such scenarios aren’t be inconceivable, I’ll grant, but they really demand a suspension of disbelief, in my researched opinion.”

“Well, my parents always told me I had an overactive imagination!”

“In the first place, changelings have difficulty maintaining a transformation into creatures particularly large or small, and especially do they have their limits in maintaining an inorganic form. I wouldn’t expect one to last thirty minutes as an armchair before exhausting their magic reserves, let alone as a less conspicuous inanimate object.

“In the second place, sleeper cells are just not the changeling MO. Why develop a reputable identity over the course of years or decades, after all, when you can just as easily steal one on short notice? Besides, Chrysalis likes to keep her best agents on a short leash.”

“Hm, it makes sense. I was just hoping to figure out what might be the impostor’s motive here, their personality. Understand what kind of changeling we’re dealing with.”

“I see. I believe I can help with that. Do you have the evidence with you, Officer?” Blanche turned to levitate an object into Bluebird’s hoof. It appeared to be a quality pocket lens. “I invite you to take a closer look at the wing fragment, and tell me what you see.”

He found some empty space on a desk (easier said than done) and carefully shook the fragment out of the bag before placing it under the lens. Looking more closely like this, he could easily identify the texture and branching venation characteristic of an insect wing. There really was no question that this was something biological, beyond the level of forgery. And if Blanche’s illustrations could be trusted… this was well and truly evidence of a changeling.

There was only one detail he noticed that was not present in any of the drawings he’d seen.

“What are these big purple lines, there on the, uh…”

“The subcostal tracheæ,” Blanche specified. “That is exactly what I wanted to bring to your attention. I fear we are not dealing with any ordinary changeling: Those striations are indicative of a hive member who is sufficiently in the queen’s favor to feast on the finest, most concentrated extract of her royal jelly. A single consumption leaves indelible marks on their morphology, and I would venture that this individual has partaken of this delicacy more than once.”

Bluebird felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “So, a mark of changeling nobility, kinda?”

“Not exactly.” Blanche adopted an even more serious tone as she explained, “Their society is classless at birth—honor can only be earned. There are no nobles, there are only elites. To date, Equestria has only discovered such markings on a handful of the most adept, accomplished, and loyal changeling spies.”

Bluebird shifted in place uncomfortably, and picked his pen back up as he thought to commit these new details to his notes.

“Invariably, these discoveries have only ever been made post-mortem, you see. So Officer, I trust that you will handle this seriously, but it bears repeating: Such a high-level agent will not be keen on being captured alive.”
> 3. Zorn's Lemma
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Departing from the foyer and down a single corridor, I found the room I was looking for. Within this room, a zebra lay peacefully in his cot, hooves crossed across his chest. He was positioned atop the covers, dressed warmly in a thick red bathrobe. After I’d knocked, no more than a simple “come in” had sufficed to let me enter.

From the time I had entered, up until the time I finished familiarizing myself with his and his room’s appearance, Zorn did not once open his eyes. It was hard to get a read on a face like that. Perhaps that was the point.

“Hello, Zorn. I’m Pesco Margherita, detective issuing from Canterlot PD. My partner Bluebird and I are here on emergency authorization by order of the Royal Guard. They are due to arrive in several days, but they would like us to investigate the matter of the changeling before then. I understand you are ill, but I would like to ask you some questions.”

“Greetings.” His voice was gravelly and baritone, deeper than even my own as a full-grown adult. “Yes, that will be all right.”

This introduction seemed to provide little to no new information to Zorn that would have him open his eyes, or perturb in the slightest his austere tranquility. Perhaps in his mind, this development was only predictable.

Zorn’s room, to me, was like the coat pattern unique to his kind—a curious and impressive collage of contrasting elements. On his shelves, ancient tomes on alchemy with faded spines coexisted alongside modern, machine-printed science textbooks. On his end table, an old-fashioned mortar and pestle held pulverized traces of medicinal herbs, while on his workbench, one found an expansive collection of glass chemistry equipment. On his desk, his personal scientific logbooks lay open, readily sharing their voluminous contents (albeit written in his native language), quite unlike their taciturn owner.

These were stripes of lifestyle that made it impossible to tell foreground from background. I couldn’t decide between two distinct impressions: that of a youth torn between two cultures, or of one who felt allegiance to neither.

“Very well,” I said. “I have some general questions to begin with, if you would like to help me to understand the story here.”

I took the silence as an indication to proceed:

“How long have you six known each other?”

“Three years, plus or minus. The length of our time at Canterlot Country Day.”

“And have you noticed anything off about anyone’s behavior or personalities, recently?”

“No.”

“Can you personally think of any reason a changeling would replace one of you? Is there anything recent that you know of going on with any of your families, for example?”

“No, and no.”

“Do you know of anything in Blanche’s room, or anywhere in this house, that would be singularly valuable for a changeling to either steal or destroy?”

“No.”

“Do you have any observations on others’ behavior this morning, particularly between the hours of nine and ten thirty?”

“No.”

“Do you have any alibi for yourself, for that time period?”

“No.”

“I can appreciate the brevity, Zorn, but please elaborate.”

“I have no witnesses to corroborate my story,” he said, maximally to-the-point. “But, I have been in my room all day, resting. I am not feeling well.”

Through random inquiry, Zorn was not turning out to be terribly useful. And so, I proceeded to the one question I had for him in particular, and I leaned into it. “Might I ask, even if it’s probably nothing important: Why were you not present in the main hall with the rest of your friends?”

“Because I am not feeling well,” he repeated.

“That’s too bad. How long have you been sick? What are your symptoms?”

“Onset of mild fever, malaise, rhinitis about 48 hours ago,” he listed in clinical fashion. “Being prone to sinus infections in the past, I have taken a steroidal decongestant as a precaution. But I do not expect this to be any more than a head cold.”

I pondered his condition. Mild illness struck often, of course, and Zorn’s illness was a coincidence at this point in the case—and coincidences were either the best or the worst places to focus, when solving a crime. I recalled Bon’s proposed strategy, that of starving a changeling of love; could these symptoms be part of a withdrawal?

Or were there even any symptoms at all? None were patently noticeable, in this zebra in repose. Malaise was invisible; a fever useless, if I didn’t know a healthy temperature for his kind; and lack of congestion would tell me nothing, if his story was that he’d taken a decongestant.

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “At least it’s not the sort of illness that has you all but incapacitated, huh?”

Zorn finally opened his eyes, albeit briefly, to examine my expression. “Indeed.”

“I guess we all need our rest when we’re sick. Even with just a cold.”

The implication was unavoidable. “I didn’t expect there would be any information I needed to hear immediately at the meeting. None that the detective couldn’t tell me himself, once he started interrogating us individually.”

“Yeah, that’s a fair assumption. And proven right: Nothing about the case came up that you kids don’t already know.” After a pause, I pressed, “But still, don’t you think your close friends will—sorry, you do consider these five others to be close friends, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Right. Do you not think your friends will worry about you, on your own like this? I’m no friendship expert, but I don’t think they really congregated because they had any particular information to receive. I think they just wanted some reassurance, from us as the authorities, but mainly from each other. That’s all.”

Zorn fidgeted his hooves on his chest. A subtle, but unmistakable, sign of discomfort. Yet, he continued his trend of not responding until I asked or implied a direct question. I began to pace gently around the room, passively eying his chemistry experiments, before bringing the question to the fore:

“Don’t you want reassurance? Don’t you want to reassure your friends?”

I looked back at Zorn. His eyes were open, head upright, looking down at his chest. His fidgeting intensified into hoofwringing. And yet, intuitively I felt him less rather than more suspicious for this response. I asked myself why, and I rationalized: This is a genuine expression. The truly callous liars I’d had to deal with in the past, invariably their reaction to emotional contradictions was confusion, not distress.

Zorn remained quiet, and I wanted to probe further. But I stopped in place—I saw it, and my attention was immediately distracted.

“Tell me about your recent experiments, Zorn.”

Without looking back, I could hear his body turn to look over at me and what I had found. A creak from his mattress, and then hoofsteps behind me. In a moment, he was standing by my side, confirming my discovery: Six petri dishes, lined up side by side. One of them was demarcated with extra space, as though it were a control. Each of the six cultured a similar-looking biological growth (indeed, they appeared to be the only ongoing experiment of a biological appearance), with one exception—five of the petri dishes, including the control dish, were stained a pacifying blue, while one of the experimental dishes instead glowed bright crimson. Each was labeled with a single letter of the Zebrish alphabet.

His reaction had all but confirmed everything I could’ve suspected about their significance. I liked it when my suspects were so kind.

“You have an eye for noticing things, Pesco, and a mind for putting two and two together,” he said, low and monotone. “There is not a doubt in my mind that you and your partner will, in due time, unravel the truth behind our past and present circumstances.”

“Is that to say, Zorn, that you have no intention of explaining which of your five friends this red petri dish corresponds to?”

“No, I do not.”

A tense standoff, as Zorn’s previous insecure, emotional wavering was replaced with a resolute commitment to his latest words.

“But I would be correct in assuming, nevertheless, that this experiment pertains to some sort of investigation of your own concerning the changeling? Well before Blanche found her own evidence?”

“Yes, you would be. On both counts.”

“And you are aware, Zorn, that electing to withhold such crucial information from an officer of the law, under direct request, in a state of emergency, skirts dangerously close to obstruction of justice, if not aiding and abetting?”

“I am now. It makes no difference to my decision,” Zorn asserted. “I would hope in turn that as an officer of the law, Pesco, you are aware that the notions of prudence, morality, and the law correlate but do not coincide.”

For fear of diminishing returns (and a dubious legal basis), that was as far as I was willing to lean on Zorn… for now. “Fair enough. I can sympathize. I’ll admit the distinction is sometimes lost on my colleagues, and maybe just now I got ahead of myself,” I pivoted. “But I can promise, Bluebird and I only have you and your friends’ best interests at heart. Is there any explanation you can comfortably give me, regarding your decision?”

“Partially, perhaps. If you do not understand or agree with my perspective on things as I explain them, however, we may simply be at an impasse.”

He turned around, left my side before the petri dishes, and lay back down in his cot.

“You asked me about the way in which I interact with my friends, or fail to. You should not compare my behavior to theirs, for I am nothing like them. I am painfully aware of this fact. I can thank them for their continued friendship with me, even if I scarcely understand the value they place in mine.

“I do not know how many zebras you’ve encountered in your time, Pesco—in pony society they are few and far between, and they tend not to seek each other out to start families. Almost every zebra you will encounter is, like me, a foreign-born immigrant. The country we hail from, the lands we are accustomed to, they are a place of shadowy jungles teeming with predators, and of desolate, infertile plains. We do what we can to survive. For some, that means abuse and exploitation. For most of the rest, it means turning a blind eye. It is all we can do to look after our own household.

“Abuse. Though it has never visited me personally, I have always thoroughly despised it. Despised the sad creatures into which it transforms victim and perpetrator alike. And yet, I have understood that abuse is always a longer and more complicated story than it so appears. In this respect pony society, as well, is imperfect—one spark, one rumor of wrongdoing, and a herd mentality will call to action, solving the problem at hoof but creating ten more in its wake. And so while I could not stand to live in my homeland any longer, now in Equestria I cannot break out of my paralyzingly analytical ways, as a passive observer, as a scientist. Even among my closest friends.”

The philosophizing was running long on me. It was honest inner turmoil, but it was not clarifying things. I didn’t understand in the slightest how it pertained to the changeling situation. I prodded his vagueries with one of my own: “But surely, a scientist understands the importance of the objective truth, of speaking it out loud. Even more than a detective, perhaps.”

I received another in turn. “And what is the truth, even in science? It is not so clear-cut.” By this time, Zorn’s eyes were closed again. “No one experiment can establish fact. Much less one conducted by a high schooler, in his bedroom, according to tortuously improvised methods. And even if it could, objective facts are abused by subjective biases—and I would hate to infect another with my own possibly ignorant judgment.”

Surely, the judgment he feared would prove ignorant was not his, but my own. He simply doesn’t trust me. Or perhaps, my professional paranoia informed me, this was all a ruse, a deflection… In either case, I had no more cards to play. “I understand. That will be all, for now.”

I made a motion to leave, when Zorn sat up one last time. “I understand that I am not your favorite equine-of-interest right now. Allow me to offer you a token of my trust.”

Oh?

He paced over to a cabinet beside his experiment table, and produced in hoof a glass syringe. Equipped with a hefty brass plunger and a large-gauge needle, it would not have looked out of place in an antique shop, were it not for the viscous green serum with which it was loaded.

“This is a magic-suppressant agent. I have concocted it in the past to subdue and study small fauna of magical endowment. As of late, I thought it wise to synthesize a dose in much higher strength.”

He passed the syringe over, entrusting its contents to my discretion. The instructions were clear: If the need arose, I could instantly disable a belligerent changeling’s transformation. The subtext was even clearer: Our changeling was belligerent.

“Pesco, it is as I said: I do not doubt you and your partner will rapidly discover the truth for yourselves, with or without my cooperation. But, I am not lying when I tell you that I do not know the full story: I do not know how it must end.”
> 4. Memories
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Blanche’s room, Bluebird squinted to read his own handwriting as he looked over his notes… (How had his penmanship gotten worse since he was a foal? Bluebird wondered if even his mentor could get to the bottom of that mystery.)

By the looks of it, it was all there—the facts of the case surrounding the discovery of the wing fragment, the coincidence of Changeling Ringing, the deal with the royal jelly, as well as her perspective and information about changelings in general. If ever he and Pesco were stuck on a point of changeling trivia, Blanche would definitely be a source to return to. But for the moment, he had learned everything that was relevant, and so he thanked the young author for her time and made way for the door.

“There’s one more thing I should say, Officer,” she called after him. Bluebird turned back to face her. “It’s about my dearest twin brother Bon.”

“Oh?” He flipped his notepad back open. “Do tell.”

“Let me set the scene: ‘Twas nine years ago, in that uncertain season between summer and fall. Father was by now sufficiently impressed with Bon’s playing of his well-tempered little clavier that he saw it time to arrange for the fawn’s first piano exhibition. It would be a solo performance for Father, his daughter yours truly, and choice guests—just a little after-dinner entertainment, meant to acclimate his son to high-society networking.

“Can I just say? This wasn’t the first or last time Father exhibited Bon like this. As for myself, well… I’ll call it ‘fatherly love,’ the fact that I was spared such demanding expectations. You can call it something else, and I encourage you to.”

Favorite child? Sexist dad? the cadet scrawled. He added a couple extra question marks to each, for good measure.

“Now, regarding his piano exhibition, eight-year-old Bon was scared out of his velvet, of course. But even back then, he was never one to let an opportunity to impress Patriarch and friends pass him by. So, alone in his room he worked himself to the bone practicing The Blue Doenube for weeks, until he was sure he could play it in his sleep. Having achieved mastery, the thought of his exhibition no longer frightened him.

“Or so he thought. He sat down at the keys that fateful day, and all at once that mastery dripped from his brain out his ears. (Bon insists that the stool was at an unfamiliar height to him and it threw off his magical muscle memory, but make no mistake, it was the same damn nonadjustable stool taken straight from his room.) The result, Officer, is that he didn’t make it halfway to the coda of that waltz before he succumbed to his sour notes. He stood up suddenly; he staggered across the stage; and then, he simply fainted from embarrassment.

“As far as after-dinner entertainment goes, it was a sidesplitting tour de force. Father was the only one who wasn’t so amused.”

Bluebird had tried to transcribe the key details of the story, but gave up halfway through as he began to question what even were the key details. “That’s, uh, quite the sibling story, Blanche! I’m sure that information will prove useful in, um…”

“I’m only telling you this so that you have a distant memory to corroborate with my brother. Idea being, if he recalls it exactly as I do, it stands to reason neither of us have been replaced by a changeling.”

That made much more sense to Bluebird. At the same time, though, he wondered if she couldn’t have shared a memory of theirs that was just a smidge less… traumatic?

The smirk on the sister’s lips told him she definitely could have.

And that was the true end of the interview with Blanche, after a second thanking for her time. Once outside her bedroom, Bluebird took one more moment to review his notes before deciding he would regroup and strategize with his mentor.

He walked back down the corridor and toward the spiral staircase that would feed into the foyer below. However, on his approach, he could hear a conversation taking place downstairs. Bluebird stood over the banister—neither concealing nor outright revealing his presence—and saw two familiar faces having a conversation at hoof’s reach on the divan: It was Girard the griffon, and that earth pony Grid Iron.

“All in all I guess I don’t really know much about the thing… But I wouldn’t worry about it, dude, you couldn’t wind up any worse off than me!” Grid chuckled in good spirit. 

Girard’s back was to Bluebird from this angle, his head bowed low as he mumbled. It was all Bluebird could do to make out choice fragments of the griffon’s words:

“… I just can’t imagine how that feels, or doesn’t feel… I mean I literally have a hard time conceiving… without… But I can’t deny… it sounds like it would make things so, so much—”

“Oh hey there, Detective!” Grid bellowed. Girard spooked and reflexively craned his gaze backward and upward. “Or, was it detective-in-training?”

Bluebird gave a friendly salute as he descended the stairs. “Still just a cadet, yep. Pesco’s the big guns.”

”Ah, but who’s keeping track anyway?”

“The payroll department, primarily, ahah.”

Bluebird had made it to the landing when the griffon rose from his squat to his four legs and stretched his wings anxiously. He gave a slow nod to his friend, thanking him for the benefit of whatever conversation they had just had. “I-I should be going now. Gloria will begin to wonder.”

Girard wasted no time as he began to vacate the foyer in the direction of another corridor beneath the stairs, passing Bluebird on his way. He slowed down as he went, tracking Bluebird with his gaze… The same “haunted” look in his eyes as earlier, mixed with something else. Was he expecting something?

Girard disappeared from the scene without another word.

“Say, Gloria and Girard,” Bluebird began casually, addressing the standing pony still present, “what’s the relation between them, exactly?”

“They’re cousins, yeah,” Grid said.

“A pretty inseparable pair, huh? And you would have us believe Bon and Blanche are the twins!”

“Yeah, Girard and Gloria are joined at the haunches!” Grid said. “They grew up as cubs in the same royal family, back in their home province.”

A Griffonstone royal duo, Bluebird thought. Quite the honor. But even though he’d only had glimpses of these two thus far, he had the distinct feeling this occupation agreed with Gloria’s manner of dress and personality far better than it did Girard’s. Two nobles cut from different cloth, he supposed; he’d always imagined royal types as having very interchangeable personalities, but he knew that was ignorant of him.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was it you two were talking about out here?”

“Well, I’d just fixed myself a pre-workout snack,” he gestured to a large bowl, only a few kernels of quinoa left sticking to the sides, “when I noticed him preening something furious, out here alone in the foyer. And well, Girard, you see, probably you’ve already noticed… He’s kinda a bundle of nerves, even in the best of times.”

“I see. And these are more like the worst of times.”

“Exactly! He’s wound up even tighter than usual. Not the worst I’ve ever seen him, but, it ebbs and it flows, y’know.”

“Sounds like a hoof-ful and a half to deal with.” Realizing the possible faux-pas, he quickly added, “For him, his anxiety, I mean.”

Grid chuckled, then leaned a hoof against the divan, looking contemplative. “Yeah, certainly for him. Gloria is his rock, generally, but he leans on us from time to time, too. I guess I cherish the opportunity, when he does.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s just nice, not having to worry about living up to expectations around him, y’know? Well, that sounds pretty rude when I say it, but really, I feel those expectations all the time around others, especially at CCD,” he explained. “Like, there are more scholars than athletes at that place, and so I’m mostly just known as the pony who got in for sports.”

Bluebird found it amusing how it all seemed to go back to something existential with these kids. “What sports do you play?”

“Cross-country skiing and hoofball, mainly. Dual scholarship,” he added, with a hint of pride. “But yeah, I think I’ve just about got the formula down pat for pulling Girard out of his nervous funks like this one. The trick is, after you calm him down from whatever’s stressing him out—and I don’t blame him, there’s a lot to be stressed about right now!—he’s likely to calm down too much, and become a bit depressive. So you pick him back up again, and then he’s pretty much right as rain!”

“So I guess the part I dropped in on was this recovery phase, huh?” The cadet felt an itch in his pocket where his pen and case notes lay, but he resisted the urge; best not to risk spoiling the mood. He would just have to trust his memory and record details later. “Hate to have interrupted your method, and whatever you were talking about.”

“Oh yeah, I forget how, but we wound up on the subject of, y’know, love and romance, and well, I guess he’s been feeling down about his own prospects there?” In a familiar gesture, he rubbed the back of his neck. His extraverted nature was quickly fading. “To be honest, you kinda saved me from an awkward situation. Dunno if I would’ve been able to execute the recovery, or well, y’know, if I would’ve been the best player to take that one in particular to the end zone, heh.”

Grid went quiet, but Bluebird detected there was an explanation missing. He was about to prod for one, but then he remembered—silence, if it worked, worked best. Indeed, after a pause, Grid continued on his own:

“Um, you know that stereotype of the hoofball jock with the amped-up libido and his choice of mare for each day of the week?” he said, exceedingly forward. “Well, without sounding too weird about it, I’ve always been kind of the opposite: Not once have I ever had a crush on a mare!”

Hm.

“Or on a stallion, uh, just to make that clear. At least, not as far as I can remember…”

Once again, Bluebird’s wing twitched, wanting to reach for the notepad. If a changeling was involved, love was relevant; and if love was relevant, then maybe, so was an (alleged) lack of it?

“… It’s the sort of thing I always expected to happen eventually. But now, in my senior year of high school, I think I’ve come to expect it’s permanent: a life without all that whatever-you-call-it. Who needs lovers when you have friends, am I right?”

Grid scrounged up a smile.

Plodding hoofsteps from the hall behind Grid interrupted the conversation. The pair turned their heads in anticipation of who might be arriving…





My interview with Zorn having concluded, I had begun to make my way back to the foyer. A multitude of questions competed for my attention—Could we trust Zorn and his experiments, that there was one and only one changeling in the villa? Or that his emergency serum was what he said it was? Could we trust that all the quirks and circumstances setting him apart from his friends were truly benign?—and I did not notice until I was halfway into the foyer that the room was currently occupied; Bluebird and Grid Iron stared at me, seemingly interrupted in conversation.

“Oh hey. What’s up, Big Guns?” Grid jested, much to Bluebird’s amusement.

I moved to excuse myself to give my partner privacy for his interrogation, but Grid picked up a finished bowl of something starchy from nearby as he postured to leave.

“Was good talking to you Bluebird, but I really oughta hit the gym. Don’t wanna miss out on the glucose boost from my meal. Later!”

“Wait!” Bluebird called after him. “Just one more thing.”

Grid stopped before the hallway, and looked back at my cadet. I myself could only wonder what he had in mind.

“It’s just, Blanche gave me a good idea, a precaution we should be taking with each of you here,” Bluebird said. “Grid, is there something you know about one or more of your friends here, something detailed and in the distant past that you can have corroborated? Something that a changeling impostor would be unlikely to know, in other words.”

This was a good strategy, I thought. A fast and noninvasive tactic that could, in theory, immediately out the changeling. But it was not without its faults, especially in its current form…

“Hm, yeah! I could tell you about the time Bon and I—”

“How about something regarding Gloria and Girard, specifically?” I preempted, rudely but not without reason. “Say, the first time you ever met them.”

It was likely a changeling could over time acquire bits and pieces of obscure personal stories, specifically to offer them up as proof of their identity. Demanding information on a particular topic not of their choosing, on the other hoof, would greatly reduce this strategy’s rate of false negatives. Moreover, the characters of my request were a deliberate choice—they were the ones we currently knew the least about.

“Gloria and Girard, huh? Them again?”

He looked at my partner, who simply shrugged.

“It’s been a minute,” he said, thinking more deeply. “I’ve kinda known Girard since my first week at Canterlot Academy Day. I sat next to him in our Seaquestrian History class, but we didn’t talk much. I only really got to know him after we all met his cousin Gloria at first year’s prom…”

Bluebird recorded these details for future reference, nodding approvingly for Grid to continue.

“… Let’s see, her dad had come to the shindig, which was pretty memorable for how much he stood out, in all his kingly getup… We don’t see him very often, in fact I think they have a bit of a strained relationship… But yeah, that year Bon was really into poker, and he cleaned a bunch of his classmates out at the afterparty… I remember Blanche there, she was going through a little bit of a goth phase, heh… and Zorn and Girard weren’t there, because of general Zornness and food poisoning, respectively.”

Food poisoning. Consistently the number one bogus excuse for absence. Even in an innocuous context, I couldn’t resist prying. “You sure there couldn’t be another reason he didn’t attend? Girard, that is.”

Grid picked up on my incredulity. “Well yeah, sure, maybe it was just his nerves acting up. Most every social event that comes around, though, Gloria tries to rope him along, because she knows it’s what’s best for him. So I figure it was probably a legitimate excuse, whatever it was.”

So, his nervous condition is a pre-existing one. Dealing with fragile suspects wasn’t my specialty—and if Gloria was his protector, that could make it all the more complicated.

“About this strained relationship between Gloria and her father,” I asked, “is there anything specific you can tell us?”

I knew I was testing the boundaries of politeness, asking Grid to conjecture on his friends’ family issues like this. At the end of the day, though, my partner and I weren’t here to be polite.

Happily, Grid seemed to understand this. “I don’t think they have it out for each other, really. Like I said we don’t see members of their family much, since they practically live across the planet. But whenever we do, they only have good things to say about Gloria and Girard. Sweet people. They just always seem a bit… nervous, I guess.”

Bluebird chuckled. “Maybe that’s where Girard gets it from?”

“Huh, yeah! Like, actually!”

He looked in awe of my partner’s detective prowess. To me personally, Bluebird’s suggestion had sounded like more of a joke than a deduction.

“On second thought, I think I had the wrong impression about a strain. I’m glad you had me think about it more carefully, Big Guns.” Addressing my cadet, Grid asked, “Anyway, that about enough details?”

With the retracting click of a pen and a bob of the head, Bluebird at last granted Grid his permission to leave for the gym.

Once alone, my partner and I shared our accounts of our interviews with Blanche and Zorn. Bluebird, as well, filled me in on what I’d missed of the three-way conversation in the foyer—it seemed I wasn’t the only one asking him about the griffons. It took almost as long as the interviews themselves in order to bring each other up to speed, at which point we moved on to speculation and future plans.

“Already we’re being stretched in contradictory directions,” I opined. “Do you feel the same, Bluebird?”

“Maybe. In what way?”

“Don’t let me bias you,” I said. Maybe Zorn was rubbing off on me? “In whichever way.”

“Well, on the one hoof, Blanche put the fear of Celestia into me with her profiling of this changeling, this royal jelly-fed supersoldier, so to speak. And she has a lot of evidence to back it up!” he conceded. “But now you have Zorn, and it sounds like he’s vaguely aware of the situation, but not acting on it? Call me optimistic, but that paints a less dangerous picture of the bug to me. Especially when there’s not yet any evidence he’s here to cause any harm.”

Hmph. “Zorn has to believe in the possibility of harmful intent, if he’s entrusted this to me,” I said, brandishing the weighty brass syringe.

My partner had a habit of preferring the most charitable interpretations of culprits’ actions. Initially in our partnership I considered it a very silly tendency of his, but I had to admit it balanced out my own pessimistic tendencies. Myself, I still favored any of my own developing theories, such as:

The wing fragment was a deliberate message to Blanche somehow related to Changeling Ringing. Perhaps Blanche found something out about changelings she shouldn’t have, in the course of her research? Or perhaps the changelings didn’t like their depiction in the book? Or perhaps they did like it, and this wing fragment was some misunderstood attempt at recruitment?

Otherwise or independently, perhaps Zorn was the changeling, or working in concert with them; it would explain more than one strange aspect of his behavior. If this was true, the “magic-suppressant” serum he gave me was not something I could take at face value.

Still otherwise, if I were to put myself in the horseshoes of an infiltrator, I believe I would’ve chosen to replace Grid Iron. From what I’d seen, he was both the physical and social core of the six. I agreed with my partner that the theme of “love” was important in this case—and Grid was caught in the middle of both Bon’s apparent affection for him, as well as this most recent conversation with Girard. Finally, despite his kind nature, he was the only one in whom I detected an undercurrent of barely restrained anger—even violence.

But in the end, we lacked convincing evidence for any particular theory. Now was the time for action, not navel-gazing.

“It bothers me to no end when suspects withhold information from me, especially on something so important,” I said, thinking back to Zorn. “I imagine a mansion like this has a well-stocked library. That being the case, I would like to find anything there that might help me to translate something from Zebrish.”

Bluebird rubbed his neck with a hoof. “So, you’re thinking of, ahah, going behind Zorn’s back in order to read his lab notes?”

“Yes. With how he labeled the dishes, I think there’s a good chance he’s not committing the experimental setup to memory.” My underhanded intentions not sitting quite right with my partner, I quickly added, “This only as a means of last resort for us. And not a moment sooner.”

We both tried to believe me, but I don’t think either of us really did.

Nonetheless, we signed off on our separate plans: Bluebird would conduct an interview with Bon and also corroborate Blanche’s personal story, while I would seek out the library.
> 5. Diplomacy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like Zorn’s room, I found the library without needing to ask; in fact, my partner was still within earshot by the time I located it, so close was it to the foyer. It sat adjacent to the manor’s boiler room, whose hardworking machinery filled the library with a constant yet meditative hissssss at low frequency.

Once inside the library, my search for language materials also met with immediate success; a clustering of bilingual dictionaries were to be found in the technical reference section, which spanned a two-sided shelf near the back of the library. I was feeling lucky today.

Alas, my search specifically for translation materials out of Zebrish ended in disappointment. Old Ponish, Traditional Mandeerin, Dragalog, Seaquestrian, Griffonic, even well-worn manuals on some godforsaken dead language called Prench. And yet, nothing on our foreign-born chemist’s native tongue. Or, at least, nothing that remained: There was more than ample space on the shelves accommodating the language books, compared to the rest of the library’s snugly packed arrangements.

Has someone already checked most of these books out? Did Zorn himself take such a paranoid precaution?

It was at that moment the library door opened, and I heard footsteps tread gently on the carpet. Barely audible at first, they grew louder with each step—they were making their way straight toward me.

Preparing for the worst-case scenario was second nature to me. This could be an ambush.

I couldn’t escape, trapped as I was in an isolated corner. I could only adopt a solid stance, clutch the syringe inside my trench coat (if the serum was a placebo, the large-gauge needle most certainly was not), and wait.

As reality would have it, the footsteps did not home in on me, but instead on the aisle directly adjacent to mine. I heard as a book was pulled from the opposite side of the shelf, and the fluttering of its pages. If this isn’t a changeling, then is this Zorn, coming to make sure he’d cleaned up? No, that wouldn’t make sense… And indeed, an idle cough soon informed me it was none other than Gloria.

My shoulders relaxed, and I released my grip on the syringe. I would feel comfortable announcing my presence—my current mission having failed, it was convenient timing for me to interview her, anyway. I walked over to her aisle, but she was engrossed in her selection from the bookcase. While holding my badge aloft, I rapped my hoof on the shelf to grab her attention.

The book in her claws slammed shut, and she turned to me with a shudder and a screech. “My goodness, Detective, you startled me!”

My ears were ringing. “My apologies. I would like to know if you had time for an interview, Gloria.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, her ruffled wings settling back to her sides. She gave a wide smile, then blushed. “I do hate for that to be your first proper impression of me, Detective! It’s quite unbecoming.”

“It’s no matter. I believe we’re all wired the same when it comes to our instincts—even royalty.”

“Actually, I see myself as a diplomat first and foremost,” she corrected. She walked on over to me. “Shall we sit?”

She pointed my attention to a reading table near the entrance and led me to it, and in her politeness, pulled up a spare chair for me. I forgot to thank her for the gesture; I was too focused on the book which she had not returned to the shelf, but instead held semi-concealed underneath the crook of her wing. Her wings appeared to strain to hold the book in place—unnatural body language, to be sure. I kept my eyes on the book as she spoke:

“It appears you have already heard of my station, so allow me to formally introduce myself,” she began. “I am Her Royal Highness Princess Gloria the Third, daughter of Duke Grayson and Duchess Gloria the Second, heir presumptive to the Duchy of Kralle-Karom.”

She delivered her title with regal grandiloquence. I had not heard of this Kralle-Karom before, but this was not necessarily surprising, given the endlessly shifting feudal borders of Griffonstone. Something to verify later.

“But you can forget all that,” she said, now warm and casual. “If I had wanted to play princess, I would’ve stayed in Griffonstone. So, feel free to drop the honorifics and just call me Gloria!”

She shifted her shoulders very deliberately, burrowing the book more deeply into the pit of her wing. Closer to full concealment, but not quite. This was the time to pry, while it still remained visible. “Been doing some light reading then, Gloria?”

“Oh yes, more than light: A diplomat’s studies are never-ending!”

To my surprise, she willingly relinquished the book from underneath her wing, and tossed it on the table in front of me. An old-looking volume with an artistic cover, it appeared to be a historical anthology of Saddle Arabian poetry.

I feigned interest for the moment, pretending to peruse, when in fact I was scanning the pages for anything at all suspect. If my hunches have any basis in reality, I told myself, there is definitely something here. And yet, nothing caught my eye. Absolutely nothing at all. I even doubled back, but to no success. (Un)satisfied, I pushed the book back to her.

“Interesting,” I said, in a contrived tone of voice. “Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose, for a dignitary-to-be to want to familiarize herself with the world’s cultures.”

“Oh not one bit! Bridging the cultural gap helps immensely with understanding foreign politics, I find.”

“Though frankly, I have to admire your wherewithal to be reading poetry at a time like this,” I said with a drip of venom.

Immediately I regretted the effect. I saw nothing but honest offense from Gloria as she awkwardly held a claw up to her beak. In her posture, a new hesitancy to express herself to me was born.

I chided myself—I was off my game, and I had misread griffon body language with the book. I couldn’t let my frustration get the better of me, however.

“I’m sorry, that came out poorly,” I attempted to recover. “All I meant to say was, I can tell you’re a griffon who’s cool in a crisis. I wish more people I interviewed could be like that.”

“Hm, I see what you mean,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve had the chance to interrogate my cousin yet, have you?”

“Interrogate? Don’t be mistaken, Gloria, we haven’t found the need to interrogate anyone at this point!” I assured her. “But no, we haven’t gotten around to interviewing Girard just yet.”

“Right.” She stalled momentarily, clutching a pendant around her neck. “It’s just, I don’t suppose there are any pressing questions you have for him, which I myself couldn’t answer on his behalf?”

I held back a sigh. A protective attitude. A common obstacle in interrogation, and one I specifically saw coming with this pair. Worse, I wasn’t postured to play hardball with her. “We have no specific questions for him at this time. Nonetheless, either I or my partner would appreciate an opportunity to speak with him.”

“Face-to-face, and one-on-one, I assume?”

“If at all possible.”

She shifted in her seat. “I understand. It would only be your due diligence as an investigator, wouldn’t it? I hold nothing against you for your techniques in assisting us. It’s just, how to phrase this… perhaps he isn’t so cool in a crisis, as you may have already noticed.”

She looked into the distance, somewhere behind my head and beyond the confines of the library.

“It’s not that his heart isn’t in the right place, or even that he’s not brave: Despite, well, repeated attempts from our family to dissuade him, he’s stuck by my side, remaining convinced of our shared belief that royal status means less than nothing, in the end. Not unless you’re willing to leverage it to help remedy the world’s problems.”

Family pressures. Grid might have been onto something after all. “And how would you say you and your family get along these days?”

“Hm, not as well as I might like. My father and other members of our family used to travel to see me and my cousin all the time, to wish us well in our studies, and to meet our friends. Now it’s only once in a blue moon, to scorn us for our plans after graduation. We’ve seen and learned so much of the world, and we could never go back to sitting on our wings in Griffonstone…” She closed her eyes, and held her claws over her heart.

I had no evidence at this point to suspect her or her brother of having been replaced. But, the threat had to be thoroughly considered: Their status rendered them prime targets, and potentially easy ones, too. “Have you or your cousin undertaken any sort of diplomatic missions, lately? That is, in the weeks or months before your vacation here.”

“Oh no!” she answered readily. “We’re still just students, after all. In any official capacity, we’ve only ever been charged with handling affairs by scrolls and correspondence. But I would very much like to start traveling abroad, just as soon as we graduate and can be taken seriously as negotiators.”

“Naturally. When you do graduate, where do you hope to go first? Which international issues speak to you?”

“My station lends itself well, of course, to easing up trade and immigration restrictions between pony and griffon territories. And call me a fool on an errand, but I look forward to cutting my beak on furthering peace in the Middle East, as well.” She thumped the poetry book for effect. Then she leaned in, and with a coy smile, taunted, “But something tells me, Detective, that you don’t care about my attitudes toward either of those countries.”

“Oh? Am I so transparent?”

She sat back down. “Not particularly, no. But in my vocation, I would be remiss not to know how to read between the lines in a conversation. My opinion vis-à-vis the changeling nation, you want to know. If I’m likely to be sympathetic, or otherwise influenced or bribed, by one on a mission. I don’t know which answer would have me look the least suspicious in your eyes, so I’ll simply tell you the truth: I would think it ideal if all creatures could live in harmony with one another. Alas, realistically speaking—it will never happen with changelings.”

“Not even by a fool on an errand, you don’t think?”

“Apt contention. But the Saddle Arabian quagmire is one caused by misunderstandings and clashing cultural values, ultimately. These things can be fixed over time. The changelings’ nonnegotiable hostility to the world, on the other claw, is one all but necessitated by their biology, I fear.”

“That’s quite a dour outlook. Although, not an altogether uncommon or unreasonable one, I would say.”

“These are only my honest impressions, without the political correctness. Changelings are incapable of planning for themselves, without deferring ultimately to a changeling queen, a leader, a dictator—that’s the way their society works, and they don’t complain. They lose all semblance of self-control in their gluttony for love—that’s the way their bodies work, and the queen knows this better than any of them.”

Altogether, this perspective was reminiscent of the one that Bluebird had encountered from Blanche regarding the changelings. But I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the same sort of disgust, or if it really came from the same place.

Profitably, I shifted back: “You’ll understand, then, why we are handling this incident as seriously as we are. And why, as sensitive as we can be regarding your cousin, we should not cut corners in interviewing him. For the safety of you both.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I understand. His physical well-being is of course my highest priority. And believe me”—she protruded razor-sharp claws below a razor-sharp glare—“I would be in no fit state for reading poetry if there was the slightest possibility in my mind that a changeling had gotten to him.”

“Oh? But you can’t really be certain about that, can you?” I tested.

“I can be. It is impossible to me that he isn’t the real Girard,” she said, claws retracting. “And I don’t say this for reasons that I’m sure a strict professional such as yourself would find trite and tiresome, such as ‘I know him!’ or `he just couldn’t be!’ No, I have an alibi for him, and he for me. This morning, my cousin and I were playing a game of draughts in our room.”

“I see. I’ll be sure to confirm this with your cousin. What was the timeframe of this game?”

“That’s the first complication, I’m afraid,” she said, shaking her head. “Girard doesn’t remember the exact times, and neither do I. But I know it overlaps entirely with the time Blanche could’ve been out: I noticed she was busy writing in her room, when I first made my way to my and Girard’s room for our game. We played all the way until Blanche summoned us and apprised us of the situation.”

An alibi with a mutual witness was a good start. But, I liked to stick to a rule of multiple, unrelated witnesses before I accepted an alibi without contest. There was a certain kind of “one-two punch” I liked to employ in situations like this one:

“Blanche said she was out for an hour and a half, from nine to ten thirty. To me, that’s an awfully long time for a single game of checkers…”

Doubt planted, I would now tempt her to “improve” her story, and cross-reference later with Girard. It was a tried and true strategy, in the presence of collusion.

“… Are you sure you didn’t play multiple games, for instance?” I tempted.

“Not mere checkers, Detective, but draughts. Specifically, Griffonstone draughts,” she said. “It’s a fabulously cunning game, much more comprehensive an experience than the checkers that ponies are accustomed to. It’s modeled after ancient griffon warfare, you see. In the hazardous, misty cliffs of our homeland, that meant constant planning, risk-taking, and deception. The best-laid plans can go awry at any moment. I bet a serious, analytical type like yourself would adore it!”

No trap was sprung. As it stood, hers was a consistent and coherent alibi. “You’ll have to teach me how to play sometime.”

“I would love to. Anyway,” she said, withdrawing her enthusiasm, “I understand this isn’t a fully satisfactory alibi for you.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I’m still a suspect, aren’t I?” she reasoned cheerily. “Girard will tell you the game happened, sure, but if I were a changeling, I could be lying about having seen Blanche in her room beforehand—about the timeframe, in other words.”

“And taken that time to place the wing fragment,” I completed.

“Exactly, you already see the problem. But I hope the information is still useful to you, somehow.”

I put my hoof to my chin, contemplating. The way to make sound deductions in the presence of unreliable data was to adopt only the implications that were shared across all possible scenarios. In this case, that meant—

“Just one more thing, Detective,” she said, interrupting my train of thought. “Again, I don’t know what it means or how useful this will be to you. And I’m even more hesitant to say this one aloud, since this concerns the behavior of someone else.”

“We’ll take it for what it is, Gloria, and nothing more. Don’t worry.”

“Right. It’s just, it’s about Zorn, in the end. Have you talked with him? Has he mentioned anything about me?”

No was the immediate answer that came to mind. “It would not be proper for me to say one way or another.”

“Of course, you’re right. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t, even if it’s clearly bothering him. He’s a very aloof personality, and I love that about him, but it’s sort of the problem at claw here,” she segued. “I can tell when someone bears something against me. I can tell when someone is suspicious of me. I can react accordingly, diplomatically, trying to apologize for whatever misunderstanding they might have. But I just can’t do that with Zorn when he won’t say the problem to my face.”

“So you mean to say, Zorn has been acting coldly toward you?”

“Yes. And only recently, since about the start of our vacation.”

“Does this extend to your cousin, then, as well?”

“Not as best I can tell, no. And I’m not the only one to think as much—Grid agrees it’s strange, that he appears to be singling me out. I relish the chance to play draughts with him, for example, but he seems to have all but given up on playing with me.” She gave a despondent look down at her claws, continuing, “Anyway, I won’t waste any more of your time with our interpersonal asides. Do you have any more questions for me?”

“That will be all for now, Gloria. Thank you for your time.”

She bade me goodbye, picked her book up from off the table, and alighted from her seat. After politely pushing in her chair, she then walked past me and out of the door, leaving me to my original privacy in the library…

Not a moment later, it struck like lightning.

My memory sounded the alarm, and my mind now rushed to confirm it.

Almost of their own accord, my body jolted up from the table. My hooves carried me back to my corner of the library, and my eyes scanned the scene.

It was undeniable: I had been had.

Both sides of the shelf I had been scouring for translation materials were stocked with technical reference manuals—I double-checked. And Gloria had been consulting a book on the other side of that shelf—my ears were not mistaken.

Right where I had initially spotted her, on the shelf there sat an empty spot amidst miscellaneous manuals on various technical trades. Welding, dentistry, typesetting, accounting. An unpredictable pattern that would’ve nonetheless left a Saddle Arabian poetry book feeling very out of place.

And on the adjacent shelf, some distance away (perhaps exactly where she had distracted my attention in inviting me to sit), there I found them: Sonnets of Withersby and Rhymes of the Jungle, and in between them a conspicuous gap.

Two books. One of them hidden on her person during the entire conversation. I cursed under my breath for not even having considered it. I had no idea what could have possibly been so important about the book she’d kept hidden, but the insidious manner in which she had smuggled it past me told me it had to be damning. And all this according to what could only have been an entirely improvised plan, born in the very moment I’d walked in on her.

If Zorn’s withholding bothered me to no end, then Gloria’s lying and making a fool of me was strictly enraging.

I galloped out of the library and after Gloria—she couldn’t have been far. I had to strike while the iron was hot, before this book disappeared forever. I arrived in the foyer, and there she was, perched on the divan, book between her claws, prim and proper and perfectly pompous. My pounding hoofsteps alerted her to me.

“Where’s the book, Princess?” I demanded midstride. “And don’t you dare say—”

“—this book?” she suggested in confusion, holding up her reading material. Poetry. Her wings unfolded, clearly emptied of whatever contents they’d once held.

I didn’t know if I imagined it, that smirk at the corner of her beak. What I did know, was that I had never seriously considered laying a hoof on a minor up until that moment.
> 6. Sforzando
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bluebird found the reindeer next to an empty bottle at the bottom of the wine cellar.

“Hey, everything all right? Bon?”

He lowered his lantern for a closer look, illuminating the young master’s face as he lay drooling on the cold cobblestone floor. His bespoke smoking jacket was undone, and a gentle snore croaked from his nostrils. Altogether, a dignified deer in a less than dignified pose.

“C’mon kid, wake up!”

He gave Bon a push, and finally he roused. Coming to slowly at first, Bon took account of his surroundings, then quickly righted himself.

“Uh, Detective!” Bon addressed, closing up his jacket. “I mean, Cadet. Bluebird, if I’m not mistaken? What would be the, well, what would be the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to speak with you,” Bluebird said affably. “Couldn’t find you at your room or anywhere else really, so Grid advised I check down here.”

“Oh Grid,” he blushed. “I would suppose he’s well aware, then, of my recent dabblings as a sommelier. A-an accurate prediction on his part.”

“Haha,” Bluebird chuckled. This one wasn’t his tic. “That’s such a load of crock!”

With a self-sensitive look, Bon tried to bring himself to his four hooves, in the process knocking over the bottle beside him. “… Maybe.”

Bluebird offered him a hoof, and helped him to stand. At the moment, he seemed more embarrassed than outright drunk, at the least. “Remind me again what’s the drinking age for your kind? It ain’t my jurisdiction, mind you.”

“Oh hush, Cadet, I’ve been of age for close to a year now,” he chided. They began to walk in unison toward the cellar’s exit. “I don’t suppose you would believe me if I were to tell you that, despite evidence to the contrary, I actually am more sommelier than lush.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding at all.”

He stopped for a moment to light up the room in a uniformly natural glow. A fairly impressive display of magic, Bluebird noted. He then levitated a sampling glass off a nearby counter, floated it to his guest, and covered his own eyes with a hoof.

“Go on, choose me a wine, any wine—I’ll tell you its name and provenance. And do enjoy a little for yourself, my friend, si l’envie vous en prend,” he rhymed.

Bluebird was hesitant to induce this young buck to drink any more than he already had… buuut he figured just a half-shot more in the name of friendly rapport couldn’t hurt!

He reached at random for a bottle off a latticed shelf, popped the cork, and began to pour. A red wine of a very dark complexion dribbled out. The name on the label told Bluebird little, but the picture showed a bunch of deer dancing around a tree: White Tail Woods, perhaps? Acting on Bon’s invitation, Bluebird took a sip—and regretted it. Unexpectedly bubbly, it was also tart and acidic to the point of making him wince. Had it gone bad? He supposed he would let Bon be the judge of that.

He handed over the rest of the shot glass to the young master, whose eyes remained closed. Bon sniffed, then sipped its contents. He swished it around vigorously in his mouth, bobbing his head side-to-side as he appraised the flavor.

“What a clever selection, Cadet,” he complimented after swallowing, eyes still closed. “I’m in awe of your skills, both as an investigator and as an evident wine connoisseur.”

“… Thanks, I, uh, try my best.”

“You imagined I might not recognize a most-celebrated spirit of my kind, were I replaced by a changeling. While, as a reindeer, I’m not exactly from the White Tail’s neck of the woods, I am a great fan of that extra-fermented, sur lie red characteristic of a White Tail vintage—Lù Niào Jiǔ Sangiovese, if I’m not mistaken. I’m only impressed that you would know your wine well enough to place it from the name alone.” He opened his eyes to smile warmly at the cadet.

Bluebird gave him a round of applause. It wasn’t quite how Bluebird had arrived at his selection, but he would let Bon have his moment. At any rate, Bon was right that his own expertise in the matter would be something pretty difficult for an impostor to replicate.

“Well shucks, you aren’t just an alcoholic with extra frills! But, if you normally only drink to your tastes as a sommelier,” Bluebird wondered aloud as they exited the cellar, “then something must’ve really been weighing on your mind to put you in the state I found you, huh?”

Passing an inquisitive-eyed Girard in the hallway, Bon gave as his only answer an anxious straightening up of his jacket. Clearly, any explanation would have to wait until they’d found the privacy of his room.

Once they were both inside, Bon closed the door behind him and sat down on his bed. On habit, Bluebird took a moment to soak in the personality of the room. Although the things the stag chose to surround himself with weren’t nearly so overwhelming in quantity or consistency as those of his sister, they still spoke to a pattern: Origami cranes and elephants sat elegantly on his writing desk, next to a game of mahjong still in progress and an open text on chess strategy; score sheets on a music stand indicated that piano wasn’t the only instrument he had tried his hoof at, and hanging portrait sketches of his friends at the villa could compete even with Blanche’s art; he also noticed a plethora of language-learning books on the shelf, including (wouldn’t his mentor like to know) Zebrish.

The pattern being, of course: “You’re really a deer of many hobbies, aren’t you, Bon?”

Bon chuckled as he reached for a blank sheet of origami paper with his magic. “I’ve always preferred to call them my ‘passions.’ Admittedly, yours may simply be the more correct designation.” He looked down longingly at his paper construction in progress.

“So what’s up with that? Why so many?”

Bon smiled at the cadet’s bluntness. “And here I thought the investigators would be asking me much more practical questions, of alibis and of motives and everything else.”

“Ah, that stuff can wait a few minutes. You’re smarter than me—if there was anything important, I bet you would’ve already told me. For the moment, I just want to learn more about you as a pony—er, as a deer. Sorry, force of habit!”

“Or, dare I joke, as a changeling?”

“Haha, maybe!”

“I suppose you may have a point with this, that the impostor can only wear their borrowed skin so convincingly. So go on ahead, play the therapist rather than the interrogator, if you’re so inclined.”

“Therapist, huh?”

A therapist wasn’t exactly what the cadet had in mind, but he could roll with Bon’s interpretation.

“Well, like I said, you seem to have a lot of hobbies in your life. Most folks take to hobbies to pass the time and have fun, if I had to say.” Bluebird sat down at the other end of the bed, continuing, “But, I’m guessing you don’t have a whole lot of fun with these hobbies, do you Bon?”

“Not particularly,” he admitted, between origami creases. “But they are well placed for distracting oneself from certain boredoms and anxieties, yes…”

“But not all of them, I take it?”

“Indeed not all.”

“Such as, the thought of a changeling having taken out one of your closest friends.”

“You mean, one of my audience members.”

Bluebird chuffed at the awkward joke. “Ahah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well it means I’m an insufferable narcissist now doesn’t it Cadet?”

Well, that was something. Whatever it was, it demanded to be the new topic of conversation.

“Oh, don’t be that way!” Bluebird said. “I can tell your friends occupy a very special place in your heart.” He walked over and gestured to Bon’s portraits of his friends. “Even if your appreciation for them comes off as being a bit… unconventional, at times.”

“Unconventional how? I want to hear you say it.”

“Well, sure, there’s an element of ‘showing off’ to it. Most folks don’t combine ‘friendly appreciation’ with ‘showing off’ in the way you do, but is that really so bad?”

“Only when it is a combination.” He finished his origami creation, a bipedal dragon of a charmingly asymmetric design, and set it on his desk next to the others.

“Well, go ahead and insult some of your friends as just your audience members. I won’t be in a position to contradict you. But, anyone with eyes could tell you’ve put a certain amount of extra-tender care into one of these drawings in particular…”

Bluebird lifted up Grid Iron’s portrait in demonstration of his point. Of course, the artistically inept cadet could not himself see anything that set it apart from the rest, and was only guessing. But it was a very confident guess—and Bon’s subsequent blushing upgraded it to a certainty.

“He’s what had you in the wine cellar,” Bluebird insisted, shaking the painting for effect. “You’re stark raving mad for the colt, and you’re upset that he’s upset—or rather, that you upset him, in the foyer earlier today.”

After a long and mortified silence, Bon declared his surrender. “All right, Cadet, you can go back to being an interrogator, now…”

“Don’t wimp out now!” Bluebird chided. He was having a little bit of fun with it. “While we’re here, though, I do have a question for you: Could your relationship with Grid have anything to do with the changeling?”

“How do you mean?”

“If I’m not wrong, changelings can exist on platonic love alone. But, they’re drawn to romantic love like moths to a flame, no pun intended,” Bluebird explained. “Have you noticed any change in your relationship? Is he acting any differently, say? Or is there anyone else who might’ve found out you two are—”

“Grid doesn’t know I exist, Cadet!” he mewled. “I mean, not as anything more than a friend. He just doesn’t get the vital message, Cadet. And understand, I’ve tried everything but the most embarrassingly direct means, especially these last two weeks.”

“Wait, you mean,” Bluebird said, taken aback, “he doesn’t know, and you haven’t told him…?”

Grid actually was telling the whole truth back in the foyer?

“Do you honestly think we could be compatible, Cadet?” Bon said harshly. “I mean, I’ve never seen him take an interest in any girls at school, so I don’t really doubt that he’s of the same, well, preferences, as yours truly. But it doesn’t change the fact that I know he only sees me for the boastful, callous individual I really am inside…”

Grid wasn’t the only one who wasn’t getting a vital message, Bon!

Bluebird now saw the obstacle clearly, and he didn’t know how to move forward or backward from this point in the conversation.

“Do you honestly think we could be compatible?” Bon asked again, more sincerely now, eyes pleading.

Bluebird didn’t have a gameplan anymore. “Well look, what’s the worst that could happen? And I mean cut the crap, Grid sees you as a good friend and always will, even if you totally strike out with him!”

“I-I could embarrass myself. Make a complete fool of myself. Again.”

Oh. Bon had reminded him of at least one thing he had to confirm. He could salvage something from this trainwreck yet. “Again? The first time being, that very first piano exhibition of yours, back when you were…?”

“Who told you about The Blue Doenube!?” Bon buried his face in his hooves with violence. “No! Godsakes, Cadet, that incident with the stool was nine years ago! I simply meant my dreadful showing in the foyer earlier today.”

Well, it was something to have that account confirmed, Bluebird thought, even if the rest of his rapport-building with Bon was clearly fizzling out. As he took the moment to record this latest detail in his notepad, Bon sprang up from his bed and headed for the door.

“Yours is a very exhausting form of interrogation, Cadet. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a brief constitutional before we continue.”

And with that, Bluebird was left alone in the youth’s bedroom.

Was it a wash? Was anything learned at all? At the very least, he felt that Bon’s response to Blanche’s shared memory was perfectly correct, and that everything concerning Bon’s talents and personality rendered it vanishingly unlikely that he was the changeling. The entire encounter had been awkward to the umpteenth degree, but very genuine.

And really, to Bluebird, all these kids were genuine. Maybe, just maybe Blanche and Zorn were somehow mistaken about there being a changeling involved after all?

No. That was just his excessive optimism speaking, Bluebird knew. There would be a perp here, there would be a tragic story here. Just like every other case he and his mentor had ever worked. He needed to get a clue.

Several minutes passed, and Bluebird decided to leave Bon’s bedroom; he had little left to discuss with the buck, anyway. He would meet back up with his mentor, and go from there.

He found his way to the foyer. It was empty but for the griffon girl reading a book by herself. He figured Pesco must’ve been taking his time at the library, having found something of note. He would have to look—ah, never mind. There he spied his mentor, just down the other hallway. He seemed to be standing just outside Zorn’s bedroom door.

“Hey, Pesco!” he called, as he trotted up behind him. “I just got done interviewing Bon. Dunno how useful you’ll find all of it, but at the least he’s confirmed Blanche’s—”

He cut himself short. His mentor was not simply standing in front of Zorn’s door, but hunched over it, clearly up to no good. Pesco turned back an eye at his partner, and then immediately spun around. A lockpick and tension wrench fell clattering at his hooves.

“Pesco, what are you—”

The detective gauchely stepped on his tools as if to hide them, but he was far too slow. He gave every appearance of a foal caught guiltily in the act. The flustered Pesco remained silent.

“I thought we agreed that going behind Zorn’s back would be a last resort, Pesco!” Bluebird scolded.

Pesco spoke not a word. He only bit his lip in response.

“Wait, is that really—”

“I’m sorry, Bluebird.”

Pesco’s face became like a mirror for the cadet’s own growing terror.

It was more than a mirror. In his eyes, there was more than terror: Desperation. Commitment. Regret. Obedience.

He raised a hoof engulfed in green flames, and drew a step closer.


!


!!


!!!



“Where’s the book, Princess?” I demanded midstride. “And don’t you dare say—”

“—this book?” she suggested in confusion, holding up her reading material. Poetry. And her wings unfolded, clearly emptied of whatever contents they’d once held.

I didn’t know if I imagined it, a smirk at the corner of her beak. What I did know, was that I had never seriously considered laying a hoof on a minor up until that moment.

“Pesco!” my partner hurled from a nearby hallway, beyond my line of sight. “It’s the changeling, he’s right—”

He was interrupted, replaced by the sound of a body crashing onto the floor. A flash of green light erupted from around the corner, and I heard hooves in full gallop heading toward the foyer.

I vaulted over Gloria, knocking the poetry book out of her claws. I’ll deal with you later. Once armed with the syringe, I turned the corner and stood to blockade the escape route. A moment too late to react—Zorn’s body in a headfirst sprint collided with mine. We were both sent reeling, and the syringe as well.

I saw nothing but stars. My consciousness wavered, and a red scar bloomed in my mind’s eye—it was a headache that threatened to split my brow in two. An uncertain number of seconds passed. My internal clock was shattered in the collision.

I shook my head, and my vision slowly cleared: I now saw my partner, mounted atop the perpetrator. He was scrambling to restrain Zorn with a shoulder lock, and Zorn squealed in pain. But inside a cocoon of bright green light, the changeling was now rapidly transforming into someone else. Still unsteady, I bounced back to my hooves and scooped the syringe up off the ground as I sprinted to Bluebird’s aid.

I took aim, and plunged the needle downward at the impostor’s chest. This is how your story ends, fiend!

I missed by millimeters. His transformation to Bon Vivant’s lithe figure in concert with my dizziness left the needle stuck uselessly into the carpet.

In one motion, Bon wriggled free from my partner’s compliance hold and chomped down on his wing. My partner yelped and lost his balance, tumbling to the floor. Bon recovered to a stand, about to escape.

I ripped the syringe from the carpet, its payload still intact, and lunged again at the changeling, but by now he had already transformed into the lean and muscular Grid Iron, who brushed my tackle aside. The redirected momentum caused me to trip over my hooves, and I fell prone. From the corner of my vision as a clumsy heap on the floor, I saw the changeling make one last transformation into Gloria, and take flight down the entry corridor that would lead to the front doors of the villa. Bluebird hobbled after her for a few paces, but he was far too slow to gain ground on her in this form.

There was a distant creak and THUNK as the front doors opened and then slammed shut. The changeling had left the villa—but who knew if its business here was finished?

Bluebird turned to me, unsure of what to do. A thin line of blood trickled down his left wing, which he nursed with his opposite forehoof. “Are you all right, Pesco?”

I held my throbbing head with one hoof as I sat up, looking side to side from him to (the real) Gloria, who was sitting shocked and immobile where I had left her.

“We need to take a headcount, now!” I barked.

And so we sprang back into action: Having failed to apprehend the changeling, the plan now was to assemble everyone from the villa as quickly as possible in order to deduce the missing head. This was only a time-sensitive matter, of course, if the changeling had in mind to return and discreetly reprise their assumed identity. But if that was their strategy, we had to act with haste.

Bluebird volunteered to fetch Bon, saying he wasn’t in his room but that he had an inkling where he might be. My partner also doubted that Zorn was in his room, and so I ordered Gloria to locate him as well as Grid Iron and bring them to the foyer. I tasked myself with gathering Blanche and Girard, whose bedrooms I was told were nearby on the second floor.

Within thirty seconds of the changeling having escaped us, we had coordinated and set off on our search parties.

I raced up the spiral stairs and down the second floor corridors to reach Blanche's bedroom. Her light was on, and from inside I could hear the scratching of quill on parchment.

POOMF POOMF POOMF, I pounded on her door.

She answered.

“It’s an emergency. The changeling has struck. We need to gather everyone who’s still around.”

She understood.

We took a moment to close her door, and then we bounded down the hall at a gallop. Destination: Girard’s room.

Blanche highlighted a door in the distance with her magic. “Right here, Detective. He shares a double with Gloria.”

Sharp and to the point. I admired her priorities.

I stopped before the door and knocked forcefully at length. No answer.

About to turn around and leave, we heard the flush of a toilet and then the running of a sink—Girard had been using the facilities in a bathroom just nearby. I gave him the same rushed explanation I gave Blanche.

“Oh the, the changeling?” Girard stammered. He was white in the face. “Um, do you know…?”

“We know nothing yet. We need to hurry.”

“Oh.” He stood rooted in place, curling his claws. “Where’s Gloria?”

“She’s safe,” I said, my impatience bleeding through. “Let’s go.”

Finally he got the picture, and we assimilated the nerve-addled griffon into our party.

My targets recovered without obstacle, I led us back to the foyer on the double. There I found Bluebird, who was busy assigning a seat to a very bleary-eyed Bon, looking worse for wear. He looked like he himself had gotten into a scrap with the changeling, but I had my own, much more mundane suspicions.

After motioning for the youths under my charge to take a seat, I asked my partner, “No word on Zorn or Grid Iron yet?”

“None. Should we go looking for Gloria now?”

I nodded in the affirmative, and then addressed the twins and Girard. “You three stay here. Holler if the changeling returns.”

My curt instruction didn’t put them at ease, but time was of the essence.

Bluebird followed my lead toward the kitchen. This would be a nearby and obvious place to search for him, and if he was not there, the gym was further away in the same direction.

As we neared the kitchen, however, Bluebird voiced his doubts. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother searching down this way. Gloria already took off in this direction, and she would’ve returned even from the gym by now if she had found him.”

He was probably right, I thought. And yet, just as I was about to recommend we split up again in more optimal directions, Bluebird and I were both proven wrong—Gloria emerged from the kitchen with Grid Iron in tow.

“Gloria! Grid!” Bluebird exclaimed. “Any sign of Zorn? This time, he really needs to be here.”

“No, I haven’t found him,” Gloria said, distressed.

“But you just now found Grid in the kitchen, didn’t you?” I probed.

“Yes, well I—um, yes, I did.”

More surely than the changeling, this bird’s duplicity was going to be the death of me.

“Yeah?” Grid spoke up, looking confused.

“No time to explain, let’s get you two back to the foyer,” Bluebird urged.

We hurried back on our previous steps, myself and Bluebird leading the charge. We have five accounted for now; is that proof of Zorn’s guilt? If not already, then how long until we can make that call?

We were coming up on the foyer. “I’ll go search for Zorn near the library. You drop Gloria and Grid off with the others, and then head—”

But my plans were proven unnecessary as soon as they were spoken. Zorn stood at the front of the foyer, eyes locked with his three friends on the furniture. His stare was curious, quizzical, scientifically perplexed; their stares were only frightened.

“Oh, hello, Zorn…” Girard greeted.

“What were you doing outside?” Blanche asked pointedly.

Zorn looked to us for an explanation. “Have I missed something, Pesco?”

“Yeah, a little!” my partner interjected. “Where were you?”

“I was outside, taking a brief walk.”

That’s going to be a problem.

“Did you see anything?” Bluebird asked. “The changeling, I mean, or anyone else?”

“No, not at all,” Zorn said. Curiosity gave way to concern.

And so the stage was set for the second act. It was the beginning of a trial by peers in the foyer—this time with everyone in attendance. We had failed to subdue the changeling, and we had even failed to prevent them from slipping back into their assumed identity under our very noses. But, such was my resolve, this would not be the changeling’s victory. They had accomplished nothing but an evasion of immediate capture with their maneuver. They had in return gifted us information, not the least of which was the unambiguous proof of their existence.

And for all the literal and metaphorical headache this changeling was causing me, I would see to it that this information would win us the day.
> 7. Deposition and Discovery
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

There we sat as eight—my partner and I, and the six youths. Or rather, beyond doubt as it was, five youths and the changeling impostor.

Everyone sat in silence, on edge from the chaos of the last several minutes. Even those who hadn’t been there to witness the changeling in the flesh understood the heightened gravity of the situation. With my, Gloria’s, and Bluebird’s eyewitness testimony, there was no hiding from the truth—there was an intruder. This was no ruse or elaborate misunderstanding. And this fact, realized now in certainty, weighed heavily on everyone’s subconscious.

Each in attendance had a unique reaction to that weight::

Zorn—seated in an armchair at a distance from the rest of the group, who spied on him at regular intervals—repeated a gesture familiar to me from my first meeting with him, that of wringing his hooves incessantly. He seemed determined to look anywhere but into the eyes of any of his friends… but curiously, caught my gaze from time to time, as though silently pleading.

Blanche, for her part, peered at me and Bluebird with a greater frequency. With crossed hooves and a tilt to her chin, she sought to conceal any anxiety the situation would have on her—but her ramrod posture spoke to the truth.

Girard was hunched over, his forehead in his claw, propped up by his elbow on the coffee table separating me and Bluebird from the six. With a nauseous look on his face, Girard pored over the exhibits of evidence I had arranged on the table: that of Blanche’s plastic bag with the wing fragment and parchment, as well as the lockpicking tools Bluebird had recovered from in front of Zorn’s door. On anyone else this would’ve been too guilty of body language even for the textbooks; on Girard, one couldn’t quite say.

Gloria, as to be expected, sat next to her cousin. Presently, she devoted the majority of her attention to calming him down with a full-body preening. However, I did not miss the several suspicious glances she stole in Grid Iron’s direction, and his alone.

Grid Iron carried the same posture as he had in our original meeting-of-seven, only more exaggerated—gripping his chair seat, chewing his cheek, tapping his back hoof. I saw it as impatience, perhaps even subdued anger at war with his better nature.

Lastly, Bon’s idle behavior was strange to behold, as he swayed gently in place and blinked very sleepily. By this point I understood that he was simply intoxicated. For the moment, at least, he was nonetheless fully aware of his surroundings and the events that had just transpired.

I was not alone in diligently examining the suspects’ expressions; my partner studied them as well while massaging his sore wing. A couple of his primary feathers were stained a ruddy crimson, but by now it appeared his bite mark had thankfully begun to clot. Noticing that everyone (Gloria excluded) seemed most leery of Zorn at the moment, Bluebird finally broke the silence:

“Now I don’t want to appear impartial in ignoring the elephant in the room. Zorn, I’m sure you have a good explanation for why you were, where you were, when you were. Right?”

“I do not,” Zorn admitted simply. “It’s as unlikely as I said: I only decided to go for a walk at exactly the wrong time.”

“An awfully brisk walk,” Blanche said, gesturing toward the window and the blizzardous conditions outside. The sky was growing dark.

“Y’know, in your condition, with your illness, after all,” Grid Iron added, in a tone that may not have been as pacifying as he would have liked.

“Yes, a brisk but short walk,” Zorn said. “I understand your skepticism. I cannot call it anything more than a momentary desire acted upon without a second thought. My fever as it is, my decongestant wearing off, my back sore from resting in bed all day… I simply wanted some fresh air.”

I took notice of his words; judging by his voice and his occasional sniffling, he wasn’t lying about his congestion.

Grid Iron cleared his throat. “I believe you and all, Zorn. I-I think we all do, right?” Whether he was trying (and failing) to assuage the others or just himself, I could not say. “But it’s like, I mean, the timing of it all is kinda… suspicious?”

“Personally, I don’t find it that suspicious,” Bon drawled, slurring his words slightly. “I think the changeling is taking us all for fools.”

“What ever do you mean, Bon?” Girard asked.

“Well what do you think, Detective?” was Bon’s nonresponse.

“If I had to guess, Bon is thinking that Zorn would have zero reason to break into his own room,” I intuited. “And as far as Zorn’s timing is concerned, the changeling could’ve specifically jumped on the opportunity if he saw Zorn leaving for a walk. In other words, the likelihood of his alibi being true is greater than that given by sheer coincidence.”

“Yeah, all that, sure,” Bon said, waving his hoof. “But what I really mean is, well… lemme go get my tools to demonstrate!”

“Wait a second, Bon,” Bluebird said, stopping the buck as he stood up to leave in the direction of his room. “No one should be leaving on their own in this situation. Especially not you, while you’re all, well you know… Anyway! I’ll come with you to get whatever you need.”

“Three might be best,” I suggested. “Grid, could you accompany them?”

“Yeah, no problem!” Grid said, raring to go.

I continued, “There’s some things I want to check up on as well, before we begin discussing everyone’s stories.” I collected the evidence, then rose from my seat, signaling to the others to follow my lead. “We’ll meet back at the foyer in five minutes. We can continue this discussion then.”

And so my group of Zorn, Blanche, Gloria, and Girard broke off from Bluebird’s. I guided them up the staircase, and we began down a familiar corridor—the one which would lead to the locations where I’d recovered Blanche and Girard. I intended to determine just how much suspicion I should cast on them, having found them when I did, where I did.

A phantom’s whisper: “They still don’t trust me, Pesco.”

I turned with a startle—it was Zorn, the pernicious enigma, inches from my ear. And now, inches from my eyes, which he held in his own as he matched my stride closely. Frank as he was, he was right: The other three followed at a noticeable distance behind, skewed to my lane of the hallway rather than that of their supposed friend Zorn.

What do you want me to do about it?

It was a genuine question I pondered. If Zorn had in mind something specific I could do or say in order to clear his name, it was lost on me.

But before I could think on the matter further, or compel Zorn to spell it out for me, we had reached the first destination: Blanche’s room.

I tried the knob, but it gave no entry. I turned to its owner. “You locked your room before leaving, Blanche?”

“Force of habit, Detective. I’m a bit protective of my work,” she said. “I don’t like to leak or spoil my stories, even to my friends.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. Internally, I reconsidered my earlier compliment about her priorities. “But under the circumstances, could you please unlock your door for us?”

“I said, I don’t like to spoil my stories… even under the circumstances…” she insisted, uncomfortable.

That’s right. Her book in progress Bluebird told me about, I recalled. Changeling Ringing. A fact of the case that she was still hesitant to share with the others, it seemed. Despite her projections, it was clear she wasn’t an overly self-confident type; she didn’t trust that others, even her friends, would view her in a manner she would deem reasonable, if ever she opened up to them.

A therapist might attempt to confront such insecurities, once observed. A detective knew it was easier to work around them. “That’s fine. The three of them can wait outside,” I offered.

This arrangement was acceptable to Blanche. She proceeded to take out her key, unlock her door, and show me inside her room.

The artist-author’s living space was every bit as overwhelming as my partner had described it. Her handiwork poured out of every drawer and bookshelf like an explosion in slow motion. But, I didn’t have the time to dawdle. Stepping carefully about the cluttered scene, I made my way to my target—the bedroom’s sole window.

Made of a single pane of glass and decorated with an ornate wooden lattice, it appeared capable of sliding open vertically. A window large enough to provide entry to an intruder, at full extension. Or equally, to a resident: If Blanche is the changeling who attacked us, she could’ve used this to return to her room from the outside.

To test my hypothesis, I attempted to pull the window up and open. It didn’t budge.

“That window doesn’t open, Detective; it’s been painted over at the seams,” Blanche said upon observing my efforts. “It’s purely to let light into the room, seeing as the climate in these latitudes doesn’t see it getting warm enough even in the summer to justify—”

And yet, with a not-excessive amount of force, the window did finally yield. A chill wind blew into the doe’s bedroom. Blanche’s face writhed like an open can of worms.

“It would appear your window has already been forced open,” I noted. In face of Blanche’s incredulity, I pointed with a hoof at the cracks in the paint that ran all along the window’s edges.

“I-I had no idea!” she stuttered. “Are you sure you didn’t do that just now, Detective? Ripped it open of your own force, unknowingly? The paint must be very old by now, after all…”

I hadn’t. Of this, I was certain. In lieu of responding immediately, I took a moment to reach out the window, and slowly slide my hoof across the far underside of the rail. About halfway across I felt a sharp, splintering point in the wood. I looked down at the corresponding spot on the windowsill—and indeed, there was a subtle but sure indent.

“You can see the toolmarks for yourself, Blanche,” I said neutrally. “My guess would be a prybar.”

Blanche walked up closely to inspect the markings, blinked a few times, and finally resealed the worms. “Well, I had no idea. That’s all I can honestly say.”

I closed the window and walked away. She stood watching as I then paced over to a desk nearer the door. By Bluebird’s description, this was the scene of the crime. I pulled the evidence bag out of my trench coat, and placed its contents—the wing fragment, and the piece of parchment—on the desk’s surface, at a spot where it appeared nearby papers had been shoved aside to make room.

Or perhaps not “shoved” so much as “tenderly relocated”; with no tears or crinkles in the neighboring papers, and no inkpots overturned, I saw none of the reckless carnage that an intruder typically inflicted on their victim’s belongings. The only signs of violence in the room came from the doe’s sense of interior decoration.

“You said you left this scene exactly as you found it?” I asked. “The changeling wing was right here, right like this, resting on top of this blank piece of parchment, at ten-thirty this morning?”

Blanche considered her words carefully. Very carefully. Finally, she nodded her head. “Yes, as best I can recollect.”

I stared at this arrangement, trying to get a read on what it could’ve possibly meant, how it could’ve come to be.

An intruder broke in through the window, wrenching their way in by force…

Disturbed nothing, stole nothing, was very tender with all her possessions…

Left behind only a piece of paper… and a piece of themself.

Why?

A few moments passed before I spotted something concrete—a certain discrepancy with the parchment. I took a moment to scan the nearby papers on the desk, and then the rest of the papers in the room. More confident in my observation, I asked Blanche directly:

“This parchment didn’t come from your room, did it?”

“Didn’t it?”

“Take a look. I imagine an artist knows their parchments very intimately, no?”

Now for the second time, Blanche walked up to my side to examine a finding of mine. And for the second time, she agreed with my conclusion.

“You’re certainly right. This texture isn’t anything I’m familiar with, at least among my personal stock. And the color of the thing is rather distinct, too.” She cleared her throat. After a pause, she added, “Detective, if I had noticed this fact myself, I surely would’ve told you or your partner. I must’ve only been too focused on, well, the damned changeling wing to concern myself with the parchment.”

“It’s understandable, Blanche. The burden of investigation is ours, after all, not yours. I only wanted your confirmation of this minor point.”

My inspection here was finished. I packed up the evidence and headed for the door. Before I could exit, however, Blanche had one more comment to make:

“But I understand how suspicious this might seem, the window and now this detail with the parchment I’ve ostensibly withheld. I can only imagine, this must be part of a set-up? You know changelings are hideous, devious creatures at heart…”

Somehow, I didn’t get the impression that this was a set-up. Yet at the same time, I was not terribly suspicious of Blanche for these findings. At least, I wouldn’t have been, if it weren’t for her terribly insecure responses at every turn.

“Anything is possible,” I conceded vaguely.

And now, Blanche and I exited the bedroom to return to Zorn and the griffon cousins, who were patiently awaiting us in the hallway. In the moment before they noticed us, I caught a telling glimpse of body language: that of Gloria, a submissive look on her face, eyes resting tenderly on Zorn, her claws held upward and outward in an entreating gesture; and that of Zorn, passive but frowning, averting her gaze as blatantly as he could. Girard wilted off to the side as if he was witnessing his parents mid-argument. Whatever Gloria had been lying about in my interview with her, a grudge from Zorn was not one of them.

With only the love of friends like these, I thought, the changeling ought to be starving by now.

The three turned to face me, interrupting whatever conversation they might have been having in the meantime. With no time to waste, I walked past them and motioned to them to follow.

“So, what did you find?” Gloria inquired, as I guided them further down the hall. “Or rather, what were you looking for?”

Her tone was innocent and curious, but I knew not to trust her at a surface level. Indeed, when the time was right, I fully intended to grill her on her scheme with the book.

“I simply wanted to determine if it was possible for Blanche to have gotten into her room from the outside, assuming she was the changeling,” I said. “Without saying anything else: It was.”

“Frightful.”

“I’m going now to check on the same matter, but regarding your cousin’s location.” Only to identify and not to intimidate, I nodded in Girard’s direction—he cowered under my gaze regardless.

We soon made it to the bathroom where I had recovered Girard. This not being anyone’s personal living space, I simply stepped in without ceremony. The four behind me watched as I began my examination.

It didn’t take the eye of an expert. The only possible means of entry would’ve been the small frosted glass window above the toilet. And yet I was doubtful that an intruder could fit through, even if the pane were fully removed. Just to be sure, I tested it: Unlike Blanche’s, it opened easily by design, but only by retracting inward and upward along a short arc about six inches long. Clearly, its function was but to provide a meager amount of light and ventilation into the room.

As I closed the window and began to walk out, Blanche must’ve read the lack of suspicion on my face.

“Detective,” she needled, “I would hope you’re not discounting that window as a means of entry for a changeling, of all creatures.”

She made a good point, I realized. Certain assumptions could be made on autopilot, if ever I forgot the unique creature we were dealing with. “Do you think a changeling could transform into a creature small enough to fit through?”

“Certainly. Not for very long, and not without a concentrated effort, but it’s very plausible. So we simply can’t cross Girard off the list of suspects.”

I had to assume her judgment was trustworthy, grounded in her literary research on changelings. It was clear to me, however, that the accusatory tone of her assertion was borne of selfish anxiety over my own discoveries in her bedroom. No one contradicted her expert testimony, but an uncomfortable silence lingered among her and her friends as we made our way back to the foyer. Blanche’s pursed lips evinced a certain amount of remorse for her words, but the means for an apology weren’t forthcoming.

“Blanche, it’s okay…” Girard comforted feebly, after a time.

No further words were exchanged.

By the time we made it back to the spiral staircase, I spied from over the banister that my partner had already returned with Bon and Grid. We descended the stairs and quickly took to the same seats as we had before, ready to resume our conversation as it had left off.

“You find what you needed, Pesco?” my partner asked.

“Yes. I’ll bring the facts up if they become relevant,” I said. “But first, I would like to hear what Bon was so eager to show us.”

Bon’s eyes were trained on his sister as she sat down and cracked her neck.

“So then, Bon,” Bluebird prompted, “would you care to demonstrate these ‘tools’ we fetched from your room?”

He snapped out of it. “Ah yes, just a little bit of show-and-tell, montrer-et-dire, you’ll see,” he beamed. His pride made a decent stand-in for his sobriety.

He then brought to sight a small zipper-bound leather pouch, and with a glow from his antlers, opened it and floated its contents for all to marvel at. It appeared to be an extensive collection of small, delicate, and finely crafted lockpicking tools—an arrangement of metal hooks and bars in enough shapes and sizes as to put any dentist’s tool tray to shame.

“Now, I don’t consider myself the crème de la crème necessarily, but for the time I’ve put into it, I consider myself a rather deft hoof in the art of picking locks…”

Art, huh?

I had in mind to roll my eyes, but then I remembered my own youthful indiscretions. The reasons I’d had for bypassing locks were a far cry from an artistic calling. I preferred the bolt cutters, anyway.

“… and I would consider it a prodigious, if not entirely unprecedented ability to be able to pick the high-sec mortises we have installed on the doors here in the villa—including the bedrooms—while using such rudimentary equipment as that which you found the changeling with!”

I retrieved the relevant evidence from my pocket, the tension wrench and the lockpick; on close inspection, they were indeed very primitive tools compared to Bon’s precision instruments. If I had to guess, these were made of mere sheet metal, hastily cut and then sanded down to an approximation of the desired forms.

We craned our necks to follow Bon as he stood up and sashayed to a nearby door with his kit. He saw fit to give us a demonstration—I’m not sure to what end it really served to validate his testimony, but he did so anyway. “Yep, there’s really just no place for substandard tools when approaching a real beaut of a lock like this one—a magic-resistant plug housing six concentrically nested dimple pins, you see, not accounting for the reverse sidebar secondary locking mechanism. Oh, but who am I kidding, one has to account for the reverse sidebar…”

Forgoing his magic and instead opting to use his forehooves and teeth for finer motor control, Bon proceeded to insert and remove a variety of instruments in sequence as he confidently manipulated the lock’s internals. The picture was simply too bizarre; it wasn’t often I had difficulty stifling my laughter.

“… leshee, ‘lick outta four, five… wait, dropp’t two… there’sh my falsh set, onto the shidebar… aaaand… open sheshame!”

As if on command, the lock’s core yielded to the young master. Girard and Grid Iron gave him a round of applause as Bon in turn gave a theatrical bow. If nothing else, he seemed to have at least lightened the mood of the room.

“And so I conclude,” Bon announced, packing up his tools and returning to his seat, “that the changeling had no true intentions of breaking into Zorn’s room—there is no way this is how the changeling originally got into my sister’s room, for example. It was all for show, you see. And if it was all for show, it only stands to reason that Zorn was being framed for it. Q.E.D., Zorn is innocent.”

Girard and Grid smiled and nodded acceptantly, but not everyone was so convinced. The greatest among the skeptics, as it turned out, was Zorn himself:

“Your argument is erroneous, Bon.”

The young master balked. “But how is that?”

“Because the changeling could not have picked the lock on my bedroom door, you contend that this is a frame job. I am doubtful this is the only possible goal we could imagine. But even granting the ‘frame job’ hypothesis for the moment,” Zorn explained, taking a moment to cough and sniffle, “you allege that the target of a frame job cannot be the perpetrator—an assumption without evidence. If I were the changeling, I could have relied on such a bizarre maneuver precisely in an attempt to clear myself.”

Zorn’s self-incriminating rebuttal perplexed Bon. I couldn’t say I didn’t feel the same.

“But Zorn,” the young buck countered, “you admit this would be a bizarre maneuver. As in, unlikely and dangerous, especially if I hadn’t jumped to your defense. In the presence of a literal shapeshifter, we have no guarantees, only suspicions and probabilities. And all I mean to say is that I think this whole development reduces your probability greatly!”

“I am afraid your trust is not shared by the majority.”

Zorn gave no indication who exactly he had in mind among us eight. It was clear, at the least, that Blanche and Gloria shared his skepticism; but I got the impression Zorn was overestimating the others’ distrust.

“Nonetheless,” Zorn continued, “I only criticize because I have a better solution in mind. A solution at my expense, it must be said, but my actions have caused this whole issue, so I think it is only fair.” He turned to me with a familiar pair of pleading eyes as he rolled up a sleeve on his bathrobe. “Pesco, do you still have what I gave you?”

So that’s his idea. The room looked to me in anticipation.

“I do,” I said flatly.

“Then please, I have to ask that you use it on me, now.”

Injecting him, in other words, right here in front of all of his friends. It was an extreme measure, to be sure, and not one without its drawbacks.

Most everyone in the room was in the dark about Zorn’s serum, and their faces showed it. As for Bluebird, he looked to me for my word, as he was seemingly on the fence about Zorn’s proposition. Myself, I was simply opposed to it.

“If what you gave me is what you said you gave me,” I started, my headache returning, “then it’s too valuable to use up in this situation. I’m sorry.”

“So, you doubt that it is not part of some further ploy of mine. That is a reasonable concern,” Zorn granted.

“What are you guys talking about!?” Grid interjected.

The item being what it was, I didn’t even wish to declare its existence—it would’ve been best kept as an ace in the hole. Unfortunately, my arm was twisted; I produced from my trench coat the brass syringe in question for all to see.

“With reason, Pesco, you are suspicious whether this serum is what I claim it to be. It would have been prudent of me to provide proof of this earlier.” Zorn looked back to the young master. “Bon, could you levitate this for a moment?”

Still not fully understanding the syringe or the meaning of Zorn’s instruction, Bon nonetheless complied… or rather, he tried.

“I, I can’t!” the young buck exclaimed while straining.

His antlers glowed yet brighter as he struggled to lift the syringe out of my hoof. I felt it lighten by a few grams, but it clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

It was a convincing demonstration. It would appear that Zorn’s concoction was no mere placebo. Then again, magic-resistant materials were very much a thing—just ask Bon about his locks. This only proved some uncertain part of the device or its payload had the desired properties. It could benefit from a second opinion, as well.

“Blanche,” I beckoned, hanging the syringe upside down. “Catch this droplet as it falls.”

I ejected a single droplet of the serum from the syringe’s needle. Like her brother’s, Blanche’s antlers lit up in attempting to execute my command, but the droplet fell unimpeded onto the carpet—it had passed the test. Zorn nodded approvingly at my independent experiment.

“This is a concentrated magic-suppressant,” he explained to the rest. “I gave it to Pesco in case he might need to defend himself. However, I fear we will have to use it simply to clear my name…”

Bluebird stepped in to mediate. “All right, all right, Zorn. I still can’t quite tell why you’re so skeptical of, well, yourself, but I think I understand where you’re coming from. This was yours before you gave it to Pesco, after all, so maybe you have a right to it. But we don’t want it to go to waste… so, what if we gave you, say, a half dose? Surely that would still mess with a changeling’s transformation?”

“It’s likely but not guaranteed,” Zorn said, stubbornly honest. “My confidence intervals are large, owing to the lack of precise data on changelings. According to my calculations, I can only be sure that a 160 milliliter injection or greater would be effective.”

I looked at the measuring lines on Zorn’s syringe. “This is 200 milliliters,” I read.

“So no half measures,” Gloria clarified. It seemed she had been keeping up with the conversation quite keenly.

“Precisely,” Zorn said.

“Then I’m afraid that settles it,” I declared. “Executive order: Zorn will just have to trust his friends.”

Zorn was disappointed in my answer. But, he was also simply confused; this was a rare look on him, and a sign I was getting somewhere.

“You mean,” he started, “they will have to trust me—”

“No, I mean you will have to trust your friends,” I said. “You’ve told me as much yourself, Zorn: You don’t understand why your friends keep you around. You don’t understand what value your company is worth to them. And in the present situation, you don’t understand why they would trust you even an inch when you feel this was your mistake. But that’s fine: We don’t have to understand something to believe in it.” I walked around the coffee table. “Would anyone who holds it against Zorn enough to jab him with a needle over it, please raise their hoof or claw?”

With this appeal, I was trusting my ability to read the room correctly. Even if Zorn discounted me and Bluebird from the vote, I could still count on the majority opinion being in my favor so long as Blanche and Gloria were the only dissenters. And indeed, I actually met a unanimous decision: Everybody kept their hooves and claws where they lay.

“So you see, Zorn,” I summarized, “as long as you trust your friends, you don’t have anything to worry about. Just wait patiently on the suspect list with the rest, until we figure out the real changeling.”

“I… I see. You are right, Pesco,” Zorn admitted. “I thought I was being selfless, but in the end, it was an entirely selfish plan. I can only apologize.”

“All’s good, man!” Grid assured him. “We can’t fall apart as friends over the smallest little thing. The changeling will have to try harder than that if he wants us at each other’s throats!”

“And I understand your desire simply to be trusted,” Blanche empathized, twirling a lock of her mane with her magic. “I imagine it takes a lot of courage, as well, to be so honest with yourself and others, and yet so critical… Don’t change, Zorn.”

“Well said as always, sister,” Bon agreed.

Girard looked to have a hard time choosing his words. He gave up, and just nodded warmly.

And so finally, Zorn was pacified by his friends’ kindness—I even thought I caught sight of a blush. Heartwarming as it was, I was most happy simply to have navigated the obstacle he had presented without having to part with his serum.

But now, one couldn’t miss that there was one friend among the six who wasn’t indulging in flattery with Zorn. And that is because, this one friend was too busy staring sidelong at Grid Iron.

“Next item on the docket,” I announced, turning toward Gloria, “you need to tell me, Gloria, where you really found Grid Iron after the attack.”

My call-out soured the newly cheery atmosphere. Naturally, the ones most taken aback were the two I had named.

“Wait, huh? Where’d that come from?” Grid Iron sputtered. “I was in the kitchen, wasn’t I?”

Gloria held a claw up to her beak. “Yes, what ever do you mean to imply, Detective?”

I signaled to my partner for support. He might not always have agreed with my direct methods, but he always backed me up. “Well, you see, Gloria and Grid, there was just a little bit of a timing thing that surprised us. I had already fetched Bon from, ahah, the wine cellar again, and Pesco had just fetched Blanche and Girard from upstairs. We regrouped in the foyer, and then headed off in your direction, Gloria… and somehow, I guess, we all reached the kitchen at almost the same time?”

Grid Iron tried his best to follow along, clearly struggling under the pressure. Gloria, on the other hoof, already understood that which couldn’t be swept under the rug:

“I see. I didn’t wish to bring it up and cause an incident, because I feel it truly is something minor. Before I say, I believe I ought to ask: Grid, you were in the process of cooking something when I found you in the kitchen, yes?”

“Y-yeah, just some quinoa on the stove.”

“And I wouldn’t suppose you were in there cooking for several minutes, at the least, prior to my arrival?”

“Yup, I was just about done with it, and… uh-oh, I hope I didn’t leave the burner on!”

“Don’t worry, I remember you turned it off,” Gloria soothed. “It’s just… how to put this diplomatically… hm, Grid, I did not see you in the kitchen when I first checked.”

“… First checked?”

Gloria turned to me and Bluebird and explained, “You see, the first place I checked was the kitchen, as it was the closest. But, not seeing him in there, I went on ahead to the gym. I still could not find him, and I began to worry. I doubled back, and only by chance did I happen to spot him in the kitchen after all! Spooked me like a ghost, quite truly.”

Grid was stunned into silence; the pendulum of suspicion had swung full-force in his direction. He was unable to mount a coherent defense for himself. Happily for him, he found an advocate in whom I suspected to be his secret admirer:

“Did you actually check the kitchen thoroughly on your first visit, Gloria?” Bon inquired. “Or did you continue down the hall when you didn’t immediately see Grid in there? I mean to say, is it possible he was momentarily hidden behind something?”

“Hm.” Gloria tried to recall. “Given the rush we were in, I didn’t think it judicious to search for him in the pantry or the fridge, no. I gave the kitchen a thorough once-over from the threshold, however. The only thing that could have obscured him from me at that angle would have been the island countertop.”

Bon jumped on the theory. “It’s possible! Grid, do you think you might’ve been bending down to reach for something in the cupboards, while you were cooking?”

“Hmm, yeah, that has to be it, maybe! Mystery solved, I guess!”

Clearly, Grid was as eager to be out of the hot seat as Zorn had been eager to be in it. But to be fair, Zorn was an outlier by any metric, while Grid’s reaction was unfortunately quite common among both the guilty and the innocently accused, in my experience. In the cadet days of my career, I’d been burned more than once by my overconfidence in telling apart deceptive cues from mere stress responses.

But maybe, I just had to admit, the biggest point in Grid’s favor was that we only had Gloria’s testimony to go off of. Changeling or not, she was not a trustworthy witness in my eyes.

Bluebird flipped through the pages of his notepad. “Hm, Grid, if I remember correctly, you had just finished eating something when I talked to you and Girard in the foyer, right? And then you told me you were heading straight for the gym? Did you go back into the kitchen for another meal after your workout?”

“I have the metabolism of a hummingbird!” Grid cried. “I mean, I’m an athlete, I eat 3,000 calories a day. And believe me, you gotta capitalize on nutrition during the pre- and post-workout periods if you want the best gains!”

“I see. I figured that was the reason. Just wanted to clarify that much… Ahah.”

“What’s so funny about it!?”

Bluebird recoiled at Grid’s outburst, as did most of the room. Grid startled even himself. Morbidly amused, I recalled Grid’s earlier words: “The changeling will have to try harder than that if he wants us at each other’s throats!”

“Sorry, I know it’s not funny Grid, it’s just a tic of—”

“No, I’m sorry. I… I think I just up and murdered the vibe in here…”

Bon was still in rescue mode. “You mentioned the quinoa, Grid? Well, what if we go and check on the pot right now, and find it fully cooked? That could prove you had to have been in there for as long as you said you—”

For Bon’s and Grid’s own sakes, before they got their hopes up, I preempted, “That wouldn’t necessarily mean much. Nothing more than that it was placed on the stove some time prior—he could’ve been doing anything in the meantime.”

“Do you think he would’ve planned that far, been that meticulous?” Bon bristled.

My headache was back again. “If we’re flying under your ‘frame job’ hypothesis, Bon, then yes, there clearly was planning on the part of the changeling. It would be a natural way to try to secure an alibi.”

Bon raised a hoof and opened his mouth, but he didn’t find the words for further protest. Everyone could only stew in the awkward silence that followed.

“It’s fine, everyone, the situation just has us all on edge,” Bluebird mediated. “Gloria was just answering a question we had, telling us about something suspicious she saw. But we already have one fine explanation for why it could be nothing at all—the island countertop—so I say we just drop it.” My partner turned to me. “Now, Pesco, is there anything else we should bring up, while we’re all here?”

There was plenty I could bring up. The question was whether there would be profit in any of it. I looked around the room, at each of the six friends in turn. I only noticed anything of note in Blanche: Hooves pressed together, back arched forward, head tilted to one side, the young doe was certainly eying me with uneasy anticipation. I could only imagine she was expecting me to put her on trial over the evidence I’d found in her room. In reality, I had little desire, and at this point I was ready to end the meeting.

I took account of her and her friends’ reactions very carefully as I announced, “I don’t believe there’s anything left to discuss. We’ll come to you privately with any further questions.”

Blanche winced, and looked down at the ground.

Bon accepted the adjournment contentedly, with an eye toward Grid Iron.

Zorn, too, looked at the earth pony with some sympathy.

Grid Iron sighed, disappointed with himself.

Girard exhaled with relief.

Gloria merely nodded in approval.

And at this, everyone in attendance gradually rose to resume their normal activities—or at least, their preferred means of distraction from a very abnormal situation. The air was certainly tenser than it had been at the end of our meeting earlier today.

“We might want to be a little more careful, everyone!” Bluebird advised them on their way, like a school teacher after the bell had rung. Eyeing his injured wing, he added, “And, y’know, come to us if you have any suspicions. Don’t try to be a hero, ahah…”

Everyone else had already vacated the foyer, and only the griffon pair still remained. Not for lack of trying on Gloria’s part: Girard was slow to follow his cousin’s lead, and he looked back repeatedly at me and my partner. Finally, he gave in to his most obvious desire, and left Gloria’s side and bounced toward us.

“Bluebird and Pesco… hey,” he hailed meekly. “I was just wondering, um, when you were planning to c-come interview—”

By now, Gloria had noticed her cousin’s absence, and came rushing back. “Oh Girard, we oughtn’t bother them,” she said pleasantly. “They’ve their work to attend to, I’m sure.”

Girard sped up. “Okay well, I don’t have anything real important to say, it’s just, I’ve heard you’re talking with everyone, and it’s made me nervous, waiting all day for my own interview. I know I shouldn’t be, but—”

“Girard. I know you’re not deaf. I said let’s go.”

Gloria’s latest words hissed like bullets—and they had been fired from a beak that smiled all the while. The juxtaposition made even my blood run cold. A glimpse at my partner told me I wasn’t alone.

I expected to see just as much of a shock from Girard. But instead, the very subject of this abuse met Gloria’s words softly, even familiarly. Silently, he submitted.

Before I could even come to my wits about the situation, the two griffons had climbed the stairs and fled the scene.

Darkly, I mused: The line between protector and abuser is a very fine one, it seems.
> 8. Moonroom
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey Pesco, found another mention of Kralle-whatever over here,” Bluebird spoke up, thumping the book in his hooves—A Modern Vexillological Companion.

His mentor set his own book down and trotted eagerly across the library to examine Bluebird’s finding. “Details?”

“Nothing much more than the last… foooouur,” Bluebird replied, unable to stifle a yawn. Over the last couple of hours spent scouring the library, the gently hissing steam of the nearby boiler room had almost lulled him to sleep more than once. “Just some book on flags. But look, I found an entry for Gloria’s home turf here. It shows their flag, which I guess looks like the one you found in the first book. And it mentions a King Grayson, who took the throne after a civil war. And there, a spot on the Griffonstone map for their territory. Would you say the borders line up with what you found in the second book?”

Pesco put both his hooves on the table as he analyzed the entry’s sparse contents. “Yes, to a tee,” he agreed, with a sigh. “Moreover, the date of the flag’s introduction aligns with the data we gleaned from On The Creation of Nations.”

“Well, you think this just about settles it?”

“We can no longer deny it: The Duchy of Kralle-Karom is no mere fiction,” Pesco admitted. “But isn't that convenient, that she hails from so obscure and remote a province as this…”

Right after their meeting in the foyer had adjourned, Bluebird’s mentor had taken Bluebird aside and wasted no time explaining Gloria’s ploy in smuggling a book past him and out of the library, after Pesco had accidentally snuck up on her. He had recounted the story to Bluebird in such exacting detail, with such dramatic emphasis on his words (that is, even more than his usual), that it was obvious to Bluebird that the success of Gloria’s improvised deception had dealt a serious blow to his mentor’s pride.

And if Bluebird had to come up with a single chink in his mentor’s armor, it would be his pride. Although a bruised ego certainly motivated Pesco, Bluebird merely worried whenever it gave rise to paranoia and tunnel vision.

“I’ll grant that she’s certainly not all tea and crumpets,” Bluebird said, “but do you actually think she’s lying about being a princess for… some reason?”

“No, I don’t think I would go that far with it.” Pesco cocked his head and explained, “First, we know she’s not the changeling—she was physically with us when the changeling attacked. Second, we know that others have attested to seeing her family on occasion. Or at least, Grid has. I’ll have to pry more about that…” His mentor trailed off into thought, before resuming, “Nonetheless, both these facts combined have a natural conclusion: The Gloria in this villa is griffon royalty. That said, I only wonder if there isn’t anything about her past that Gloria wouldn’t like us poking at, or risk Girard blabbing about.”

“Then why don’t we just go talk to Girard already? It sounds like the griffon himself is all for it.” Thinking to tempt (or at least amuse) his mentor, Bluebird added, “And besides, if Gloria isn’t keen on the idea, then maybe we should be!”

“Knowing her, it could’ve been a feint and she wants to waste our time. We can confront her and her cousin later tonight, once we have our own ducks in a row.”

Waste our time? We’ve already spent over an hour in this library getting just one of our ducks in a row! … Wait, is that alfredo sauce I smell?

“And so,” Pesco continued, “I would like to hit her where it hurts: Find where she stashed that book of hers. It won’t be easy, but I’m confident she ditched it somewhere between the library and the foyer. So, I’ll search from one end of the hallway and the adjoining rooms, while you—”

“Yeah yeah, you go right ahead,” Bluebird interrupted. The heavenly aroma of something savory had wafted into the library, and the cadet was helpless to resist after a full day's work. “I think we’ll both catch a lot more ducks or whatever on a full stomach. I’ll be sure to bring you back something good!”

Bluebird only waited for the first half of his mentor's permission before he ducked out of the library and in the direction of the kitchen.

Is it Grid making another meal for himself? The colt wasn’t kidding about his metabolism … I could take the time to more thoroughly interview him in the meantime, especially after all that business Gloria brought up … Huh, this smells way better than your average health food … and way stronger, the kitchen is still pretty far—

Bluebird’s brain corrected his nostrils: They were not heading toward the kitchen. His nose had taken him the complete opposite way, deeper into an unfamiliar part of the mansion. Whatever it was and why it was there, this scent came from a room that was now just up ahead. The glass doors to the room were open, and a magical aura sparkled faintly from within. Bluebird could recognize the sibilance of a hushed conversation taking place. He sidled up closer to the door in order to make out the words.

“Now, we may not always get along,” the slightly deeper of the two voices said in a dulcet tone, “but I think I can recognize the signs when I ought to act on my duties as your brother and have a little heart-to-heart with you. Whether you like it or not.”

“You sure you’re not just drunk?” the other voice mocked. But even on these few words, its wavering and cracking were evident.

“Quite possibly. But I think you know by now I’m a very high-functioning alcoholic. Go ahead, try your meal. I think you’ll agree the farinata is my best yet.”

After a moment, a soft yet crispy crunch followed. Bluebird didn’t know how, but he swore his ears could taste how good it was.

“… Damn you’re drunk. You’re drunk, and you’re right.”

“Précisément. Now, my antlers are getting tired, so I’m going to go take these plates on over to Zorn and the griffons. Don’t you go anywhere, sis—I’ll be right back,” Bon promised. “I’ll grab you one of your favorite gelatos, on the way.”

“To think just a moment ago you were chomping at the bit to cook for our two guests. What ever happened to showing off for them, huh?”

Oh!

“The detective and his tagalong can wait. You take priority, sis.”

Blast it.

Hoofsteps started, and Bon’s magic glowed more brightly as he approached the door. Bluebird didn’t want to be caught snooping; he quietly took to the air (his left wing throbbed only slightly) and darted beyond a nearby corner. Bon exited the room carrying two platters in his telekinesis and proceeded down the opposite end of the hallway.

“… a little something in mind for Grid later tonight anyway, bien sûr…” he heard Bon whisper excitedly to himself as he went. The light from his antlers receded into the distance.

Bluebird considered his options. On the one hoof, he considered it rude to have eavesdropped for as long as he had. But on the other hoof, the “tagalong” thought… in for a penny, in for a pound! He might as well wait for Bon to return and hear the rest, for lack of any other leads.

Once assured that he was in the clear, Bluebird flew back to the doorway and peered inside. It appeared to be a sunroom of sorts, or perhaps at this late hour, a moonroom: The bay windows on three walls opened to a panorama of the labyrinthine peaks of the Crystal Mountains all around, while the glass dome in the ceiling bathed the room in moonlight. Blanche lay kneeling in the center before a low table. At this table, she neither attended to her writing nor her meal, but instead gazed skyward, transfixed by the snow-flurried stars above.

Bluebird, too, felt hypnotized by the beautiful scene. It was only the sound of familiar hoofsteps down the hall that finally snapped him back to reality, and he ducked back around his corner for cover. Bon approached the door, this time carrying only a cup of something yellowish-orange in his magic.

“Your gelato, as promised.”

“Ehh… thank you.”

Bluebird heard Bon take a seat beside his sister. “Hm, was Girard mistaken?”

“How do you mean?”

“He told me a while back that mango was your favorite flavor.”

“Figures. No, not really.” She heckled, “What a mediocre fruit.”

“Haha, well we are twins—I knew I ought to have gone with my own tastes. Let me guess: buttercream?”

“Much better.”

“I’ll gladly take partial credit.”

“I’ll admit Girard’s wasn’t a bad guess, either,” she conceded. “I believe I made it Crestfallen’s favorite.”

“Who?”

“Deuteragonist from I Want to Die Fighting the Hero.”

“Ah, one of your story characters. That one was a couple years ago, was it not? I… still need to get around to reading that one.”

Bluebird heard a rustling sound as she shifted in place. “Don’t feel obligated.”

“It’s only partly obligation. I want to learn more about my sister.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you.”

“Hm.” Bon took a moment as if to examine or appraise something. “That’s your sarcasm, isn’t it? I know what that word means.”

Bluebird didn’t.

“For what it’s worth,” Bon continued, “I think Father is the only person in the world who wouldn’t pick you over me.”

It should have been hard to tell what Blanche was thinking, without seeing her face or hearing any sort of response. The cadet couldn’t shake the mental image of an elastic cord being pulled too tight.

“Have you a copy of Hero here at the villa?” Bon pressed. “Perhaps I could read it tonight, or even right now if you fancy—”

The cord snapped. “Bon honestly, not all of us will wither up and die without constant attention! I’m your twin, not your clone.”

A pause, and more shifting. Bluebird wasn’t sure from whom.

“… I’m sorry, that was crude of me,” she said. “If you want to learn more about me through my writing, read my earlier works. I don’t think there’s any part of me in the stories I write these days—no good parts, anyway.”

Blanche seemed to be guiding the conversation to some focal point she had in mind. Bon picked up on it: “And why not?”

“And why?” she inverted. The cord was stretching again. “Your audience can’t tell the difference between your heart and a cardboard cutout, so why bother? In fact, they prefer the bloody cardboard—my books have only been received all the better once I made the substitution.”

“The unrefined tastes of the masses can be cruel,” Bon sympathized. “But I should think the pertinent question is, do you prefer the cardboard?”

“To say nothing else about it, it’s certainly the easier material to work with.”

“Do you mean from an emotional or technical point of view?”

“Yes.”

“Well fair enough!”

Bluebird heard both the siblings chuckle, followed by a lull in the conversation. Scrapes and dings of silverware on plates led him to believe that they were now taking the time to enjoy their meals.

Eventually, Bon rekindled the conversation. “I imagine the things you have in mind run a little deeper than mango versus buttercream… Don’t you think we would enjoy seeing a little more of your heart, from time to time?”

“Have you ever seen a real, freshly removed heart, Bon?” Blanche asked in return, rather obliquely. “To the untrained eye, that big strange blob of muscle looks nothing like the colorful cutaway diagrams in the textbooks. The former will be impenetrable to you unless you already perfectly understand it, while the latter is a fiction, but a highly instructive one.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“What I’m saying is, cardboard is great. Not only is it cheaper, but if you want to tell the truth with it, it’s simply the better option for that, too.” She clarified by way of example, “Let’s say Jane Doe is a fawn in grade school. She’s a straight-A student, but she slips up and gets a D on her latest test. Her overall grade drops to a B. Oh well. But on that day of all days, just by chance, her parents ask her over dinner how her test went.”

“Oh dear.”

“Oh dear indeed. It would be a prideful lie to say she got an A, certainly, but to say she got a D might also give the wrong impression—Jane doesn’t feel the test was an accurate reflection of her academic abilities, and isn’t her parents’ question just a proxy for that? Parents don’t ask, ‘What is your standing GPA, dear?’ They ask, only once in a blue moon, ‘How did your test go today?’ And so, ultimately Jane feels honest enough saying she got a B.”

“Hm, I think I see where you’re coming from,” Bon said. “But what’s wrong with telling the unedited truth? That she flunked the latest test, but that she’s aced every other so far?”

“For one thing, it’s the same edit: It’s inserting an answer to a question they didn’t ask,” Blanche contested. “And for another, her parents might simply not believe her on the second part—or at the least, it could sow a seed of doubt in their minds. Why should Jane risk giving anyone that headache?”

Once again, silence reigned. This silence having followed a direct question from Blanche, Bluebird had to assume Bon was not dropping the subject, but instead thinking over his answer very carefully.

Finally, he spoke up. “Because otherwise, she risks her parents finding out on their own. And then, it is truly anyone’s guess what they’ll think and who they’ll believe.”

Bon met no counterargument from Blanche.

“Sis,” he continued, “I should like to know what the detective must have found in your bedroom.”

A fork dropped, clanging off of ceramic. “Hrmph… My brother, the high-functioning drunk!”

“The one and only. But I should think even a regular drunk could’ve seen the difference in your face, before and after I left to get my lockpicking tools.”

“Well, very well. I’ll tell you the unedited truth. But I can’t start from there—first, I have to answer a question you didn’t ask.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been writing a new book. Changeling Ringing. It’s… it’s a book about changelings. Obviously.” Blanche cleared her throat. “Now I know what you might think, given that I alone found the wing fragment in my room. That this is all some sick fantasy I’m living out, or some stupid ploy to market my book with a headline, or that I have some backroom deal with changelings gone wrong, or that I’m the damned changeling. I don’t want the headache of explaining why that’s all nonsense and that I’m just as in the dark about it as the rest of you.”

“It’s… it’s all right, sis,” Bon said, awkwardly but genuinely. “I wasn’t thinking that at all. I don’t think any of us would.”

Blanche sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s not fair of me to assume my twin brother or my friends could misinterpret me as chronically as my readers have.” She continued, “But now the detective has every justified reason to believe such rubbish, frankly, after what he found in my room.”

At this point, Blanche elaborated to her brother the details of Pesco’s inspection of her room, that of the toolmarks on her pried-open window, as well as the unique material of the parchment the wing fragment was found on. This all was new information to Bluebird; it seemed his mentor had been so laser focused on Gloria that he had forgotten to fill his partner in on these recent clues.

“And the detective didn’t bring up any of it during the meeting!” Blanche vented. “I only imagine he’s convinced of my guilt by this point. It would explain why he took little interest in either Zorn or Grid as suspects. If he’s not ready to ring me up on false testimony charges, he’s planning to cuff me and cart me off to the Royal Guard for some brutes to poke and prod at me for who knows how long. God, the anxiety of it all, I can see where Zorn was coming from…”

Bon dared to laugh. “Ha, the detective doesn’t strike me as such a fool! I do genuinely believe you have little to worry about, my dearly dramatic sister.”

“… Are you so sure?” she asked, in a hopeful tone. “Hysteria doesn’t suit me, but I would be happy if that’s all it is.”

“Absolutely. Ma sœur, trust that the detective has thought it through logically: If our villa is teleproofed to perfection, and if you always lock your bedroom door, and if the changeling is demonstrably unable to pick locks, then how do you think they got into your room in the first place?”

Silence. “That’s… that’s a very good point, Bon. The window is the only answer.”

“Exactly. It’s no evidence at all that you used your window to sneak in after the changeling attack, or anything so preposterous.”

Bon did something that made Blanche snort.

“And this matter of the parchment,” he continued, “you said it’s not yours, so what connection could it have with you?”

“None at all, in the end—or nothing credible, at least. Just my paranoia, surely, which I’ve shown I have in abundance.”

“You’ve indulged me in your paranoias thus far. Why not this one?”

“You’ve got me there,” she admitted. “It’s just, well, I’ve been turning it over in my head, that parchment. How it felt, how it looked… And, hm, I scarcely use this material myself since it’s a notoriously dreadful texture for writing, but I’m suspicious it may be made from willow pulp.”

“Willow pulp? And what would be so suspicious about that?”

“Nothing per se. But I just wonder if it doesn’t mean to reference a certain—”

Heavy, plodding hoofsteps echoed from further down the hall. Bon and Blanche cut their conversation short as they, along with Bluebird, anticipated who might be arriving. Bluebird was the first to observe that it was none other than his mentor, who rounded the corner, stopped, and glared curiously at his eavesdropping partner. Bluebird had been gone for a while now, and he could only assume Pesco had left to check up on him.

Bluebird heard hoofsteps from inside the sunroom, too, as Bon and Blanche no doubt wanted to investigate the noise.

Once again, Bluebird didn’t want to be caught snooping; he flew on over to his mentor’s side and assumed a natural position just as the twins exited and spotted the two of them. Blanche held the farinata in her magical grasp.

“Ooh, is that cornbread?” Bluebird inquired dumbly. “We knew we smelled something good. You never told me you were a bona fide chef on top of everything else, Bon!”

Bluebird hoped that his mentor would understand and roll with it. And of course, Pesco did not disappoint, smirking as he said, “And how do you know Bon made that? I would call that an unfounded assumption, Bluebird.”

The cadet slapped his forehead. “This is why they pay you the big bits… or at least, why they should! Ahah.”
> 9. Insomnia
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

To Bluebird’s disappointment, but not exactly to his surprise, Pesco had underestimated the amount of time left in the evening.

“Shouldn’t we be getting to Girard by now, if we’re going to talk to him tonight?” the cadet had asked, on several occasions.

“We will be,” Pesco had promised, on just as many occasions. “But… let’s search one more room for that book. It will be a great asset if we want to put the screws to Gloria.”

The book. The changeling. The Gloria. Bluebird was beginning to wonder how much of a distinction his mentor still made between these three things.

Still, the night hadn’t been a total waste. Right when Bluebird thought his stomach might digest itself, Bon—true to his eavesdropped word—pulled through and “surprised” the pair with an exquisite entrée for the both of them. For Pesco, this consisted of a coy reference to his namesake in the form of a miniature pizza margherita, wood-fired and loaded with artisanal toppings; for Bluebird, it was but a humble eight-inch hoagie, as unpretentious as it was delicious.

“Apology accepted,” the tagalong said.

“Beg your pardon?”

The cadet just flashed Bon an okay sign with his wing while chewing.

In the end, the food was enough to make even Pesco slow down in his mad search. And as soon as he dared to relax for a moment, his exhaustion from the day caught up to him—and if that still didn’t do the trick, the post-meal food coma surely did.

“All right, new gameplan,” Pesco finally conceded. “First thing in the morning, we’ll go to interview Girard. Then, we’ll look for the book further.”

“First thing in the morning?”

“The very first.”

And so, the two were left to discuss their sleeping arrangements. Bluebird suggested that they each room up in one of the several unoccupied guest chambers the mansion had to offer, but Pesco thought it would be wiser if they slept near enough to keep an eye on things—and for that, the couches in the foyer were the better option. Bluebird wasn’t sure if Pesco feared that the changeling would attack one of them in the night, or suspected that Bluebird himself had been replaced at some point, or if Pesco just had something against sleeping in a proper bed; back at the office, late nights had him sleeping just as often at his desk as back home.

Oh well, Bluebird thought. Any port in a storm. And he had to admit, the fluffiest clouds in all of Cloudsdale really had nothing on this divan…





That night, in that very same villa, Scolus the changeling slept fitfully. Tossing and turning under the covers, fading in and out of dreaming and wakefulness, Scolus was tortured by memories of a former calling.

“Come on, Scole, how do you do it?” Clypeus insisted. “I mean, you’re like my idol! I heard you earned your third distinction from the queen last month—and I buy it, ‘cause your mane is looking longer than ever! Just a true blue pony whisperer, aren’t you? Surely you have some tips to pass on to a newbie like me, eh?”

Clypeus was a very forward bug, Scolus had to think. This was only the second time they’d ever met, and she hadn’t been any less direct the first time around.

“It comes with patience, Clypeus. Hm… patience, and a thoughtful approach. That’s all my method is.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that? They’re such obstinate creatures!” she moaned. “For all the ‘kindness’ and ‘friendship’ they prattle on about, farming their love really is like squeezing blood from a stone, isn’t it? You make it look easy.”

“It has always come pretty naturally to me. To be more helpful, though, maybe I’d say it’s more or less about… good theory of mind, in the end.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Think about it. Put yourselves in their, um, horseshoes. You’re a pony and you’ve just been kidnapped and spirited away to our hive. What are you thinking, your first night all alone in one of our holding cells?”

“Huh. I guess I’d have heard the shtick already? The free room and board? A dark and cozy cell all to myself? I’d probably be thinking, ‘Nice! Now how’s the grub going to be around here, and how soon is it coming up?’”

“Not so much how they feel about it, in my experience,” Scolus corrected gently. “To them, well, they’ve just been ripped away from their family. Family is something that’s important to them.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“On top of that, they’ve lost their autonomy. Their whole life and routine is now being completely controlled by others.”

“Yeah?”

“Um, remember that that is something they actually don’t like…”

“Oh! Yeah.” Clypeus clicked and cracked her jaw distractedly. “So?”

“I just mean to say, no matter how comfortable we make it for them here—and I have my own theories how we could still improve in that regard!—the only thought on their mind is going to be escape.

“… Not that that’s ever an option for them. It just isn’t, of course! But you need to understand their state of mind, and kind of script your performance around that. Like, I’m visiting a young unicorn female right now. So, I’ll be taking the form of an older, maternal figure of the same race—familiarity is calming. I’ll also avoid a list of words in the first meeting that might put her ill at ease, like ‘changeling’ or ‘farming’ or—”

“Yeah yeah, that’s all textbook material, just Love Farming 101. They teach that much at orientation,” she said. “Look, I’m not here on the queen’s orders, so it’s fine if you don’t want to give up your secret recipe. I figured as much that you’d prefer to keep it a secret, given how much you prefer these one-on-ones with the lovestock, huh?”

Lovestock. Scolus didn’t care for most of the standard terminology surrounding his job. “Hm. Maybe I’m just bad at explaining these things.”

“Hey, don’t get down on yourself! Doesn’t matter how bad of a communicator you are, really, when your record on the job is just legendary!” Clypeus beamed. Although, after a moment, she reconsidered her words, self-conscious for the first time since Scolus had met her. “Well, apart from, y’know… I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. I know it happens to the best of us.”

Scolus flitted his wings fearfully. Was word getting out? What would everybug think?

“Anyway, I gotta fly. I got an assignment with some jaded old brick of a stallion. Earth ponies are just the worst!” Clypeus took to the air and assumed the form of a gruff-looking pegasus guard in (inaccurately reproduced) royal armor. “I’ll leave you to your diamond of an assignment. Just keep on doing what you’re doing, Scole! Hail to the queen!”





The hour was nearly three in the morning.

Bluebird could hear it if he concentrated.

Thump. Thump. Thump thump thump. Thump. Thump thump.

Although his heart rate had certainly quickened by now, this beating did not come from his chest. Something not-quite-rhythmic was echoing in the halls from deeper in the mansion. Bluebird had taken notice of it only once he was thoroughly occupied with a visit to the lavatory; with no small amount of anxiety, he finished up his business as quietly and quickly as he could, even electing to skip washing his hooves after he was done.

He poked his head out of the door, and listened more carefully. To his right was the path back to the foyer where his mentor still lay sleeping. And to his left… That was definitely the source of the sound, somewhere in the distance.

Thump thump thump thump. THUMP.

Should he go get Pesco? In these circumstances, that seemed like the obvious choice. And yet, he could feel his heart returning to a resting pace, his nerves beginning to calm… Bluebird had a hunch he knew what this noise was, and who was making it.

He proceeded left down the hallway. After rounding the corner, he got his first confirmation: The lights were on in the gym. The violent thumps were ever clearer, and between them Bluebird could make out the rattling of a swinging chain. Flying over to the doorway and poking his head in, he got his second confirmation: It was none other than Grid Iron, his back to the entrance, beating a hanging sandbag to within an inch of its life in the corner of the gym.

Navigating around pristinely maintained exercise bikes and weightlifting equipment, Bluebird trotted half the distance over to Grid before announcing his presence. “Really doing a number on that thing, huh?”

Grid gave a startle, but turned around sluggishly, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face. He couldn’t catch his breath for long enough to form a response to the cadet’s question. He simply nodded his head, and walked over to a nearby towel to make himself presentable.

Bluebird walked on over to within conversational distance and sat down on a bench. “Hah, dare I ask what has you up this late? I hope this isn’t your usual time for working out!”

Grid took the time to kill an entire water bottle in one prolonged swig—the water line fell as fast as gravity would take it. He then took a seat next to Bluebird.

“Dunno. Couldn’t sleep.” Still looking worse for wear, Grid continued, “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah, you’re fine. My bowel did a good enough job of that, ahah.”

Grid forced a laugh. He wasn’t a good actor.

An uncomfortable silence. Maybe it was just the awkward joke.

“You do this sort of thing often?” Bluebird asked. “Go ham on a heavy bag every time you can’t sleep?”

“Sure… yeah.”

“So, nothing to worry about? Nothing we should talk about?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s just your sleeping pill?”

“Pretty much. Hahaha.”

Silence resumed.

Bluebird sighed. If there was one thing the cadet consistently struggled to tackle with his preferred “friendly” approach alone, it was insincere suspects. At the very least, it often took too long to be useful, and Bluebird wasn’t feeling particularly patient at this hour of the night. He figured now was as good a time as any to take a page from his mentor’s book:

“Something’s eating you alive inside, isn’t it, Grid?”

Nothing.

“You’re not good at hiding it.”

Grid raised a hoof slightly, and parted his lips, but no words came out.

“Not many ponies are. And I think you are a pony in the end. But, you have to know it’s my job to be suspicious.”

At last, Grid found some words. “Haha, dude… I’m crumbling to pieces as an innocent here… You think I would last a minute lying to you as a criminal…?”

Grid’s foreleg shot out, delivering a violent backhoof to the sandbag beside him.

“Hell no!” he shouted. The thunderous clap of the sandbag together with Grid’s booming voice had the hair on Bluebird’s withers standing on end. “Damn that bug straight to Tartarus, but what I wouldn’t give for the cool head he must have!” Grid bounced back to his hooves and picked up with the sandbag where he left off. “Or she. Whatever.”

Hm, pronouns. Without the correction it would’ve been innocuous enough. Did Grid have a certain someone in mind?

Bluebird dialed back the pressure. “C’mon, Grid, being the innocent is a tough role here. Maybe even tougher than being the perp. I don’t think less of you one bit.”

“Well, thanks. I mean it.” Thump. Thump thump. “And you’re right, really. The changeling is just here to wreck havoc, isn’t he? Just to further his own interests, whatever they are? He doesn’t have to protect anyone or suspect anyone! He only has his own skin in the game!” THUMP.

“While here you all are just sitting around, waiting to learn which one of your friends is most likely pushing daisies!”

Bluebird’s bitter dose of empathy met only the sound of a swinging chain.

“Say, Grid, there’s this idea I had, a theory of sorts. I ran it past Blanche, but she nixed it. Pretty convincingly, too. Though somehow, I just can’t get it out of my head.” Bluebird waited until he’d established eye contact with the young athlete. “What if the changeling didn’t hurt any of your friends? What if he—or she. Whatever!—was a changeling all along, and you just never knew?”

Grid processed the question very quickly. Before the cadet had even finished speaking, Grid was already chuckling quite unnervingly. “Don’t you tempt me like that, dude… Don’t you dare!”

Bluebird raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Don’t tempt me with hope you don’t even have!” Thump THUMP. “We all know what the score is here, don’t we? We all know how this story ends! Spoiler alert: It’s not going to be pretty!”

“But I’m not just tempting you, Grid. It is a hope that I have.”

Thump.

“Frankly, at this point, I’d be more surprised if it turned out not to be the case!”

Thump…

“Come on, everyone here remembers everything from everyone else’s pasts perfectly, and everyone has been acting exactly as they always have, according to everyone else.”

… thump…

“And y’know, I wish I had my notes with me so I could quote you more precisely, but I seem to remember you in particular, Grid, telling me as much in our very first conversation alone: You assured me that none of your friends had been acting in the slightest bit out-of-character!”

“I, I did say that, yeah. But…”

“But what?”

“Well, how bad would it be…” Grid held up a hoof to stop the sandbag’s swing. “… if I told you I lied?”





Scolus sat crouched on his haunches in the corner of the cell, batting a loose pebble on the ground between his insectoid hooves. Every once in a while, he would steal a glance—not overly deliberate, but not overly furtive, either—at the young unicorn curled up against the opposite wall, who for her part never averted her own horrified gaze from Scolus.

By Scolus’s best guess, she was not quite a filly, not quite a mare. He knew this to be what the mammalian equine races termed “adolescence”; it was an important transitional phase in their life cycle, and one fraught with psychological growing pains even in the most agreeable environments.

And sadly, Scolus understood that, despite his best efforts, a dank cave thousands of feet below the surface could never be an agreeable environment for her kind.

“I would understand if my native form gives you the jitters,” Scolus attempted. They were the first words he had spoken, aside from a very brief and unreciprocated greeting five minutes ago. “I’m guessing that you’ve never really seen a changeling, before last night. And, well, maybe the ones you’ve seen already… maybe they weren’t very nice to you.”

Still, the unicorn just stared at him.

“If you want, I could take another form. If that would make you more comfortable, that is. Would you like that?”

“No, thank you.”

Her first words to him. Albeit only momentarily, she finally looked elsewhere—at the enchanted citrine gemstone Scolus had placed by her bedside. The bright yellow rays it exuded were harsh on Scolus’s eyes, but he understood the hue and brightness to be a close approximation to natural sunlight.

“Right,” Scolus agreed. “I figure, as long as we’re getting to know each other, why not just be ourselves?” He flashed her a warm smile.

Farming while undisguised was a violation of mandated guidelines. Scolus had long since given up defending this practice to his colleagues; he wasn’t confident they could replicate his success with it, anyway.

Scolus had hoped to entice some further words from the mare, but to no avail. Perhaps another direct question would help?

“My name is Scolus. I think it’s kinda boring, compared to pony names. What is your name? What can I call you?”

She looked away again, and was slow to respond. “Wind. Windshear.”

“Ah, Windshear?” Scolus thought it a strange name for a unicorn. Genuinely curious, he asked, “You have family from Cloudsdale, or?”

“… Yes, I’m from Cloudsdale.”

How fascinating! He had no idea races other than pegasi lived in Cloudsdale. He didn’t even know they could! Then again, he had heard of contraptions and spells to allow temporary visits by earth ponies and unicorns, so maybe it wasn’t so much of a stretch to imagine that—

But then, the more likely explanation struck him: She was simply lying to him. He felt a twinge of heartache at this realization, but he knew he couldn’t take her lack of trust personally.

“That’s neat.” Taking the hint, he changed the subject to himself: “Do you know who I am? What I’m doing here, exactly?”

“I guess, they told me you’re my warden.”

Oh bother. “Hm, I’m a warden of sorts, yeah. I won’t beat around the stalagmite. Technically, I’m what’s known as a ‘love farmer.’ But really, for all intents and purposes, you can just think of me as your personal attendant. That means you can see me as much—or as little!—as you’d like. Whatever you want me to get, whatever you want me to do, just say the word! Your happiness is my only duty.”

No response. She was shaping up to be a tough case.

“Maybe you would like to play a game, to take your mind off things? Look, I brought a deck of cards with me. I have to warn you though, I reckon I’m the best Appleloosa hold ‘em player in the Hive!”

She was staring at him again.

“Or maybe you didn’t sleep very well last night, and would just like some rest… Oh, dear! It looks like they forgot the pillows to your bed. I’ll go fetch—”

“Let me leave.”

Scolus blinked. “Oh, um. That is virtually the only thing I can’t do for you. I’m, uh, really sorry about that, Windshear. I should’ve said as much.”

“Let me see my family.”

“Ummm… Again, I’m sorry. We didn’t captu— we didn’t take— Ah, your family is still in Cloudsdale. So, seeing them again is kinda the same thing as leaving.”

“Let me leave.”

“I’m truly sorry. That’s not in my power.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Scolus flitted his wings, shaken by her outburst. Did she know about…?

“Let me leave. Help me escape like the others!”

First Clypeus, now new and random prisoners had heard? Had he been that careless with it?

“Let me leave. Help me escape, Scolus!”

Finally, Scolus responded with firmness: “That’s not an option. It just isn’t.”
> 10. What Creature Am I?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bluebird watched as Grid Iron trotted frantically back and forth, parallel to the mirror that ran the length of the gym’s far wall. Under stress, this pony’s moods were really something; before the cadet had even had the chance to ask about this “lie,” Grid had once again boiled over with emotion. Eventually, his rate of speech approached comprehensible levels:

“—didn’t mean to lie to you dude I really didn’t, it just seemed so weird but also forgettable, like I could just ignore it and it wouldn’t have ever been a thing you know? And I didn’t lie to you when I told you that he was acting his normal self when you saw him, that he’s a showboat, he just gets ahead of himself, so that’s why it’s so uncanny that now he’s—”

“Hold on a second, Grid,” Bluebird interrupted. He kept instinctively reaching for his notepad, only to brush against his bare sides. “Just so we’re on the same page, you’re talking about Bon, right?”

Grid’s face wrenched up a little. “Yes.”

“Okay. Take a deep breath for me. All right? … All right. Good. Now, what is it that has you all wound up? You say you think something’s been off about his behavior? If it’s any consolation, I think Bon in particular—”

Grid cut him off mid-soothe. “I’m kind of an idiot about this stuff, so… so I hope you’ll just say I’m misinterpreting things, and probably you will, but… Bon. He has totally been coming on to me.”

Well then. Bluebird was already willing to wager there was no misinterpretation. Still, he treaded softly: “You think so?”

“Yeah! And believe me, if I can notice it, it has to be pretty blatant, right?

“Like, the first day we got here, out of the blue he invites me to sit down with him at the piano… I’m an earth pony! My hooves don’t even fit on the keys! He just had me hold his own hooves as he played by himself! And I know he performs better with his magic anyway so I was like, what’s even the point?

“And then last week, me and Bon were watching some movie in the projector room, and I’ll admit it was boring and all, but Bon just cozied up right on my shoulder and fell asleep… There were pillows right next to him! And I could only think, like, dude, wasn’t this the movie you picked out? And since when did you like chick flicks anyway?

“And then there was this other time, I’d just finished a tough workout and was wiping myself down, and he—oh, well you get the idea by now. I mean, you agree it just might be flirting, don’t you? Or is it just my imagination?”

Bluebird felt a newfound sympathy for Bon’s efforts. “I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination, and even I can’t imagine a world where that’s not flirting.”

“All right. I guess I just wasn’t totally sure.” Grid slowed down a little, then stopped his pacing. He pressed the crown of his head up against the mirror, his sweat-slick mane leaving a residue on the glassy surface. In the reflection, Bluebird saw a more somber expression as he continued, “Maybe I was being dramatic when I called it a lie. It only really clicked for me, after this latest bit tonight. You, uh, didn’t happen to tell him anything about what I told you, after you walked in on me and Girard?”

His lack of romantic inclinations, he must’ve meant. “No, not at all.”

“Right. Well, I only wondered if you did, because after Bon brought me my dinner tonight—if you can call chocolate-covered strawberries dinner, anyway—he started asking me some… pretty personal questions. For the first time, I guess, I told him what I told you, that I never felt any of that stuff, and probably never would. I told him friendship was more than enough for me.

“Maybe I just, always assumed Bon felt the same way? I’ve really never seen him take an interest in anybody at school… and you know, he even told me as much: I turned the same questions back on him, and he admitted he didn’t think love was in the cards for him, either! So what’s the deal with his flirting, then? It’s s-suspicious!”

As if formulating a response wasn’t hard enough on its own, Grid scarcely offered the cadet the time to interject, instead continuing:

“And y’know, I-I might have said something awfully edgy to you earlier today, about having a ‘word’ with the changeling, like I wanted to take things into my own hooves… and I’ve been walking around with these zip ties in my pocket! As if, if I found the changeling on my own, I would tie him up and do… well, Luna-knows-what.

“But in reality, well, have you ever seen those movies with the changeling villains? The ones where at the end the changeling goes hoof-to-hoof with the hero, but then the changeling transforms into the hero’s special somepony or whatever, and the hero just totally locks up and gets the tar beaten out of him? It’s so lame and anticlimactic but… knowing what I know now, I think I could just be dumb enough to fall for something like that!”

“You mean to say,” Bluebird said, finally finding an in, “you don’t think you could stand to attack ‘Bon,’ or rather, an impostor wearing his skin?”

“Yeah. Or Girard, or Zorn, or anybody! It’s just such a sick, cowardly feeling…”

“It’s all right, Grid. There’s no way to be a coward here. Standing aside and letting the authorities handle it is simply the smartest thing you can do. And, where it concerns Bon, I honestly think you have nothing to worry about—whether he’s flirting with you or not, I think you’ll feel a whole lot better if you just have an honest chat with him about it.”

Bluebird truly could empathize with the young athlete; undoubtedly, the combination of a changeling crisis, love troubles, and simple teenage hormones was a three-pronged assault on his psyche. At least, assuming the individual in front of Bluebird really was an adolescent earth pony… more and more, the cadet had to consciously remind himself he had a mission to do.

“Say Grid, while I have you here,” Bluebird continued, stifling a yawn, “is there anything more you can tell me about Gloria’s accusation earlier? About you supposedly not being in the kitchen when you said—”

“Hey, don’t call it an accusation,” Grid snapped. “I don’t hold it against her just for saying what she saw. Or didn’t see. Or maybe, thinks she didn’t see. Whatever.”

“You’re right. Bad choice of words. I’m just a little tired at this hour,” Bluebird apologized. “But, is there anything more to it?”

Grid rubbed his cheek. “No. I-I don’t think there is.”

Not very helpful. Bluebird thought he would turn up the heat just a little. “Hm, don’t think so? Surely you would know if it was just as Bon suggested, that you were reaching for something under the countertop? Or you would know if you stepped out for a moment? Don’t get me wrong, off the clock I’m not normally this nosy, ahah. I just want to hear your side of the story, while it’s just the two of us.”

“I don’t thin—I mean, I know I didn’t step out while cooking. I remember I was listening to music on my headphones the whole time. And… I know I didn’t reach for anything under the counter?”

Grid proceeded to curse under his breath; even he had heard the uncertainty in his voice. Without needing to be prompted, he attempted to recollect more carefully, rubbing his temples as he did so:

“I was just cooking my same quinoa I always do… the grains are in the top shelf, and the pans are in the thing by the sink… I wouldn’t have had to reach down for the silverware, and—Oh! I think I got it!” Grid’s expression brightened instantly as he slapped his forehead. “I made a protein shake!”

“Should’ve known there was an innocent explanation! … Right?”

“You bet! I don’t make ‘em that often since I like to get my protein from natural sources and all, but I definitely fixed one up! And dude, wouldn’t you know it: We keep the protein powder in the cabinets under the counter!”

Grid was happy as a lark. It was certainly the cheeriest Bluebird had seen him tonight, and probably yesterday, too. Bluebird smiled, sharing Grid’s positivity; not only did he manage to extract a pertinent piece of info, but he inadvertently helped lift the youth’s spirits, too. The tailspin that was Bon’s interrogation was still fresh in the cadet’s memory.

After a time, Grid’s euphoria started to settle. With a little levity mixed with a little concern, he asked, “Y’know… what do you think the changeling is even doing here?”

The cadet laughed. “Well, isn’t that the million-bit question!”

“Nah, I mean, like, still doing here? Why doesn’t he just give up and go home by now? For his own sake?”

He trotted over to his water bottle and towel before packing up the both of them in a nearby gym bag.

“Maybe I’m just being dense, but like, what’s his endgame here? Isn’t the Royal Guard gonna be here in a matter of days anyway to totally take control? Or was Big Guns just trying to spook the changeling when he said that?” He smirked at the cadet.

Bluebird locked up, stalled in thought. He was not at all asking a dense question, the cadet recognized: In this scenario, the only thought on the changeling’s mind should have been escape—not just from Pesco and Bluebird, but from the authorities altogether. It was an obvious point of motive to think about, yet it had completely slipped past the junior detective. In his defense, he was used to being an independent investigator, not the vanguard to a bughunt!

Grid peered at Bluebird expectantly. He had paused his packing.

Already, Bluebird could understand there weren’t a lot of happy answers to Grid’s question. If the changeling wasn’t fleeing, it could only mean he still had business at the manor—but what business could possibly be worth all this danger?

“Huh, if I had to venture a guess,” Bluebird said chipperly, trying to preserve Grid’s peace of mind, “… maybe he’s just gotten chummy with his new friends at the manor and hates saying goodbye! Ahah.”

Grid gave a pity laugh. “Now that’s just silly! C’mon, I thought I told you no sugarcoating.”

“I’m sorry, it was a bad joke. To address your question seriously, I really have no idea.”

“Right.” Grid slung the gym bag over his shoulder. “But, you didn’t really answer my other thing: The Royal Guard is on their way, aren’t they? And they’re going to… pry this thing open with force, if they have to?”

Something about the way he was asking: Bluebird felt he couldn’t dodge this question even if he wanted to.

“Yes, um, they’re on their way,” the cadet said. It was the truth, after all, and Bluebird had only forgotten rather than refused to say as much the first time Grid had asked. “So don’t worry! If me and Pesco drop the ball, they’ll grab it before it even hits the floor.”

“Figured.” Grid eyed the gym doors. “Well anyway, thanks for the chat, dude. I really needed it. Now let’s both get some shut-eye, hey?”






Every day, week after week, “Windshear” made the same request with different words. She phrased them in alternation as either orders or questions:


“Let me leave.”ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“When can I see my family again?”

“You need to help me escape.”ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Why can’t you free me like the others?”

“Kill me, I’d rather be dead…”ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Her demands became stronger, one after another, while his denials became weaker. Eventually he lost the will to lie to her that this was impossible, and it was all he could muster simply not to respond.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Scolus thought. He was used to comforting his assignments through worse bouts of terror, depression, homesickness, and more, especially during their first few nights. But he had always been able to make some progress, provide some amount of comfort, leverage some amount of hard-earned trust over time.

With Windshear, it would’ve been optimistic to say he was getting nowhere.

In particular, he was incapable of farming even the smallest strand of love from her. He couldn’t nourish himself, let alone set any aside for the Hive; in fact, so intense was his love malaise after each session with her that he had to indulge in selfish (and dangerous, should anybug report him) pick-me-ups off the clock with his more productive assignments—and even then, the hunger remained.

In his position, any other changeling would have given up the assignment, handed her off to somebug else. Knowing his colleagues, Scolus did not consider this an option he could pursue in good conscience.

Three weeks and two days after first meeting her, he finally gave in. He brought Windshear to a specific, defunct tunnel at the outskirts of the Hive’s underground transport network. At this hour, they were perfectly alone.

“I’m really glad you came around to helping me.” Windshear's smile was a bridge hanging between two rosy cheeks. “I knew you were a good bug, deep down inside. I was right to trust you.”

Her positivity and hope should’ve nourished Scolus, but he felt nothing. If he had been in the mood to feed, the cold cave wall might have given him more love. Scolus wasn’t sure what was the cause, but he wanted to blame himself for it.

“But, I’m still really scared, Scolus… Are you sure you can’t come with me?” she begged, eying the dark and cramped tunnel entrance beside her. “Is this, um, the way you’ve helped everypony else escape?”

“I’m sorry, I know this will be hard for you, but I can’t accompany you. It would be too long an absence on my part, if I came along. You have the map I gave you, right?” She nodded. “And here, if ever you start to feel lonely or scared, just turn this on with your magic for a few seconds, and breathe.”

Scolus took out from his bag the enchanted citrine, currently inert. To demonstrate as well as to comfort, Scolus lit the gem up with a spark from his horn, illuminating their immediate surroundings in a facsimile of sunlight.

Windshear winced at the bright glow as she re-extinguished the gem and levitated it into a small rucksack Scolus had given her. Rubbing her eyes vigorously, she said, “Thanks, but… you didn’t answer my question.”

Scolus had to think back a little. “Oh, how I helped everypony else? Um, it’s kind of a custom escape plan, each and every time. I have to be really careful about this, for your and my sake both.”

Windshear chewed her cheek as her only response. Scolus could only figure his answer hadn’t been terribly reassuring.

“But don’t worry!” he continued. “Everypony I’ve helped to escape, has escaped. Well, just to be honest, all but one. But even in his case, the worst that happened was that he was reassigned. He’s doing fine these days. After all, you can believe me when I say that we… we really just want you to be happy down here. We only abduct ponies in the first place because, well, for us, it’s…”

“… it’s how you survive,” she completed. “I understand. It’s only the natural order of things. Isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I do hope things can change a little, one day.”

Scolus thought back to that one escapee, the one who had been recaptured. It was true that he had, to Scolus’s knowledge, received no punishment other than being reassigned from Scolus as a precaution. Indeed, Scolus still saw him from time to time, mingling with the other prisoners.

A thought struck Scolus. “Hey, Windshear: Does the name Sidereal mean anything to you?”

That was his name, that of the unsuccessful escapee. Windshear’s eyes widened in response.

“He’s the one who told you about me, isn’t he? That every once in a while, I’m willing to… do this sort of thing, for those who can’t get comfortable down here?” Scolus suddenly felt more self-conscious with his words—he only hoped Sidereal was being discreet about who he told these things to.

Windshear giggled. “I guess you could say that. Nothing gets past changelings, huh?” She recomposed herself, and picked back up with a more serious tone: “But I really do wish this didn’t have to be goodbye. That I could properly express my gratitude for the risk you’re taking, betraying your own queen like this. But, I have family in Cloudsdale. They’re, um, they’re very important to me.”

“No thanks needed!”

Scolus floated his wings, attempting to soak in the unicorn’s loving words. Still, he came up dry.

Since his hatching, Scolus was prone to fits of random terror. For no particular reason, he felt one coming on. It wasn’t the time—this one, like all the rest, he pushed deep down inside himself.

There was no particular reason, he repeated to himself.

“Say, maybe there is something,” Scolus said. “Some teeny tiny way to pay me back, to make this a sweeter goodbye?”

“Hm?”

“Well, Windshear… That’s not your real name, is it?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

The fit had to be indulged just a little. “And, and you’re not really from Cloudsdale. I might not know as much about surface societies as I would like, but I know a unicorn living in the clouds is just silly!”

Windshear looked at her own wingless sides a bit ashamedly. “I guess it is, isn’t it?”

“But it’s all right! I understand why you might have been suspicious of me, but after all this, I just think… You said you trusted me, didn’t you?”

“You’re right. I did say that!” She giggled again, and then took a strangely long time looking around the cavern before responding. “All right, ahhh, my name is Tumbleweed. And I’m from Dodge Juncture.”

Another lie, Scolus recognized. But this one was different—this one was concerning. “You mean… Dodge Junction, right?”

“Oh. Yeah!”

Anxiety climbed Scolus’s chest. “Appleloosa. You know Appleloosa, right? It’s the original settlement, Dodge Junction is just a nearby outpost. Tell me, is Appleloosa to the north or the south of Dodge Junction? It’s a weird question but please, I need an answer.”

“Umm… the north. Definitely.”

It was west. Anxiety died; panic exploded. “Okay, Tumbleweed, Windshear, whoever, I don’t need to know your name! But p-please, tell me about a place you know well! It doesn’t have to be one you or your family come from, just anywhere! Just to convince me you’re really… !”

“Ahhh…” She was having a hard time keeping a semblance of a straight face.

“T-this creature, all right? What creature am I right now?” In a flash of green light, Scolus transformed himself into a cute, clawed little creature. He meowed repeatedly at the one now calling herself Tumbleweed, begging her to answer. The simplest three-letter word, surely known to anypony in Equestria, right now was more urgent to Scolus than air to breathe.

Instead of any response or even a guess, “Tumbleweed” only giggled once more. This time, she didn’t stop herself, and her giggling gradually morphed into rollicking laughter. She continued to laugh, all the way until and after the point Scolus was forced out of his transformation by his biological limits.

“Well!?” he demanded.

Finally, her laughing fit subsided. “It’s not fair that you get to ask all the questions, Scole,” she growled, in an altogether foreign voice. “Why don’t you tell me: What creature am I?”

Scolus felt his stomach sink as green sparks flew off the body of the pony in front of him, slowly revealing the impostor underneath: It was none other than Clypeus, smiling something sadistic.

“You’re such an idiot, Scole. You know that, right? Just a real waste of potential. Why’s it the talented ones gotta be so disloyal?”

Clypeus looked at Scolus as if expecting some sort of explanation. Scolus was out of breath and out of his mind, in no state to offer a defense. He felt his hooves begin to backpedal on their own, only to clumsily trip over the uneven surface of the cave floor. He landed on his flank, and could only gape dumbly up at his accuser.

Clypeus turned toward the cave entrance and yelled, “He didn’t spill how he got the others out, but I think we’ve heard enough, haven’t we?”

“More than enough,” a deep voice called out from inside. A squadron of changeling soldiers poured out from the mouth of the cave, wings buzzing. Four of them landed to surround Scolus, and just as many spears soon surrounded his throat.

“C-Clypeus, has this all been a setup?” Scolus finally stammered. “A sting oper-operation, on the queen’s orders?”

“… Duh, Scole. Honestly, things in your brain just don’t add up right away, do they?” Clypeus rolled her eyes. “But you were right, you know. About Sidereal. He—”

“What did you do to him?” Scolus asked. “Did you t-torture him to make him talk?” The thought made Scolus nauseous.

“Torture him? Nah, you know how torture affects the lovestock. ‘Course, we were willing to go that far if we had to, but wouldn’cha know, he sold you out before we could even think up a good bribe!”

Raucous laughter erupted among the squadron. The metal spear tips jiggled uncomfortably against Scolus’s larynx.

“Anyway, Scole, here’s the upshot: Ponies aren’t your friends. And now, neither are changelings. Queen Chrysalis will have the final word on what we do with you, and I won’t speak on her highness’s behalf, but to put it lightly: I think you’ve had your last taste of royal jelly!”
> 11. Teamwork
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

My partner was slow to rouse the following morning. It took several nudges to the barrel to get him upright—some quite forceful—and he now took his sweet time rubbing his eyes and yawning. I could only imagine he was halfway to retinal damage, by this point.

“You said you wanted to interview Girard first thing in the morning, yes?” I said, tapping my forehoof on the divan. “Let’s not make liars of ourselves.”

“A bright and cheery morning to you too, Detective!” he said. “I’ve heard of sleeping on the job, but waking up on it? That’s just brutal.” He gave one final yawn and fluttered his eyelids. “Sorry, though, I didn’t have quite a full night’s sleep, and—woah.”

He was looking into my own eyes, now.

“You not sleep well, either?” he asked.

I blinked. There was a burning warmth under my eyelids. Judging by my partner’s reaction, I could safely assume my eyes were bloodshot. “I spent a few hours this morning searching for the book, while you were still asleep. Suffice to say…”

I didn’t find it.

“A few hours?” My partner looked at a nearby grandfather clock. “It’s eight o’clock!”

“Yes. Now are we going?”

My partner shrugged, hopped off the divan and bounced to his hooves. “Yessiree!”

As we walked over to the spiral staircase which would lead to the griffons’ bedroom, my stomach let out a growl. I was content to ignore it; my partner, not so much.

“Heh, what do you think’s the chance we could compliment our way to a complimentary breakfast, courtesy of our gracious host?” he asked.

“Despite his ego: Not very likely, at present. Bon’s not awake yet, and his room stank of alcohol when I passed by.” I had taken the liberty of discreetly checking up on everyone’s rooms in the early morning hours. “Only his sister seems to be up at this hour, attending to her writing.”

My mention of Bon’s condition seemed to have stirred something in Bluebird. “Oh. Say, Pesco, about my night’s sleep, I actually had a little chat with—”

“Hm, let me guess,” I preempted as we ascended the stairs.

Even most of the night that I had been on the couch, I had not been sleeping, but instead turning over the facts of the case in my head. At one point Grid snuck past us in the foyer (my guess was the kitchen or the gym), and didn’t come back for an hour. In the meantime, my partner had woken up and departed in the same direction for an unusually long bathroom break.

I hypothesized, “Bon made an unsuccessful pass at Grid late last night, hence his third visit to the wine cellar immediately thereafter, resulting in his current hangover. Grid is still oblivious to Bon’s affection, and emotionally compromised by the changeling situation, and so is mixing the two stressors together in his head. I imagine you spent the lion’s share of your time simply calming him down.” I turned to my partner as we summited the staircase. “That about right?”

He gave a whistle of applause. “Shoot, you’re right on the money! Ahah, I can only imagine your brain on a full eight hours of sleep.”

“Imagine it on more than three.” Truth be told, I operated at my peak in such conditions, and my partner knew this well.

“Well, while you’re on a roll, Pesco, there’s a couple things I want to run by you. A couple things that came up when I was chatting with Grid.” Bluebird paused for a moment, perhaps expecting me to read his mind again. Alas, my deductions had their limits. “So the first thing is… Why do you think the changeling hasn’t jumped ship yet? He doesn’t honestly expect to escape the Royal Guard, does he? … Or she?”

I had respect for my colleague’s question. It was a puzzle which my idle mind had toyed with since the beginning of the case, and whose solution still eluded me. “Escape” and “unfinished business” were the only two viable options I saw. Indeed, one reason I had insisted on sleeping in the foyer was to catch a changeling who would try to run off or accomplish some mission in the night.

After much deliberation during my insomnia, I had settled on my preferred explanation. “The changeling wants to flee, but cannot—it needs time to prepare. Leaving the Crystal Mountains by the common roads would require passing through a series of checkpoints, and the changeling has to assume these checkpoints are on high alert for suspicious travelers. That only leaves the ‘uncommon’ roads, where there are roads or trails at all—and an underprepared fugitive hiking randomly through the Crystal Mountains is not long for this world.”

Bluebird considered my words, weighing their plausibility. Despite my own confidence in the reasoning, I still highly valued my partner’s take on the matter.

“Hm, yeah, I think that tracks,” he agreed. “Suppose we should be on the lookout for the next few days for anybody trying to hoard supplies or consult maps?”

“Precisely.”

“Anyway, my second question—or maybe, ahah, it’s not so much a question as a pet theory I just wanted to run by you—what if the changeling hasn’t replaced anyone? That is, one of these six friends has been a changeling all along and everyone else just… never knew? Ahah.” Bluebird cleared his throat. “Do you think that’s a possibility?”

As his long-time mentor, I felt I knew where my partner’s “pet theory” was coming from. It was his enduring belief in the good of ponykind, and even bugkind. His hope that not everything was as dire as could be feared, even when all the writing on the wall contradicted him.

In this case, however, I actually agreed with him. “Yes, I consider that the premier possibility.”

My partner’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Indeed. The lack of memory and personality discrepancies strongly suggests as much,” I explained. “Now, let me run my own pet theory past you…”

I had my partner’s undivided attention.

“Fancy this: We’re dealing with a disgraced changeling exile.”

I gave him a moment to chew on the idea for himself. It seemed to strike him as something novel, something acceptable. “That could explain some things, yeah!”

“Such as, its potential long-term presence among the group. Blanche said that Chrysalis doesn’t deploy her spies as sleeper agents—but an exile, of course, is bound by no such orders.”

“Right! This changeling, he’s not here to hurt anybody or steal anything!” Bluebird exclaimed. At this point, he was taking my theory into his own hooves. “He just fell out of the queen’s good graces. Ahah, maybe he wasn’t evil enough? And ever since then, he’s only been trying to carve out a quiet life for himself among ponies… I mean, hypothetically. Could that be it?”

A hasty profiling of the perp, I had to think. It was a fanciful, if intuitive continuation of my theory, but one that left several uncomfortable questions without an answer:

Why would it out itself now with the wing fragment?

With its choice of long-term role to assume, why would it choose that of an adolescent?

Why would Zorn give me a weapon against it, if he could believe in peaceful intent?

If I’d wanted to burst Bluebird’s bubble, I might have voiced my own subtheory: The changeling wanted nothing more than to return to its previous life—no matter the means. We knew it held high status at one point because of the royal jelly, and chances were it was still loyal to Chrysalis. It had been biding its time for years among the young Canterlot elite for an opportunity to win back the queen’s favor, and now, somehow, it had contrived a plan to do so via Blanche’s book… Maybe its plan was still in progress, or maybe it had already failed. Regardless, Zorn (if he wasn’t the changeling himself; he and Grid made good candidates) was aware of but would tolerate the creature’s selfish plan for so long as nobody got hurt.

But my narrative had its own problems, and by now the griffons’ bedroom was only steps away. So instead, I abstained from judgment: “Hypothetically, it could go either way.”

I approached the door and lifted my hoof. My partner put his own over mine before I could knock. “Wait, Pesco, what’s our game plan with Girard, exactly?”

“He’s fragile. We should be able to draw anything we want out of him, as long as he doesn’t lock up.” I suggested, “How about some good cop, bad cop?”

That is, my partner would get a friendly hoof in the door, and then I would step in. The tactic suited us, and almost always yielded results. And yet: “Hm, that one is a classic, but… maybe we could try it this time without the bad cop?”

“If you wanted to interview him alone, you could’ve told me earlier.”

“That’s not what I meant, just… ah, fine. Let’s just be gentle with things, all right?”

Bluebird removed his hoof from mine. I gave the door a stern three raps, and we waited patiently for one of the two griffons to greet us.

The door opened, and I was a little bit surprised to see Girard standing on the other side. Perhaps I had expected his “keeper” to answer on his behalf. I wasn’t complaining.

“Oh, h-h-”—the griffon choked on his own saliva, and paused to swallow—“Um, hello. Bluebird. Pesco.” He bowed politely to each of us.

“Heya Girard!” my partner began. “Sorry we’re a bit late. In fact, you’re kinda the last person we’ve gotten around to speaking with privately. But hey, here we are!”

“The very last one?” he echoed. “Heh, that never bodes well, does it…?”

I understood it as an attempt at dark humor, and so did my partner: “Hogwash! This visit is basically a formality!”

“Right, right…” I could make out the hint of a smile in the corner of his beak.

I peered past Girard and into the room. A double bedroom as expected, split into three chambers by doorless dividers; the center chamber where Girard now stood to greet us acted as a small lounge, and to the left and the right were the griffons’ respective sleeping quarters.

Not a whole lot of privacy. “We should relocate,” I suggested. “We wouldn’t want to disturb your cousin if she’s still sleeping.”

The smile perished. “Oh, she’s not.” His eyes wandered to the bedroom on the right. “I’m alone.”

“Alone?” I repeated.

“Y-yes. I guess she’s already, already up and about. Just my guess, but, I don’t really know. I don’t want to say anything that’s not strictly true but I just got up and she’s not here so… so that’s just what I think.” The griffon lifted a claw to cover part of his face as he turned to leave. He headed toward the bedroom on the left.

“So… you’re good with us coming in?” my partner double-checked. “We’ll conduct the interview in your room?”

“Oh, yes,” Girard whispered back. “If that’s all right. With you.”

My partner gave a shrug and moseyed into Girard’s bedroom.

Myself, I took a quick detour and peeked into Gloria’s bedroom. As her cousin had indicated, she was nowhere to be found. Her room was nondescript, but pristine; her bed covers were folded perfectly, and only a handful of personal effects lay about. It doesn’t even look like anyone slept here. I could’ve been convinced I was standing in a freshly serviced hotel room.

But I didn’t dawdle. I returned to Bluebird and Girard in the opposite bedroom, and took a seat in an empty desk chair. Girard was stifling a hacking cough as I entered, while Bluebird—who sat next to Girard on his bed—appeared to still be soaking in the contents of the bird’s living quarters.

And there was certainly a lot more to soak in, as compared to his cousin’s bedroom; Girard’s was a scene of squalor and neglect. Dirty clothes tumbled out of the closet, and half of his bed covers draped down onto the floor. Two out of three lightbulbs in the ceiling fixture were missing, and melted candle wax accumulated on his nightstand.

Gloria preens you in public, but is content to let you live in your own filth in private?

The only possessions of his that were in any semblance of order were the dozen or so books in the headboard of his bed, arranged snugly and in alphabetical order. Gloria's book was not among them, by what I recognized of its color and approximate size. All the books on Girard’s shelf appeared to be creative fiction, anyway.

“All righty then, just some basic questions to start.” My partner pulled out his security blanket of a notepad. “Now Girard, do you remember what you might have been doing yesterday morning? Anything at all?” My partner and I, of course, already knew what his answer needed to be.

“…”

“Girard?”

“Oh?”

“I asked, do you remember where you were yesterday morning?”

“Oh.” He shook his head, and took a deep breath. “I-I was with Gloria. I think. We were playing Griffonstone draughts, I remember.”

“How many games of draughts, would you say?” I interjected. It wasn’t time for Bad Cop to act, but the opportunity coaxed me.

“…”

“Girard.”

The griffon flinched at my tone, and embraced himself in a hug to rub his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m paying attention, I just, just… I h-have to say the right thing, don't I? And it’s, it’s like, if I misremember, I’ll have s-screwed it all up, won’t I? … I’ve screwed it all up, haven’t I…”

Girard took a deep breath, and lowered his claws back to his sides.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” he brooded.

I frowned. “I suppose you’ll want us to come back later, then?”

“No, no, I know this needs to happen. Seize the day, Gloria tells me. I can get through it, it’s just, I’m not usually up this early, I have a morning routine with my t-tea, and…” He trailed off, then coughed. “I’m sorry. I can continue if you can.”

“Nonsense!” my partner exclaimed. “If it’s tea you want, it’s tea you’ll get. One of us can fetch it for you.”

“You’d be so kind?” Girard asked.

I looked down and grinned, impressed with my partner's maneuvering. It was obvious that he pursued this offer in pursuit of fulfilling the good cop role—if I left to get the tea, he could still take credit for the friendly gesture while also securing some valuable alone time with the bird. By the time I returned, he would be all served up and ready for me to spike.

I began to stand up, and was just opening my mouth to volunteer myself when Bluebird interrupted me:

“Yep, I’ll go and get it! In the kitchen, right? Up to you in the meantime, Pesco!” He all but galloped out of the room, but not before a wink and a whisper: “ … Up to you, good cop.”

With that, he was gone. I glanced at Girard, who had returned to his self-soothing body language, and currently fixated on his hind paws hanging off the bed. I understood that my partner had played me; I was all but forced to play the good cop, now. To play the bad cop would result in the bird’s surefire lockup.

I sighed internally, but got to work going through the motions:

I picked myself up out of my chair. Stretched, feigning satisfaction. Tenderly returned the chair to where I’d found it. Found eye contact with the bird, nodded; dropped eye contact, strolled over to him. Finally, I assumed Bluebird’s former position on the bed. At a respectful, but intimate, distance. With a respectful, but intimate, posture.

All the motions were complete.

I…

I soon realized I was missing the words. I soon realized I could not come up with the words. And the words were the most important part. In this mood, with this warmth under my eyelids, the only words known to me were far too harsh, slashing, incisive, decisive. Words for criminal kingpins, not sensitive schoolbirds.

Girard looked at me uneasily. It was a testament to my floundering that the timid griffon beat me to the first sentence: “Pesco, um, I remember… it was only the one.”

“Huh?”

“You asked about the draughts, with Gloria, how many games I played with her. I r-remember, it was only the one.”

“Oh… Hm… Appreciate it.” I was counting down the seconds until Bluebird returned.

Girard wrenched his head away from me, sparing me from a violent sneeze. He apologized and reached for a nearby tissue box, and sniffled while cleaning his beak.

“Feeling a bit under the weather, huh?”

I had said it with the desire to be empathetic, but I realized I may have had ulterior motives.

“I… I know how bad it looks,” he said.

Did he really pick up on it? “How bad what looks?”

“Me, coming down with a c-cold at a time like this. I know you must think I come across as a basketcase, because I sort of am, but, I c-can read social cues, I’ve realized. I’m just garbage at responding to them,” he confessed. “You think I’m suffering from love malaise.”

“Love what?”

“Um, it’s the term for a changeling in withdrawal,” he explained. “You must be thinking, there’s not a lot of love around here recently, a changeling must be starving, and oh look, the quiet one has fallen ill… And, um, I just don’t know what to say to that. Nothing I can think to say sounds good.”

I crossed my legs. “You could just say you caught whatever Zorn has. That’s all I figured it was,” I lied.

Girard smiled darkly to himself. “Two officers enter, one leaves. C’mon, Pesco, I’ve read enough detective stories to know the, k-know the maneuver… The suspect is sick, he’s shaking like a leaf, he can’t answer questions in a timely manner… Heck, even I would arrest me!”

He forced a chuckle, which triggered a coughing fit.

“Like my partner said, this is just a formality,” I assured, after waiting for him to recover. “You already have an airtight alibi, after all.”

“You mean, about the draughts?”

“Yes, Gloria gave her account. She said you two were—”

“But you don’t trust Gloria.”

He uttered this accusation readily, but without a trace of ire. I could only imagine he must have noticed my briefest of stops in her bedroom before I came to his, or else he had observed something about my verbal or nonverbal cues that even I was unaware of.

It was uncanny, these bold and skillful observations coming from a creature of such meager self-confidence. In a way, he almost reminded me of… No, it was no time to reminisce.

He looked at me, awaiting my response. With his eyes, he seemed to plead that I simply be honest with him.

I could do honest. “No, I don’t.”

Girard frowned, but his shoulders visibly relaxed.

“In fact,” I continued, “I would go so far as to say the changeling’s not the only monster hiding in plain sight around here.”

Too far, I realized too late.

His shoulders tensed back up. A full-blown grimace from the griffon as he ground his teeth together. “Please, I… I know what you might think of her. That she has a, a certain charming side, the side that she shows to everyone else. And on the other side, it’s…” He buried his head in his claws. “It’s all my fault…”

“Gloria’s bad side is your fault?” I repeated, duly incredulous.

“Yes.” He took a long pause to steady his breathing. He gave a few sniffles, his emotions exacerbating the symptoms of his illness. “She d-didn’t always used to be like this. It used to be, used to be just the one side… You don’t know how much she’s done for me, still does for me. You don’t know how much help I need. You don’t know how much I s-s-screw it all up anyway…”

“What do you think you’ve screwed up?” I said, a little robotically. It was all I could do to attenuate the skepticism in my tone.

Girard ignored my question. Under his breath, he muttered various self-deprecations and apologies, only growing quieter and more disjointed over time.

This wasn’t good: I recognized these as the signs of a lockup.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken of Gloria like that. It was ignorant of me,” I said. “It’s clear that she goes through a lot for you, and I don’t know the half of it.”

“I don’t know how to get by in, in this whole world, really… When it comes to academics, it’s only a miracle I haven’t dropped out; Gloria all but does my coursework for me. When it comes to a social life, I have no friends of my own; I’m just Gloria’s plus-one.” He sighed. “What little I have, I owe to her. So if you’re going to blame her for anything… please, it’ll hurt less if you just blame me instead.”

A certain comparison struck me for the second time, now.

“W-why are you smiling?” he asked. If I was smiling, it was something close to imperceptible.

“I just find it funny, is all. You remind me of someone.”

A sickly chuckle. “A real loser, they must be.”

“You could say that: You remind me of myself, when I was your age,” I said. “Only, I didn’t drop out from high school—I called it quits before I finished middle school. And I didn’t have any friends, as a plus-one or otherwise—the ponies I hung out with, we were what was known as ‘a crowd.’ And let's just say, I eventually recognized my true calling, but only thanks to how often I happened to interact with the ponies in blue.”

“So, you were an underachiever, too, you mean? But, the cooler kind, sounds like…”

“Cooler kind? Hardly. It was an issue of self-worth for each and every one of us.” I gestured to the empty air above my withers and grinned. “You see this chip on my shoulder? If you think it’s big now, you should’ve seen it back then.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Girard laughed with levity. “I don’t see anything at all, Pesco!”

“Maybe I finally got rid of it, somewhere along the way. But I’m sure you’ll agree, the bitterness has stuck with me,” I said. “Girard, this may come across as unrelated to the current conversation, but I have a couple questions for you about this case. None of them involve you; I just want to broach your thoughts on them.”

He looked confused, and no small part of his anxiety seemed to resurface, but he nodded his consent.

“First question: Why do you think the changeling is still among us?” I asked. “Why don’t they run while they still has time? Do they expect to survive long once the Royal Guard gets here?”

“Oh, no, of course not. At least, I wouldn’t expect he does,” Girard responded without missing a beat. “Because, well, how could he have left already? We’re surrounded by some f-fifteen miles of mountains in every, every direction! And where’s he going to go afterward? It would be a d-death sentence without some time to prepare! It’d be a long and hard march by hoof, since wings in flight will quickly f-freeze, buffeted by these harsh winds… And all the more since changelings are an insectoid species… because, you should know, they don’t withstand the cold nearly as well as you mammals…”

Impressive. I didn’t even factor in that last bit.

Wait…

“‘You mammals’?” I repeated.

“… Are griffons mammals?”

An awkward silence soon made it abundantly clear that both of us could have used some more schooling.

“Never mind,” I said. “Second, and last, question: What is the changeling doing here in the first place?”

This time, Girard took a moment to process the question. “Um… Guess I don’t have as g-good of a guess, about that one. I guess.”

“Just say what comes to mind. No right or wrong answers.”

“Well… You would think, you would think he’s here on Chrysalis’s orders, right? But that doesn’t make a lot of sense, since changelings, um, every changeling case I’ve h-heard of, it was someone they took recently, like a few days at most, and we’ve been at the villa for weeks now… They don’t stick around for long, they want to minimize their chance of capture… So, so they also tend to target loners, people that other people don’t care about, I guess like me, haha… But they also target valuable people, um, quite unlike me…” His voice gave out. He tenderly massaged his lymph nodes.

“Girard, I don’t think you give yourself nearly enough credit.” I looked the griffon straight in the eyes. If he was truly so capable of telling what I thought, he would know that I was being completely earnest. “You have the mind of a detective.”

Girard’s cheeks reddened. “Oh please, I t-told you, I just read a lot of mystery novels…”

“Heck, so did I! Back in the day, they were literally the only books I read,” I said. “Trust me, yours is a talent that would make most of my colleagues blush.”

This one simple compliment did him in. Girard’s gaze left mine, and he looked every which way about the room with the stupidest grin imaginable.

Once more, he began to sniffle; and then, he began to cry.
> 12. Sink Ships
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bluebird figured he had some time to kill—he was in no rush to get Girard his tea. He had instead ambled aimlessly around the surrounding corridors for the past few minutes. Not out of lack of sympathy for the griffon, of course, or out of frustration with his mentor, but instead for what Bluebird saw as the benefit of them both: Pesco could take the opportunity to learn some sensitivity, and Girard in turn could commiserate with someone of a similar caliber of social ineptitude. Truly a win-win.

Then again, Bluebird thought, perhaps he just enjoyed foiling his mentor’s deadly serious agenda every once in a while. Given how rarely his mentor ever reprimanded him for his hijinks, Bluebird wondered if Pesco himself didn’t relish the adversity.

“Good morning Grid!” a sweet-sounding griffon called out from around the corner.

Bluebird stopped. He swore he wasn’t doing it on purpose, dropping in on so many of these kids' private conversations. Alas, something about gifts and ponies’ mouths… and after all, he had time to kill! He simply took one step forward, and craned his neck around the corner to see what all he might’ve walked in on.

As expected, it was none other than Gloria standing in front of Grid’s open bedroom door. Her face was as cheery as his was simply sleepy.

“Heya Glory,” Grid said drowsily. “Hm, whatsup?”

“Nothing much,” she responded. She caught herself: “Oh, sorry, that’s a lie. Truly, I wouldn’t have woken you if I didn’t have a good reason. So… will you hear me out, Grid?”

Grid lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah? ‘Course I would!”

“Right. I knew you would. You’re very understanding, after all. Willing to forgive. You would make a great diplomat, I feel.”

Grid was a great guy, Bluebird thought, but that was not the career for him.

“Uh-huh, uh, thanks,” Grid said. “So what am I forgiving here, exactly?”

“You needn’t be so gracious, Grid—forgive, but don’t forget, after all.”

Gloria’s choice of words further confused the stallion. And the cadet, for that matter.

She rested a claw in her pocket as she explained, “I would like to apologize for last night, for having so insensitively called you out about your business in the kitchen.”

She drooped into a thoroughly submissive posture, leaning her full weight against the doorframe.

“I should’ve listened to my conscience, and not my paranoia. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for! You’re good!” Grid reassured. “‘Sides, Big Guns was the one who put you on blast. You were just telling everyone what you saw! Not that I blame him for it, either, FYI.”

She took the one claw out of her pocket, and framed her chin inquisitively with the other. “‘Big Guns’?”

“Eh, the detective.”

“I see.” Gloria righted herself. “Anywho, glum apologies aside, I’ve a more lighthearted matter to bring up. An invitation, of sorts. I assume we’re all on edge and in need of an entertaining distraction, these past twenty-four hours.”

“I’d say so, yeah. What do you have in mind?”

“Griffonstone draughts. … Oh no, don’t worry, I didn’t mean with you! I know you’re somepony who can appreciate the game from afar, even if it’s not quite your cup of tea to play. No, I was just going to ask Bon to a game in the foyer—I supposed you might like to watch?”

“Bon, huh… Oh, I mean, yeah, sure! I’m sure he won’t be—I mean, yeah, he should be fine with it. I’m fine with it.” Grid twitched his tail to and fro in the ensuing pause. “Anyway! I thought you usually gamed with Zorn?”

Gloria shook her head. “Mhm, no, I already asked him, but it’s like I told you: He just lost all interest in playing with me.” She shrugged.

“Oh right, you two have had some sort of… friction, huh?” Grid said. “I guess we all have our misunderstandings about each other, yeah? And smart as he is, Zorn’s no exception. I’ll put in a good word for you, if I get the chance to chat with him.”

“Thank you,” she said. “So, you’re coming, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Gimme a minute to clean up and I’ll catch up with you.”

“Very well. Bon’s a tough opponent, and you won’t want to miss the opening moves I’ve prepared—”

Gloria turned around right as Bluebird’s attention was distracted by his own yawn. Her body froze, and her eyes narrowed in alert as she stared right at the ostensible (well, more than ostensible) spy of a pegasus.

Her posture loosened back up as she greeted him. “Oh, Cadet. Good morning!”

Bluebird stepped out from behind the corner to reveal the rest of his body. He blinked twice and flashed a smile before returning the greeting: “Ahah, hey there, Gloria, Grid. We’re all up bright and early, eh?”

“Yeah, what has you up so early, Little Guns?” Grid asked. “Nothing about the changeling, I hope?”

“Nah, I was just—”

“You hope they haven’t figured anything out about the changeling, Grid?”

“Oh. That’s pretty stupid of me to say, huh?” He laughed while rubbing a bleary eye with a hoof. “I just meant the stress of it all, like I hope there’s not been another attack!”

“You’re fine, Grid, I get it!” Bluebird reassured. “But no, there’s nothing particular that brings me around.” Bluebird thought back to how he’d just been caught snooping, and quickly added, “Well actually, one thing: Uh, where in the kitchen do you guys keep your tea? And, any idea which kind Girard likes? Pesco is interviewing him right now.”

“Why, white tea is my cousin’s favorite! How considerate of you to brew him some. You can find a box of it in the pantry above the sink.”

“Huh,” Grid grunted. “You sure?”

“Yes?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

“White’s his favorite overall, yeah,” Grid said, “but doesn’t he prefer black in the morning? Y’know, for the caffeine?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Gloria conceded. “Same deal. Pantry above the sink.”

The cadet thanked the pair for their time, and began in the direction of the kitchen. With a see-you-soon, Gloria herself turned to leave in the direction of the foyer. Grid closed the door to return to his room to get cleaned up before the game.

Bluebird whistled as he trotted to the kitchen, trying to remember the last time he’d brewed a cup of tea. He’d never heard of white-colored tea before, but it sounded appetizing. Or was it black he was fetching? To tell the truth, all tea just looked brown to him. In any case, he could only hope the box came with instructions.

He soon arrived in the kitchen, and glided over to the sink. A pantry above the sink, as promised. Bluebird opened it, and behind some cans of protein powder discovered a cache of tea packets in assorted flavors. Just to be sure, Bluebird went ahead and followed the instructions to brew two cups, one black and one white.

He returned to his whistling to idle the time away as the leaves steeped in the boiling water…

…

If he mixed the two teas, he wondered, would he get Earl Grey?

…

Ahah, just kidding…

…

He did have to wonder why so many were named like that, though…

…

Green tea, brown tea, yellow tea…

…

Protein powder?!

The cadet raced back to the pantry to check—no, he had not hallucinated them.

“I like to get my protein from natural sources and all, but I definitely fixed one up!”

Feeling off-kilter, Bluebird went to check the cabinets under the counter, and then every other nook and cranny in the kitchen.

“And dude, wouldn’t you know it: We keep the protein powder in the cabinets under the counter!”

Grid’s words echoed in Bluebird’s head. Mistaken words—nowhere else but in the pantry above the sink could the cadet find protein powder. With this mistake (was it simply…?), the young athlete’s reason for ducking behind the counter had evaporated—and along with it, the only plausible excuse for why he wasn’t seen in the kitchen after the ambush when he was allegedly busy cooking.

Bluebird remembered the tea leaves. They were terribly oversteeped by this point. This was the least of his worries on his mind as he cleaned up the kitchen and transported the two saucers of tea up to Girard’s room.

He really hadn’t thought it was Grid. Or maybe, he just hadn’t wanted to?

Grid had probably just misremembered.

In any other context, after all, that would have been perfectly believable.

…

Bluebird strove to put on a happy face as he re-entered the griffon’s bedroom.

“Hey, I, uh… I gotcha your tea, Girard!” he declared as he rounded the doorless divider. “There were some conflicting opinions about which flavor you like, so I—”

The griffon was in tears. Come on, Pesco…

“Thank you, Bluebird,” Girard said, unexpectedly tranquil. Pesco currently sat next to Girard on the bed, looking a bit embarrassed. “I’ll drink whichever flavor, but does one of those happen to be black?”

Bluebird soon realized these were tears of joy the griffon was wiping from his eyes. His mentor had a heart after all!

“Ah, yes indeedy!” Bluebird said. “I’ll have myself the white, then. I may have brewed it wrong, anyway, ‘cause it still just looks brown to me.”

Girard chuckled, and sipped from the cup on the saucer Bluebird handed over to him. “Oh, it’s quite strong… but that’s fine. I quite appreciate it, Bluebird.” Girard looked up at the ceiling with a healthy glow about him. “I’m feeling much better now.”

Bluebird lifted his own saucer with a hoof, and delicately threaded the primaries of his right wing through the handle of the teacup to lift it and take a sip. He had only taken a taste as a polite gesture to mirror the griffon, but the cadet had to admit, the tea’s sweet, herbal flavor was worth going back for.

“Oh my, Bluebird, your wing!” Girard cried. “The changeling, he… sure bit you something terrible, didn’t he?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Bluebird set the tea down and reversed his wing to inspect the damage. There had been no pain since last night, and nothing was left of the injury but an unsightly scab and a mishandled tuft of secondary feathers. “Ahah, I’ve been treated worse by perps in the past. I’d even say this one was downright gentle by comparison, eh Pesco?”

His mentor turned his head and mumbled something about minimum sentencing for this-or-that form of assault.

“And this has gotta be a first: The changeling even apologized before he did what he did!” the cadet continued. “What do you make of that?”

If either of them knew what to make of it, they chose not to say.

“I’m just glad it’s not as bad as it looks,” Girard said, rolling his shoulder in its socket. “Pesco’s right; there’s no excuse for violence.”

And then, apropos of nothing, Girard closed his eyes and began to lean toward the cadet.

Bluebird recoiled as the griffon nuzzled his face in the cadet’s wing, but relaxed once he understood the gesture—he felt a tender tugging on individual feathers as Girard took it upon himself to preen the cadet's ruffled secondaries. It was, to say the least, a very unexpected moment, but… not a completely disagreeable one. And in the end, he preferred not to sweat the awkward stuff, and just take kindness at face value.

Nonetheless, his mentor seemed to eye the bird with a certain amount of suspicion, up until the act had concluded.

“I’m sorry,” Girard said with a goofy smile. He picked his tea back up and took a sip. “We can continue with the interview, now.”

“I agree,” Pesco said. “Although, formality of an interview as this is, I’ve already exhausted all the questions I had in mind.”

“Oh? You mean, you think we’re done here?” Girard glowed as he took another sip. “Haha, Gloria was right as always—that wasn’t so bad!”

“I didn’t say we were done quite yet,” Pesco clarified. “Surely Bluebird has a few questions he’d like to ask.”

He did?

Girard set down his saucer and looked apprehensively at the cadet. Bluebird could only suppose this was his mentor’s idea of tit-for-tat.

“Uh, yeah, lemme just…” Bluebird flipped through his notepad, as much to recall as simply to buy time. “… Hm, what’s your take on Blanche?”

“Oh, Blanche? Because, because she’s the one who found the wing fragment?”

“Not really. I just know you’re a big fan of hers, yeah?”

Girard stole a glance at a bunch of books in the headboard of his bed. “How… how could you tell?”

“Ah, just a little thing I overheard about… mango gelato. Ahah.”

Girard arched an eyebrow. “I see. Um, yes, Blanche is nice. She’s good.”

He picked his saucer back up.

“…”

He stared into the tea.

“… She’s more than good, actually.”

Despite the pause, he clearly had more to say.

“She’s, she’s great, really.”

With an unsteady claw, he lifted the tea to his beak and sipped the rest of it dry.

“And well, to t-tell you the truth, she’s probably the single-greatest author I’ve ever had the honor to read, much less call a friend…! I mean, I know she probably just puts up with me like all the others do, but even that much, that’s enough for me, it fills me with—” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’ve said m-more than enough, haven’t I?”

“No need to apologize, Girard!” Bluebird assured. “Do go on. It sounds like you’re very knowledgeable about her work, if nothing else. It could help us to have a second opinion on it.”

Bluebird couldn’t speak for his mentor, but he himself felt no closer to understanding the role of Changeling Ringing in this mystery than since he’d first heard of its existence from Blanche.

“Well,” Girard resumed, staring longingly into his empty cup, “I know that when you first meet her, Blanche can come off as a little… guarded, I’d say? It’s like she walks around in a suit of armor. And even with close friends, she’s only comfortable lifting the visor.

“… Okay, maybe I shamelessly s-stole that line from Pastor Pastern in chapter two of Something Subliminal! I could never come up with something like that, but I think it describes her beautifully. It just goes to show you she’s self-aware of her plight.”

“What plight, exactly?” Bluebird asked.

“The plight of an artist in general, I suppose?” Girard said. “I’ll quote Blanche again, this time from Swords Crossed My Mind. Right before the antihero dies, he says it so clearly, get this: ‘Paint with your true colors, but speak in gunmetal gray.’”

A pause for emphasis.

“It’s just so true, isn’t it?” Girard said.

The griffon had spoken these words as if they were sacred gospel, but Bluebird needed it in plain Ponish. “I’m sorry, Girard, you gotta bear with me. I sorta flunked out of my poetry class in high school… and it was an elective!”

“I just mean to say, Blanche paints with her true colors in her art, in her writing. Any fan could tell you that. But in the real world, I can see she’s afraid to act her true self, she acts like a totally different c-creature, because, because…” Girard gripped one claw with another. “… Well, I guess I don’t know why. But I would go to the ends of Equus to figure that out, and into the depths of Tartarus to fix it.”

“Ha, nice. Which book is that line from?”

“Oh. I guess, I guess that one’s just me.” He blushed.

“Welp, I don’t have much more for you,” Bluebird said, “but there is one thing in particular, I think, that maybe you’d have a better idea about than us.”

“He does have some exceedingly keen ideas about this case,” Pesco remarked.

“It’s about this latest book of Blanche’s, right?” Bluebird resumed. “What do you make of it, having read everything else of hers? Do you think it’s just a coinc—”

Bluebird hit the emergency brake. His mentor’s look of surprise had reminded him: They had promised Blanche that the details of her book would exist on a strictly need-to-know basis. Besides, Blanche herself was very protective of her works in progress, and so Girard wouldn’t have had any way to know about—

“Changeling Ringing?” he prompted, ears perked eagerly. “Oh, it’s just delightful, isn’t it? I think it has the potential to be her greatest work yet! I can’t wait until she—”

All the color drained from the griffon’s face as he, too, hit the brakes.

“Girard,” Bluebird whispered, “could you please explain how you already know about—”

“I’m not s-supposed to know!” he cried, exiting his silence as suddenly as he had entered it. “I said the wrong thing, I’ve s-screwed it all up, at the very last moment I s-stopped thinking and just blathered…! I’m not supposed to know…”

The griffon trailed off. The seconds ticked by as the griffon refused to voice any explanation in his defense. The cadet wasn’t sure a knife would’ve been enough to cut through this tension in the air. Even his mentor sat speechless, and simply cracked his neck; for the duration, the uncomfortably deep pops of his vertebrae were the only sounds to be heard.

Was this how this case was ending?

A senseless, fatal slip-up, and now the confession?

“If you just tell us the truth, Girard,” Bluebird found himself saying, before he even realized, “we’ll listen.”

The griffon buried his face in steepled claws. He was thinking, clearly—about the truth or about lies, the cadet couldn't bear to guess.

“The truth is…” Tears welled up in his eyes again, but these were not so joyous.  “… I'm a b-beta reader. For Blanche.”

“Is that so? Like, you read her stories in advance to give her critique?” Bluebird asked. “Why, I don’t see the problem, then!”

“Would Blanche corroborate your statement, Girard?” Pesco pressed.

Girard turned to Pesco. “Y-yes, she would, should, but, but”—he turned to Bluebird—“the problem is… I’m still not s-supposed to know about… about Changeling Ringing…”

“And why do you?” Pesco continued.

“It was, it was a couple of weeks ag—no, no, a month! I just m-meant, a couple weeks before we came here, to the villa. I was, I mean, we were out for lunch at this café, because I had just finished beta reading Swords Crossed My Mind and she wanted to hear my f-f-f-feedback…”

“Girard, buddy,” Bluebird interrupted as Girard started hyperventilating, “take a deep breath for us. Okay?”

Girard nodded, and slowly inhaled through his nostrils before exhaling through his mouth.

He calmly opened his beak to continue. “Like I was saying, we were at this café—”

“Name of the café?” his mentor asked.

“Um… It was the Golden Pheasant.”

“Proceed.”

Girard looked sidelong at Bluebird, who simply shrugged. “Well, anyway, we were at the Golden Pheasant, and I was giving her my thoughts on Swords. But, for most of the lunch, she was occupied with writing the first few pages of this new novel she’d mentioned. Of course, I knew better than to ask her about it, even about the title, but, I was really, genuinely curious, you know… Is that so wrong? … And at one point, she left for the bathroom, and I guess she forgot to take one of the pages with her, and… I read it.”

“I see,” Bluebird said while scratching away at his notepad. “That sounds like an innocent explanation of things! Why all the fuss?”

Girard gave no answer, but still looked like he had swallowed a sack of bits.

Pesco explained on his behalf: “Because in order to verify his account, we’re going to have to tell Blanche he’s sneaked peeks at her work.”

“It was only the one time! … But, yes.” Girard hung his head in shame.

Pesco hopped off the bed and onto his four hooves. “No sense drawing it out. Let’s go get Blanche’s testimony. If we’re lucky, she’ll remember this outing you mention. And if not… I suppose we’ll have to go from there, won’t we?”

Bluebird drained the rest of his own tea. It didn’t taste quite as sweet anymore. “All right.”

As his apprentice joined his side, Pesco looked back at the griffon, who remained seated. “You too, let’s go.”

“W-wait, I have to be there when you tell her?!”

“Not per se. But I would greatly prefer to keep you in our line of sight for the time being.”

Girard grimaced, and clutched at his wrist. But he did not protest.

“Pesco,” Bluebird said softly, “if it’s just a matter of Girard being a flight risk, then perhaps I could chaperone him here, while you go talk to Blanche?”

The severity on his mentor’s face did not waver, but he relented. “Works just as well.”

He made way for the door.

Girard breathed a thank-you in the cadet’s direction. He then wilted at the neck, staring down between his legs. The cadet understood that the griff was simply about to break down again…

But the griff popped his head back up again. “Wait, Pesco.”

Pesco cast an eye behind him.

“I just, I remembered something… I mean…” He stood up with a claw in his pocket as he met the detective’s stern gaze. “I just wanted to thank you, y’know, for our little talk we had, w-while Bluebird was out. Um, I know I’m p-probably not in your good graces anymore, but you should know it s-still really… meant a lot to me.”

Pesco turned around just in time for the griffon to fall into his chest and wrap him in a full-bodied hug. The earth pony tensed up and his eyes widened for the several seconds it took for him to dismiss the griffon as any sort of threat. His body gradually relaxed.

He patted the griffon softly on the back and, with the same stony expression as before, said, “It’s all right, Girard. I meant what I said, and… you never left my good graces.”

Bluebird only ever saw them once in a blue moon, but he could recognize the signs of his mentor struggling to swallow his emotions.

Girard let go and sat back down on the bed, wiping his eyes. Pesco reached a hoof inside the breast pocket of his trench coat—Bluebird knew even before his mentor safely retrieved the syringe in question that he was doing his due diligence in making sure that the griffon hadn’t pickpocketed him.

“You should hold onto this,” he said listlessly to his partner as he examined the syringe, no doubt double- and triple-checking that it hadn’t been replaced with a facsimile.

The cadet nodded as he completed the hand-off. For Girard’s mental health, he promptly stuffed the syringe in one of his saddlebags. Out of sight, and out of mind.

Pesco stepped out of Girard’s sleeping quarters. A moment later, there was the sound of the door as he exited the double bedroom. Out of sight, and out of mind.
> 13. Draughts
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As part of my early morning observations, I had passed Blanche’s room sometime just before eight o’clock. If the scratching sounds from inside her room were any indication, she had been busy with her “daybreak writing session” as per her routine. A doe with a disciplined lifestyle, to be sure. But now her room was quiet, and there was no response to my knocks.

I looked at a nearby wall clock. Quarter past nine. Blanche had mentioned this was when she normally took a break for breakfast. For lack of any better idea (I was halfway to wishing I could fit these kids with collars) I headed to the kitchen.

I met with early success. I found Blanche in the foyer, who along with Grid was spectating an elaborate board game in progress between Gloria and Bon. Both the spectators sat in the corner of the young buck, who looked to need all the help he could get—not only was he visibly hungover, but the sluggishness of his in-game moves as compared to Gloria’s told me he was in a losing position.

Putting two and two together, this was likely the game of Griffonstone draughts that Gloria so enjoyed. The imposing clutter on the board was reminiscent of the griffons’ mountainous homeland: The play area was a cramped, spiky crag of stone pieces in black and white confined to a hefty wooden octagon, on top of which was inscribed a dizzying variety of lines and symbols. If nothing else, I could understand how a griffon would take offense at confusing it with mere ponies’ checkers.

“Blanche,” I prompted after a few moments of my own in the spectator pool, “there’s something that’s come up in the case. I would like to have your testimony on it.”

Gloria’s eyes were on me even as she coolly played her next move and tapped her end of a game clock beside the board. With all but Zorn and Girard in attendance, it wasn’t a stretch to link my words to suspicion of her cousin.

“Very well. Ask away, Detective,” Blanche said. She took a bite of a fruit crisp off a plate in her lap before leaning over to her brother and rubbing her chin. “It’s so strange to see you on the back hoof in a game of skill, Brother…” She smiled at his opponent. “By all means, Gloria, please continue.”

“This maddening game. I haven’t played for almost a year now. I’m simply rusty,” Bon mumbled, his muzzle poking out underneath unkempt hair. He nursed a large glass of water beside him. “And this deranged board, none of the pieces are the size or shape they’re supposed to be. Absolutely nonregulation, and it’s throwing me off.”

“Excuses, excuses,” his sister sang.

“Oh go pull a sleigh…”

I pressed, “It’s about your latest work, Blanche. I figure you might like to discuss this in private.”

That much got her attention. The thin veneer of amusement on her face peeled away as she righted herself in her chair. “Oh. I, well, I see the urgency, then.”

A moment of awkward silence, and then the interruption:

“Why, what could your latest work have to do with the changeling, Blanche?”

Gloria’s question had embedded itself in the conversation like a tomahawk. Grid gave Blanche a prying look, and her brother did the same. Bon’s time ticked away on the game clock. (Despite his play, I noticed he actually had a surplus of time on the clock compared to Gloria.)

Blanche shifted in her seat. “It’s all right, Detective. We may as well just discuss the matter here. I’ve come to realize that it may simply be… pertinent info, for all of us involved.” Addressing the whole group, she continued, “Changeling Ringing. It’s the latest novel I’ve been working on. It just so happens to feature one of the wretched beasts. That’s the beginning and the end of it.”

“Evidently that is not what the detective thinks…” Gloria murmured. “Perhaps it would’ve been prudent to let us know of this book earlier?”

“Yeah!” Grid agreed. He pulled back when he realized the effect. “Well, I mean, I understand if you didn’t want to scare us. And I believe you if you say that’s all there is to it, but… what’s this book about?”

“It’s a parody—as vapid as it is long-winded—of those stories from the Romantic era that are sadly becoming oh-so-popular again. Now I could go into finer detail about the plot, but I would worry about my brother; they say not to mix alcohol with sleeping pills.”

Grid chuckled. Bon chuffed indignantly as he snapped his piece onto the board, and soon thereafter, slapped his end of the clock. Gloria responded just as quickly.

“Sorry, Bon,” Blanche said, “that joke was really at the book’s expense, not yours.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” I said. “First question: Is Girard a beta reader for your stories?”

“Yes,” she responded, “albeit only in a limited sense.”

“Limited how?”

“Changeling Ringing is very much a work in progress, you understand, and I don’t typically seek Girard out for feedback during the writing and editing phase of a book. Most often, the final draft is already on its way to the publisher by the time he sees it.”

“Why is that, anyway? I’ve always wondered,” Grid said. “Don’t you think he’d love to help?”

“Well, I’ll grant that his support for me over the years has been motivating. I would venture that he’s probably more familiar with my body of work than anyone else, at this point. And on top of all that, he’s a keen reader.”

She made to cross her legs, before remembering the plate in her lap.

“However,” she continued, “I worry if his perception isn’t sometimes… colored by certain factors, such as our friendship. As the saying goes: Keep your friends close, but your editors closer.”

She took a bite to finish off her breakfast crisp, chewing and swallowing in good manners. She set the plate besides a sheaf of papers at her hooves and crossed her legs.

“Even if he could be objective, I think Girard is simply too innocent at heart to be a good critic—that is to say, a harsh one.”

The adjective “innocent” was unfortunate, given what I had to break to her. “Second question: Is there any possible way Girard could have learned about Changeling Ringing?”

Bewilderment as she processed the question; a flare of the nostrils as she came to the conclusion. “Oh bloody hell…”

“I take it that’s a yes?”

“Given your line of questions, Detective, I can only infer he must have read it behind my back,” she said with an annoyed puff. “And wouldn’t you know, I can tell you exactly when and where it must have occurred. It really justifies my paranoia with the thing, now doesn’t it? The one time I—”

“Think you forgot to hit your clock after your last move, Glory,” Grid interrupted.

“… Oh, thank you,” she replied, fixing her absentminded error. “How careless of me.”

“No outside interference!” Bon bleated. “And here I thought you were on my side…”

The interruption now resolved, I looked to Blanche to signal her to resume.

“Anyway,” she said, collecting herself somewhat, “we were out together at the Golden Pheasant a few weeks back. It’s this pretentious little hole-in-the-wall café I really wouldn’t recommend unless you’re looking to rub antlers with out-and-out hipsters. Girard was giving me feedback on my latest actually ready novel, while I was working on some of the first few pages for Changeling Ringing. At one point, I left to use the restroom, and… well… it’s my habit not to let an unproductive minute pass me by, so I took my work with me.”

“And you came back to realize that you’d forgotten some of it with Girard,” I completed.

“Hardly—I left a single bloody page behind my salad bowl!” she said. “Frankly, I should’ve pressed him then and there on if he had sneaked a peek. Shows what I get for trusting him.”

Gloria lifted her attention from the board. “Shortsighted and impulsive as my cousin may be,” she said cheerfully, “I would prefer you not speak so ill of him.”

“Oh, you’re right. I’m being a mite too harsh,” Blanche said. “I should be flattered by his interest, if nothing else. Better that Changeling Ringing be leaked to a goofball friend and fan than to a reporter, I suppose.”

But what if you leaked it to a changeling?

To be fair, Blanche’s account completely agreed with Girard’s. Ostensibly, this was enough to exonerate his slip-up of all suspicion… but in reality, any detective worth their salt could sense this was a piece of the puzzle.

“Um, Detective?”

It was Blanche, looking at me quite curiously all of a sudden.

“Yes?”

“Could I see that parchment again? The one that was left in my room?”

All eyes were on her as I complied with her request, producing the evidence bag from my trench coat. She withdrew the parchment from the bag with her telekinesis before delicately transferring it to her forehooves.

There was silence in the foyer but for the steady tick, tick, tick of Gloria’s clock as Blanche spent half a minute examining the paper, rubbing it gently between her hooves, at one point holding it close to her muzzle and taking a whiff. At last, she floated it back into the bag, and the bag back to me.

“Thank you. I just wanted to be sure of something.”

Before anyone could make heads or tails of the doe’s strange ritual, she picked up her papers from the floor and absconded from the scene.

The tap of a piece on the game board, and a click from the game clock. “Your move!”

“Merde, I was afraid of that one…”

My corroboration with Blanche was complete. Bluebird and Girard were waiting for me. Nonetheless, I would see to one more item on my agenda, while the young master of the household was still with me:

“Bon, where in this villa do you six keep your winter gear?” I asked. “Or more generally, any supplies were one of you to, say, take a long trek through these mountains?”

I had in mind, of course, to check if any hiking equipment just so happened to have gone missing recently. If not, I intended to get my hooves on it before any would-be changeling fugitive.

But Bon did not reply. He sat hunched over in his seat, propping his head up by his antlers as he languidly surveilled what appeared to be an increasingly desperate situation on the board.

“Bon,” I repeated.

“Uh, think I can field that one, chief,” Grid spoke up. “I’m the one that reaches for that stuff most often, given my skiing and all.”

That was right. Thanks to his name, I’d almost forgotten about his cutie mark in skiing. Not all ponies were so blessed with an alignment of name, cutie mark, and actual calling. Certainly Grid came closer than myself, with my cutie mark in baseball and a name betraying my parents’ misplaced hopes of continuing their pizzeria’s legacy.

“It’s kind of a hassle,” Grid continued. “It’s all split up between the coatroom, the storeroom, the workshop, and the shed. Want me to show you around?”

“Yes, that would be helpful,” I said, “but let’s go grab my partner first.”
> 14. Room Service
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pesco was the cautious one. Right? His mentor wouldn’t have green lit his plan if it wasn’t safe. That plan for him to chaperone Girard, the potential changeling, unrestrained, by himself? It was on the level.

He wasn't convincing himself. All the cadet could think about was the syringe in his saddlebag.

In the uneasy silence of the bedroom, Bluebird compulsively rehearsed the motions in his mind, the motions that he would need to enact if at a moment’s notice he needed to use that syringe.

Unzip. Grab. Aim. Jab.

Unzip. Grab. Aim…

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

He asked the kid what some of his favorite mystery books were. The cadet didn’t remember any of the titles or characters or plots Girard mumbled in response, but it was talk. Talk beat silence—but only barely.

And so, he was delighted when his mentor finally returned. Tersely and matter-of-factly, Pesco explained that Girard’s story had checked out with Blanche.

“That’s fantastic news!” Bluebird exclaimed.

Feeling guilty for his lack of trust the past few minutes, the cadet turned to Girard to give him a reassuring smile. However, it was not reciprocated—Girard’s depressive aura hadn’t changed. Bluebird supposed there was no reason it should have, really; Girard wasn’t afraid of getting caught, he was ashamed for having betrayed Blanche’s trust. It was as if the cadet was mixing up “Girard the griffon” and “Girard the changeling” in his mind, as if the difference wasn’t even all that important.

Was he… cheering for the changeling in this case?

No, the cadet knew that didn’t make any sense. Just a moment ago, he was terrified that he would have to defend himself from the changeling.

Or… was he terrified that he would have to be the one to make the arrest?

“Hm, yes,” Pesco responded after a moment. “Anyway, that’s all we have in mind for you, Girard. We’ll be going for now.”

Bluebird mustered some forgettable words of encouragement to Girard before standing up from the bed. It was at this point he realized that if the griffon was no longer the immediate suspect of concern, Bluebird really needed to make a certain observation of his known.

“Hey, Pesco,” he began as they entered the hallway, “something funny came up while I was in the kitchen grabbing Girard his tea…”

“‘Sup.”

Bluebird nearly plowed right into Grid as he stood outside waiting for them.

Pesco nodded in Grid’s direction and explained, “Grid will be guiding us through the mansion for anything amiss regarding their winter gear. There’s a high probability the changeling would like to make use of it, if they have in mind to flee.”

“Oh, so that’s why you want to check it out?” Grid said. “Pretty smart.”

“You said there was something funny?” Pesco asked.

Grid being right here with them changed things, Bluebird realized; not only did it make it more awkward to incriminate Grid over what was probably nothing, but Pesco said Grid was here to help them, right? What if he took offense and stormed off? Colt had a temper, after all. Best to wait until later to toss out any accusations.

“Oh, yeah, just funny how I totally oversteeped that tea, ahah,” Bluebird said. “You know I followed those instructions to the letter? Recommended cooking times are just the worst.”

“Ha, I never took you for a tea guy!” Grid said.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not!” Bluebird said. “… But, um, I could still taste the, the oversteepiness, you know.”

“Totally.”

Judging from his expression, Pesco wasn’t much of a tea guy, either. “Grid, if you would please show us around the mansion. You mentioned there were several places we should be checking.”

With Grid’s guidance, they spent the next two hours rummaging through half a dozen locations both inside and outside the villa. This would not have taken as long as it did, had they only needed to visit each location once; whenever Grid could not find something-or-other in the spot it should have been, they would have to make return trips to check if it hadn’t been misplaced. Invariably, the missing item couldn’t be located anywhere in the villa.

Pesco had become suspicious after the first instance of this, and tasked Bluebird with keeping a running tally of all the missing gear. Bluebird was writing in the margins of a third page from his notepad by the time Pesco called it quits.

“Seven missing waterproof overcoats, six missing down insulating jackets, basically a whole wardrobe of thermal base layers… Gloves for various hooves, claws, paws… The entire stock of specifically red survival candles… Three scarves, two pairs of Grid’s skis!” the cadet enumerated. “Yeesh, I guess there’s really no doubt the changeling just wants to get the heck out of here, huh?”

“Yes, we have to assume now that we’re on a time limit in apprehending the suspect,” Pesco said.

“Why so much, though? Is he really going to wear seven jackets and three pairs of snow goggles at once?”

“Nothing so ridiculous. It’s actually very clever on the perp’s part.” Pesco explained, “By stealing away the gear they need, they've denied us the opportunity to intercept them. But by also stealing away gear they don't need—gear for every species in the villa—they’ve effectively camouflaged their own species. If they had, for example, stolen away only the equipment that would fit a reindeer, the suspicion would have carried over to Bon or Blanche.”

“Hm, yeah, that does make sense.”

As the cadet slipped his notepad back into his saddlebags, however, he realized it didn’t make as much sense as he thought.

“Wait, can’t a changeling morph into any species, though? I would fully expect the changeling to assume a new identity once he was on the run, after all.”

“Yeah, fancy that,” Pesco remarked, unfazed. The cadet expected more to follow, but instead the detective turned to thank their temporary guide. “That will be all, Grid. We appreciate your help.”

“No prob!” Grid then finally left the pair.

Alone at last with his mentor, Bluebird realized he had no more excuse to withhold the latest information about Grid, the protein powder, and the kitchen. He took too long trying to find his words before Pesco spoke up:

“As I said, we’re on a time limit now. We should plan our operations efficiently.” He looked down to his hooves in thought. “The biggest leads we have right now are Gloria’s book, which must be stowed away somewhere, and all this missing winter gear, which must be stowed away somewhere. Maybe that’s the same somewhere, maybe it’s not—we can search for them simultaneously, in either case. So, let’s devote an hour to more searching, then break for lunch, then another hour of searching. We’ll make future plans based on our results, or lack thereof.” He looked back at the cadet. “That sound like a plan to you?”

Well, Bluebird didn’t want to throw a wrench in all of his mentor’s plans… His info about Grid wouldn’t override Pesco’s obsession with that dumb book, anyway. “No complaints here!”

“Very well. Take your notepad back out—I have in mind that we should split up, and check the following locations…”

Another two-hour agenda of rummaging through the villa, this time on their own. Bluebird struggled to keep up as he wrote down all the rooms Pesco had in mind for them to search. He was pretty sure he was hearing about the existence of half of them for the very first time.

“You’ll want to end your second hour with some of the more out-of-the way storage rooms, such as the wine cellar, the attic, and the boiler room. Make sure to reserve enough time to properly investigate them. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

His mentor paused his own planmaking at several points to ask for such feedback. Bluebird understood it as a polite gesture; the cadet had neither the expertise nor the energy to critique his mentor’s strategies when his mentor had his hoof on the pulse of the case. “Sounds good to me!”

“All right. Feel free at any time to improvise according to your best judgment. As for myself during the second hour…”

Once their agendas were squared away, they broke off on their respective search missions.

Several of the locations that Pesco had assigned to him were actually the kids’ rooms. Hopefully, that would be something to break up the monotony. He would have several minutes to shoot the breeze with them while he, ahem, respectfully but dutifully rifled through their drawers and closets.

First on the list: Zorn.

“So how’s that head cold treating you?” Bluebird said, striking up a conversation while searching Zorn’s chemistry lab of a bedroom. Unsurprisingly, the zebra had not been confused or offended in the slightest by the breach of privacy. “You look much better than last I saw you.”

“Thank you,” Zorn replied in his usual baritone. He was occupied in an armchair with the contents of a thick physics textbook. “I feel much better.”

“Good to hear. Y’know, Girard’s been feeling under the weather, too, as of this morning. Hate to say it, but I’m thinking you may have been contagious, ahah.”

“Hm. I see.”

Out of curiosity, Bluebird scanned for the petri dishes he had heard so much about. He didn’t find any, and he wasn’t keen on asking about them.

After a lull: “Cadet?”

“Yeah?”

“Be kind with Girard.”

He closed his eyes and briefly held a breath.

“And if ever he should ask, you can assure him that… I have always enjoyed his company as an assistant to my experiments. Even—or perhaps especially—the ones that were conducted without a word between us. And no matter if I could have done most of them on my own.” He opened his eyes and resumed his reading. “That is all.”

“Ahah, all right, will do. Provided that topic comes up, anyway,” Bluebird qualified. “Any particular reason?” … that you can’t tell him yourself?

“Not really. Only that I do not think I have ever told him as much in words.” He flipped to the next page of his text. “Hopefully, it is superfluous.”

Ultimately, Bluebird found nothing of note in Zorn’s room.

The next on the list was Bon. The young master’s bedroom was already largely familiar to the cadet, even if not the depths of its drawers and the interior of its ventilation duct.

Bon let Bluebird into his room with almost as few words as Zorn. Despite it being half past noon, the lighting in the room was kept cavernous, and the young buck himself was burrowed up to his antlers under the covers of his bed.

“I happened to overhear Gloria wanting to play a game of griffon checkers with you,” Bluebird began. “Don’t take it the hangover actually let you get out of bed though, eh? I know the feeling.”

“Come now, Cadet, you know me better than that,” muttered the lumpy mass underneath the blankets. “Hell or high water, migraine or nausea, I always step up to the plate.”

“Oh, so you did play? How’d it go?”

“A shutout. A no-hitter. No mercy rule in effect.” The mass undulated as the antlers rotated away from the cadet. “In other words, I struck out. Seems to be a theme recently.”

Sometimes, it was best to just let sleeping deer lie. Bluebird returned to his as-of-yet unproductive work in silence.

After a lull: “Cadet?”

“Y-yeah?” Bluebird supposed this is what someone like Bon would’ve referred to as déjà vu.

“You don’t suppose it would be a ludicrous thought… an outlandish hope, in other words… to imagine that the victim so replaced by the changeling might still be alive?”

“I wouldn’t say that’s outlandish at all,” Bluebird assured. “Take it for what it is, but my gut tells me all of your friends are fine.”

“Entertaining such optimism for the moment,” Bon continued, his sophisticated language at odds with his strained tone, “do you furthermore think it’s possible that perhaps, just perhaps the changeling has failed in some fundamental way to understand certain aspects of the replaced’s personality… o-or inclinations?”

Of course, the cadet’s and the detective’s leading theory was that no one had been replaced, and the changeling had been with them in the long term. The cadet was reluctant to air this hypothesis aloud just yet, but there was no problem with hinting at it, was there?

“Hm, well, I would honestly say the changeling’s done a bang-up job blending in so far,” Bluebird said. “Uncanny, really. One could even say flawless—don’t you think? It’s like everyone is exactly who they were before. Why do you suppose that might be, anyw—”

Bluebird caught sight of bright, glassy eyes underneath the covers. Blinking rapidly against a growing moisture, they stared desperately into the cadet’s own. He understood now that Bon’s question wasn’t so sophisticated as he made it sound: Was I rejected by the real Grid?

“—well, on second thought, I can’t dismiss it out of hoof. It’s certainly possible. Anything’s possible! Ahah.”

The cadet scurried out of there just as soon as he could confirm the bedroom was devoid of anything of relevance to the case. Bon didn’t stop him.

The rest of the kids had been even less sociable than the first two, when they had been present at all:

He wasn’t surprised that Blanche had insisted on keeping the chitchat to a minimum. She was committed to her writing, and right now, it didn’t seem to be going well. For the short amount of time Bluebird spent in her presence, she had thrice crumpled up and cindered with her magic the latest page she had been working on. The curses she muttered grew more profane with each act of arson.

Girard had let Bluebird in and nonverbally consented to a search of his and his cousin’s room (Gloria again being absent). He had pointed at his throat and croaked an apology and a mention of worsening laryngitis. Bluebird had his doubts it was a genuine excuse; after this morning, the cadet couldn't blame him if he wasn’t feeling up to talk.

Finally, there was Grid. Bluebird didn’t know what he wanted to say to him, but he knew he needed to say something. Ask him some questions. After all, wouldn’t it be for the best if he could work out that silly misunderstanding in the kitchen without getting Pesco involved at all? It was best for everyone that way.

And yet, he was nothing short of relieved when his knocks at the young earth pony’s door went unanswered. He didn’t know how he felt about how he felt about that.

Consequently, Bluebird took an early lunch. Or rather, he spent the extra time he had gained from Grid’s absence to prepare something basic in the kitchen for himself and his mentor. At the time of their planning, they had both just assumed Bon would take the honor upon himself to cook for them again (and probably he still would have if asked, Bluebird reckoned), but the deer clearly needed his time to rest, and Bluebird needed the distraction.

Once his mentor had arrived, it didn’t take many words for Bluebird to explain the sum total of his findings the past hour.

“Nothing,” Pesco repeated gruffly, before taking a ravenous bite into his avocado club sandwich. He swallowed without chewing. “So neither of us found damn all.”

“Guess not,” Bluebird said, taking a nibble of his own sandwich. Alas, it was no divine hoagie. “But like I was saying, Grid wasn’t in his room, so I think I’m going to work some time in to find him. That all right?”

“Yes, go ahead with that.”

He devoured the rest of his lunch in two bites, in just about as many seconds. Food was no more than a source of calories for his mentor right now.

“Gloria’s book is vexing me,” he seethed.

He might as well have confided to Bluebird that the cow goes moo.

“But even if it’s all but fallen off the face of the planet, I have one last means of finding out about it.” He added, “I would say I didn’t want it to come to this, but then I would be lying.”

Bluebird wasn’t sure why his mentor said that last part out loud. “Why are you so suspicious of her?”

“Why are you so suspicious of Grid?”

His eyes looked redder than ever as he strode past the cadet and out of the kitchen.
> 15. The Book of Gloria
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I checked the griffons’ bedroom—just Girard, playing charades with me over a sore throat.

I checked the library—just the familiar hiss.

I checked the kitchen—just Grid, deafening himself on a portable music player while waiting on water to boil.

I checked the foyer—no one.

She certainly had a way of lying low when she wanted to, that bird. The changeling could take lessons.

Against all reason, something in my gut told me to check the library again. Old mares’ tales would have it that earth ponies like myself had these uncanny hunches from time to time. I rarely bought into such superstitions, but I had to admit, this one had never done me wrong.

And neither did it disappoint today—there I found Gloria, right outside the library.

She was carrying herself at a bounding pace down the corridor, but upon seeing me, stopped in her tracks to give me a lively, full-bodied curtsy. “Detective,” she greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Interesting. Could she have guessed that I was not merely passing by? Did she see it in my eyes that I sought to confront her? “Do you have a minute, Gloria?”

“Oh why yes, of course.”

“But I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I fished. “Am I?”

“Nothing important, simply some reading. A diplomat’s studies are never-ending!” she exclaimed. “… Oh dear, am I making a broken record of myself?”

“Reading?” I said. “In the library, I take it?”

She nodded buoyantly. “It is truly the best place to study in peace!”

“Fascinating.”

Truly fascinating. Once again, the changeling could take lessons.

Gloria’s cheerfulness faltered, once she seemed to realize. “Oh, hm, but if you happened to be looking for me but a moment ago, I did step out for a brief spell in order to—”

“Let me guess, use the restroom? Grab a snack? Or maybe just take a breather?” I said. “Actually, don’t bother. One excuse is as good as any other. No matter which you choose, I still wouldn’t believe you. And anyway, it’s not what I’m here for.”

“Hmph, well then,” she pouted, disdain creeping into her voice. It was hard to tell if this was a genuine display, or still part of an act. “You should get to the point, Detective, so that I can remedy whatever misunderstandings you may have about me, and we can return to a more polite discourse.”

With pleasure. “Explain the book, Gloria.”

She gave a picture-perfect shrug. “I don’t follow.”

“You’d do best to stop burying yourself,” I warned. “I can give you a minute to come up with a believable explanation, if you need.”

“I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up to have quite the egg on your face, Detective, because I truly haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.” She shook her head. “This is unfortunate. You’re an officer of the peace, and I’m an aspiring peacemaker. My instincts tell me we should be working with each other, and not against. May we discuss this more constructively? I remember you asking me something feverish about a book just before the changeling attacked—does this have to do with that? If you might explain what exactly you—”

I took a menacing step forward, loudly and closely enough to make her retreat a step of her own. “I’m not kidding around, Gloria.”

It was shameful, to a degree, that I was pulling out all the stops for the interrogation of a girl half my age. But when it came to her, I sensed that nothing less would suffice.

“Don’t get me wrong, you hid that book well,” I continued. “So well in fact that I never found it, and probably never will. But, I did get ahold of a copy of it.”

I glared at her. For the very first time, I could tell I was making progress, because for the very first time, she didn’t have anything to say.

“In the end, I think you just got unlucky. It wasn’t a mistake you could’ve predicted. As far as spur-of-the-moment plans go, yours was almost flawless… But do you know what the key word is there?”

Her silence was music to my ears.

Her jaw clenched tightly as I continued, “You just couldn’t have known that the Vivant family organizes the books on their shelves according to the Farrier Classification Schema. You couldn’t have known that the Farrier numbers of the books directly to the left and to the right of the one you removed left only a single-number gap between them, and so uniquely identified the missing book. And you couldn’t have known that I would be so paranoid as to phone a librarian in Canterlot to look up and magically transcribe a full copy of that book and have it sent here by dragonfire-imbued parchment.”

I reached into my trench coat to pull out a thick sheaf of dark, weathered pages. I proudly aligned their edges against the cannon of my other hoof.

“Like I said, I can give you a minute to come up with a believable explanation.”

Gloria chuffed, and had a false start to speak before closing her beak once more. She paused, then chuffed again while repeating her picture-perfect shrug. “I don’t see why a future dignitary would need any explanation to possess a book of royal seals. It will be quite essential to my job one day, you should know.”

A book of royal seals, huh? My plan was bearing fruit.

In reality, the Vivant family library wasn’t organized in any consistent manner that would’ve allowed me to uniquely identify a missing book. And in reality, it would’ve been prohibitively expensive to transcribe and mail an entire book via dragonfire-imbued parchment on less than twenty-four hours’ notice. Indeed, the parchment I currently straightened against my hoof was simply a prop to the interrogation; more specifically, it was a ream of blank paper on loan from Blanche’s personal stock.

But I hadn’t gotten away with it yet, because I still didn’t know the full story. I was in the midst of the most difficult part of my ploy—I had to bluff that I already knew the answer to a mystery I was still ignorant of.

“I have to admit,” I countered, “that was the first thing that crossed my mind when I first learned the title over the phone: Why would she think she had to hide this? I asked the librarian if she hadn’t made a mistake looking it up, but she was sure. You know, that book probably would’ve flown right under my radar if you had just been an honest creature about it in the first place!”

Gloria stared at me in scornful analysis. It was clear I had her on the defensive, but above all I needed to induce her to preempt me with a defense of her actions, and quickly.

“So once my copy arrived, I read its contents closely, and I put the two-and-two together.” I paced around her like a shark circling its prey. “Now I understand exactly why you thought you had to hide it. I’m not an idiot, Gloria, and I recommend you stop treating me like one.”

Her beak opened a sliver at this latest slight, and I could tell she wanted to lash out with an immediate rejoinder. But she caught herself, and seemed to slip back into her cold, calculating silence. It wasn’t a good sign—I needed her to think with her amygdala, not her cerebrum.

Time was of the essence. Every second that passed could only make my vague accusations stand out all the more for their lack of details. So I took a calculated risk, and thrusted at what I could merely hope was a weak point:

“It all makes sense to me now, why you treat your cousin the way you do—that is, if he even is your cousin.”

The payoff arrived. The last remaining layers of a prim and proper princess all but melted off of the bird as the corners of her beak curled up into a sneer. She held a claw up to her face, but too little and too late to conceal a downright insidious expression.

She loosed a chuckle, shaking her head from side to side.

“Pesco, you are indeed no idiot,” she spoke up, “but for as much as you’ve gotten right, you’ve gotten just as much entirely, utterly, pathetically wrong.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Apparently, you know enough to recognize that it would be inappropriate for me as a diplomat to be studying a craftsmare’s manual on official seals. You know that in my career I myself would never be expected to know the painstakingly exact technical specifications of this or that authority’s wax stamps or watermarks. No, that’s the skillset for a very certain kind of bureaucrat… or forger, perhaps. I’m not ashamed to say it.

“And that’s because despite that big brain of yours, despite your years as a civil servant, it’s clear you know nothing about the way the world really works these days.

“It’s clear you know nothing about the circumstances I and my cousin grew up in.

“And above all…

“It’s clear you know nothing about the inflamed, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass it is to save my cousin from his own constant stream of fuck-ups.”

I stopped my circling. Perhaps my mouth hung open as I stood there, simply staring at her. I had to admit, it was the first time I had witnessed a suspect take command of a conversation mere seconds after an admission of guilt.

“Apologies for the language,” she continued. Her refined speech had returned, but something vile still lingered. “It was unbecoming of me, though it was an intentional breach of etiquette—I needed you to understand the gravity of my frustrations here, if I have no choice but to tell you the truth.”

“I’m just glad we’re finally meeting the real Gloria,” I said. “But why don’t you start from the beginning, just so I can be sure who exactly that is.”

“I’m afraid you may not like the real me any more than the fake me, but I’ll introduce you all the same.”

She cleared her throat, and clutched at the pendant of her necklace as she launched into oratory:

“Kralle-Karom, the place I call my happy home, is in truth a bleak and desolate place. Neighbors will let neighbors starve in times of famine, and the very earth itself seems to reject us. Whether royal or peasant, in that godforsaken land one learns very quickly the difference between the ideal and the real.

“King Grayson—their ruler, my father—is not a good griffon. He and the rest of our family usurped power after a civil war, shortly before I was born. And haven’t you heard? Apples don’t fall far from the tree. Our whole family is irredeemable. Girard and I grew up together, and we watched one by one as our siblings and our cousins all fell victim to the trappings of ill-obtained opulence. They lost any sense of compassion for their fellow griff. Their moral fibers putrefied from the inside out like rotting fruit, and soon we were the only ones left disgusted by the smell.”

I considered very carefully how much of this I believed.

“And truly,” she continued, “there is more than a resemblance between my castle and this very villa. Both are a waste of the world’s limited resources, as I see it. I’m sure it’s not lost on you, Detective, that you could work for a hundred lifetimes and never afford the decadent lifestyle these kids are addicted to.

“That said, I’m not blameless in this. For a time, I let my father control me. I let him dictate what I could and could not do. I let him decide who were my friends, and who were my enemies. I was given my script, and I read my lines well. Even if I hated my father and had my own visions for change once he was in the grave, it began to feel like less and less of an act I had to put on for him. I grew bolder with my priorities, and I grew short with griffs who I perceived to be useless to me.

“In other words, I grew short with griffs like Girard. It was at that point I realized that I was putrefying, and that I needed to leave sooner rather than later.”

“But you couldn’t bear to part with your beloved ‘hemorrhoid’ of a cousin, apparently,” I tested.

She tipped her claw. “I’m glad to see you’re listening closely,” she said. “The thing with putrefaction is there’s really no reversing it. I can recognize that Girard is a purer soul than me. Don’t you? But it would be villainous of me to abandon him, because it would mean his undoing—like I said, decadence is an addiction, and in his state, I don’t think he would survive withdrawal. Still, his good intentions don’t make his… screw-ups… any more sufferable to someone like me.”

“Yeah, and wouldn't you know something about screwing up?” I spat. “What has he ever done wrong?”

I didn’t know what to make of it, that it felt like she was insulting my family rather than her own. I'd had a single conversation with Girard, and I was incensed on his behalf. Ask anyone: I was only ever incensed on my own behalf.

“What hasn’t he, really. You’ve met him. He can’t survive on his own, and actively contributes to his own failings.” She glared at me. “Like saying imbecilic things in front of the police. I only care because it makes things harder for him, and by extension, me. I’m sure you don’t care to waste resources investigating the innocent, either.”

“Let us worry about such things, Your Majesty,” I assured her, maximally sardonic. “All I can say is, if your idea of an insufferable screw-up is needing some extra tutoring at school and being overly honest, I think you really have putre—”

Gloria burst out laughing, in a much more genuine gesture than her earlier chuckling. “Oh, your juxtaposition slays me, Detective,” she said. “He clearly hasn’t been very honest if, according to him, all the help he’s gotten from me on the academic side is some extra tutoring.”

I tried not to let her irk me. I thought back to her admission about the forgery. “So what you’re saying is, it goes behind helping him with his homework, or even doing it all yourself. I’d say either bribery or cooking the books, if I had to guess based on your character.”

“Correct, but more the latter than the former. Money is the epoxy that keeps every beak and muzzle shut, but I prefer to be more discreet in my approach.”

I’d had just about enough of her teenage philosophy. “And what makes you think I’ll be discreet about all this?”

“So this is my reward for finally being honest, huh?” She shrugged. “I’m not really surprised. Although if your angle was only to acquire ammunition against me to use after your current assignment of, you know, outing the changeling among us, I would’ve at least expected you to wait longer before calling your shot.”

I retired my blank papers back into my trench coat. I have my ways of getting the ammo when I need it. “I can work on two cases at once,” I told her. “If you cooperate with me on this one, maybe I could could take it easier on you in the one yet to come.”

“Oh? Quid pro quo? Somehow I don’t think your clawshakes under the table are worth very much, Detective,” she said. “But as long as our cats are out of the bag, I’m fine answering any innocent questions you might have.”

“That’s fine. One innocent question is all I have.” For now, anyway. “Let’s just say I get similar vibes from you and the changeling. A remorseless commitment to your plans, and deception that’s nested several layers thick.”

“So I’m your prime suspect.” She tutted under her breath. “I suppose that’s just what they call a bad hunch.”

“That’s not what I meant. Given your presence during the changeling attack, you’re actually at the very bottom of my list of suspects, if you’re on it at all.” Funny how that worked out. “And given your testimony regarding Girard at the time Blanche discovered the wing fragment, it’s only natural to remove any suspicion from your cousin, as well.” Even funnier. “I would only like to ask your opinion, as someone whose spirit animal is probably a changeling—who do you think the bug is?”

“Ah, is that all? I’m flattered you would ask,” she said. “Easy: Grid. And if not Grid, then Zorn. In fact, I’ve been wondering why you haven’t simply stuck Grid with the syringe, and moved to arrest Zorn if there was no result.”

“Bold suggestions,” I commented. “It sounds like you’ve thought this over.”

“I have, actually. Have you? Just narrow down the already small suspect pool with logic. We’ve agreed it’s not me or my cousin, yes? That leaves four. Blanche wouldn’t call the police on herself if she were the changeling. Down to three. Bon is Blanche’s twin brother, which would be a strong enough alibi even if it weren’t for all his pretentious little party tricks that I don’t think anyone else in Equestria—or the changeling Hive—could faithfully replicate. Thus, the two.

“And really, if you haven’t been suspecting them already, I would have to question your career competencies. I’ve already spoken my piece about Grid in the kitchen. But Zorn… you are aware just how badly he may be playing you, right?”

The serum, she must have been hinting at. Zorn actually was near the bottom of my list, but I had to admit, I’d yet to fully trust his gift to me. “Let’s say I’m unaware.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard he gave you this ‘magic-suppressant.’ Very convenient silver bullet, don’t you think? I believed it even less when he was the one found outside after the attack, and he proceeded to specifically request that you jab him.”

“So you think that was all an act? Because you think it’s not actually a magic-suppressant he gave me?”

“Yes, I think that’s most likely. As for how he could have faked those tests, why Bon and Blanche couldn’t levitate it, it’s obvious that…”

She had strutted so confidently into her latest sentence, but stumbled in completing it. She bit her cheek for a moment, as if struggling to recall.

“… Well, obviously he faked them, right? Somehow. Doesn’t matter how.” Another picture-perfect shrug. It was clear she practiced these gestures. “But let’s even assume I’m wrong. Zorn is enough of a weirdo that maybe all his actions thus far are just par for his course. We’ll just take him at his word that the serum is authentic, and inject Grid with it. If it reveals the changeling, then hurray! If it has no effect, then it either means Grid isn’t the changeling, or Zorn was lying about the serum. In either case, a perfectly good reason to assume Zorn is the impostor.”

She seemed to be anticipating my reaction. I chose to keep her waiting.

“So, let’s just stick Grid. It’s case closed either way. Don’t you agree, Detective?”

It was, in my professional opinion, the purest example of moon logic—an argument that made sense on its face, but which came from no earthly place. But that was fine; if nothing else, her opinions told me a lot about herself. I flapped my trench coat and said, “You really don’t consider a single person here to be your friend, do you, Gloria?”

Her eyes beaded up in frustration. “I think I’ve had about enough abuse for one night,” she said. “If you intend to investigate me after this is all over, that’s your right. But until then, I heartily advise you to focus on—”

She stopped mid-tirade. She looked down at my hooves with a curious expression.

“Oh, Detective? What is that?”

I broke eye contact with her for the first time since the conversation had started, and scanned the area where I was standing. There was what looked to be a square of paper lying on the ground, ripped at the edges and small enough to fit into an envelope without folding.

I could tell it wasn’t from any of the papers I had used to dupe Gloria—this one had writing on it. And I knew it wasn’t from Gloria—this time, I had made sure to keep my eyes on her for any funny business. It must have simply fallen out of my back pocket; how it had gotten there was the real mystery.

I picked it up and held it close to my chest as I read it…

It was an anonymous note. Or rather, as it claimed to be, a note from the changeling themself.

What was written was not important.

I tried just as quickly to forget the words I’d read.

It was a coherent sentence with something to say, but one that I knew to ignore. I was a professional, after all, and my instincts were never—

“What’s that scribbled out on the back!?”

Following Gloria’s prompt, I turned the letter over. On the back was some sort of message, crossed out to the point of soaking the paper through with the ink. I held it at an angle against the light and squinted my eyes, trying to read the rescinded text… a couple letters could be made out, and nothing more.

But I was a professional. I already had my means in mind.

“I appreciate your time, Gloria. I’ll find you again, if and when I need to.”

Celestia knew it wouldn’t be when I wanted to.
> 16. You're the Changeling
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

After close to an hour spent searching all of the places the red-eyed pony had told him to, Bluebird worked up the nerve to return to Grid’s room. This time, there was no doubt about its occupancy, even before knocking; the room’s light was on, and a pulse of music leaked through the door. It sounded muffled by headphones, and at this distance was faint and tinny, but for Bluebird to be hearing it at all, he knew it must’ve been playing at a deafening volume.

Grid sounded like he was having a good time. Probably shouldn't interrupt.

Bluebird shifted in place before the door, stealing a look back down the hallway he came from. He could just stick with the original plan. Go back and search the boiler room.

He took a deep breath.

No. He couldn’t run away from this. Why would he even want to? He had questions, and it was literally his job to ask them.

The cadet reached forward and gave a timid couple of raps on the door with the back of his hoof. Given the music, it was doubtful that Grid would hear them. Not to his surprise, his knocks went unanswered.

With more force, and this time using the firmer underside of his hoof, Bluebird gave it another go. It was the loudest he could knock while still being polite about it. Still no response.

Welp, he’d tried his best. It was the perfect excuse to walk away.

…

But it wasn’t his best, and he knew it. Even as an apprentice, he had been given plenty of opportunities in his line of work to knock above and beyond the levels of mere politeness. This was surely one of them.

Bluebird braced himself against the door as he unleashed the loudest bangs he could muster short of damaging the door. “Grid! I just want to—”

The door yielded. But it was neither the hinges giving out nor Grid answering that was responsible—the door simply glided open a few inches under the force of the knocking itself, as if it had been ajar all along.

“… Grid?”

The cadet hesitated before pushing the door open and peeking inside. To his relief, the scene was a boring one: In the corner of the room, Grid sat leaning back in his chair at his desk, eyes closed and bobbing his head in rhythm with the music from a portable cassette player. The sound that leaked through the headphones was even clearer now that there was no door between them. Slow, heavy guitars dominated the song’s chorus.

He called out Grid’s name once again, to no effect. Grid was off in the land of hard metal. Exasperated and without any other options, Bluebird simply walked over, extended his wing, and tapped Grid on the shoulder. As the cadet could have expected, Grid turned slowly at first in reaction to the touch… and then nearly fell over in his chair once he connected it to the pegasus standing at hoof’s reach right behind him.

“Bluebird?!” He ripped the headset off his ears and blinked in rapid succession. “Yeah, uh, hey, what’s up?”

“Oh, I just wanted to have a word with you. Nothing serious. But, ahah, maybe we should close the door so we aren’t overheard. That fine?”

“Um, sure.” As the cadet walked back to the entrance, Grid added, “How’d you get in, anyway? Did I seriously just leave my door wide open?”

“Not exactly, but it wasn’t locked.”

“It wasn’t? But I thought I”—he shook his head—“ah man, this whole situation’s got me out of sorts, you know? More scatterbrained than usual.”

“Scatterbrained, huh?” Before closing the door, Bluebird took a moment to test the lock. As he turned the locking knob, the deadbolt shot in and out on a spring action. All seemed to be in working order. “I know the feeling, ahah. Why do you think I keep this thing at hoof’s reach?” The cadet flashed his trusty notepad.

“My dude, you already got that thing at the ready?” Grid laughed. “Guessing ‘nothing serious’ is more than just shooting the breeze, huh?”

Bluebird sheepishly retired the notepad into a distant pouch on his bags. “You’re right, it’s unnecessary. I do have some questions to ask, some of them pretty important. That said, whatever answers you give me…” Bluebird plopped down on the nearby bed, and looked up at the earth pony still seated in his desk chair. “… they don’t need to be recorded. You get what I mean?”

“Ah, don’t sweat it, I was only giving you a hard time. I know it’s your job.”

“Right. My only duty, in the end, is to protect the innocent.”

A long pause ensued while Bluebird mulled over his words. Grid took the time to coil up his headset and cassette player and stuff it into a drawer.

“… You ever heard of roleplaying, Grid?”

“You mean, like, playing make-believe? Pretending to be someone you aren’t?”

“Yeah, you can think of it like that,” Bluebird said. “This might sound weird, but, do you think you could roleplay as the changeling for a minute while I ask you some questions?”

“Hm, you’re right: That does sound weird!” He gave another belly laugh. “Sorry, I’m being a real piece of work. Like I said, I’m feeling kinda ‘off’ in a lot of ways, what with the whole changeling thing and now the Bon thing—ah, never mind. Sure, I’ll roleplay with you.”

“Good to hear.”

“Might I just ask… like, why?”

“Just to help me with the case,” the cadet fibbed. “It might sound like an off-the-wall idea, but ahahahah, it’s actually a common police tactic to help brainstorm!” he lied egregiously.

“Well all right then!” He bared his hooves and narrowed his eyes in mock-villainous fashion. “I guess I’m a big bad bug now? Ask me something… if you dare!”

“Okay! First question: Why were you so insistent last night when you asked me if the Royal Guard was actually on their way?”

“… I dunno.” His eyes returned to normal and his hooves returned to his sides. “I suppose I wanted to know there’ll be an end to this thing, just in case you and Pesco can’t figure it out. Y’know?”

“You’re the changeling, Grid.”

Grid’s eyes narrowed again.

“I mean, you’re pretending to be the changeling. Remember?”

“Oh. Right,” he said. “I guess, if I was the bug and I asked something like that, it would be because I’m afraid of the Royal Guard. That’s obvious, right?”

“Right. It’d only be natural to be afraid.”

The cadet stared past Grid and out the window for a few moments.

“But that’s not necessarily obvious from the changeling’s behavior, is it? If I were him, as soon as I heard the news, ahah, I think I would have grabbed my coat and a few granola bars and hightailed it! I wouldn’t need to prepare my escape plan all that much as long as I could get out of the mountains, I figure. What are they gonna do, put up wanted posters? I’m a shapeshifter, ahah!”

“Wasn’t I the shapeshifter?”

“Oh, yeah. You are. But my point is, you must have something that’s giving you pause, or maybe some sort of baggage that’s keeping you here? If we’re assuming that you’ve been here for years, that the ‘real’ Grid Iron never existed, then you must have formed some genuine attachments to these five by now. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe. I guess.” He shrugged, and shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I already told you last night that all that stuff sounds farfetched to me, though.”

“You’re right. It is just my hunch about these things. I’ll say that I’m not alone, though, because Pesco is pretty convinced of it, too. But I should warn you, ahah… Pesco is starting to come to conclusions that I don’t share.”

“Huh?”

“Anyway! Second question, or whichever one we’re on: Why did you act oblivious to Bon’s advances all these years, and why did you reject him last night? Why can’t you love anyone?”

“… What.”

“You’re the changeling, you feed off love in a very literal sense, right? Isn’t Bon’s affection like ambrosia on a silver platter to you?”

“Sure, whatever. I guess.” Grid shook his head. “Gotta say, not sure I’m still on board with this whole role—”

“So I’ve gotta assume you have your reasons, right? Maybe you just think it would make you too suspicious, it would be too obvious? Or maybe romantic love is like drugs to you, and you don’t trust yourself with it, and anyway your platonic relationships keep you well fed? Like you said, who needs lovers when you have friends, right? A life without all that whatever-you-call it, ahahah?”

Only a stern glower from the ‘earth pony.’

“Or maybe… maybe you just think it would be cruel to Bon. To enter into a relationship on false pretenses. To parasitize his infatuation for you. To break his heart one day if ever he finds out, or you need to run away.”

“…”

“And I’m only saying, if you do run away, you’d better do it fast. But if you’re not a fan of running, if you’re afraid of the cold or if you’ve grown too attached to your five friends… there is another option. You can give yourself up peacefully. Right? And I’ll plead your case that you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything wrong. Because you haven’t! … Right?”

Every muscle in Grid’s foreleg was visible as he gripped the side of his chair. A broken sort of smile cracked his cheeks. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or to shout.

“Um, dude,” he spoke up, “Bluebird, Cadet, Peter Pan… you’ve lost your marbles. You’ve gone completely nutso.”

Regardless of anything, Bluebird couldn’t disagree. He really felt that way.

“I’m not the changeling. And what, are you trying to help him escape now? Seriously? What ever happened to that promise of justice, huh?”

Bluebird wasn’t breaking that promise. If his mind was gone, his conscience was intact.

“If you don’t have anything else to say, Little Guns, then I think this is the part where I, like, ask you to get out?”

Bluebird sighed. “All right. Just one last question, though, if you’ll hear it out. I should’ve asked it first, since it really is the one that’s most in need of an answer, ahah.”

Grid cocked his head.

“Why did you lie about the protein powder?”





The light in Bon’s room had been off, but a hunch had me knocking anyway. And indeed, after a few seconds of covers rustling and hoofsteps from inside, the door opened. The ghost of underage drinking stood to greet me.

“Why, good afternoon, Detective.” He made the effort to part his unkempt mane and push a smile. “What brings you around?”

“There’s been a development in the case, Bon.” I flashed him my badge in case he needed any reassurance of my identity. “And I believe your talents may put you in the unique position to help convert it into a breakthrough.”

“Oh?” Some color returned to the deer’s face. Whether this was because of the news or because of my bald-faced flattery, one couldn’t quite say. “Mais absolument, I shall do my best if it’s for the sake of the case! ‘Twas time for me to rise from my siesta, anyway. You’ll have to give me a moment to make myself presentable, however.”

“That won’t be necessary. This will only take the antlers on your head and a minute of your time,” I said. “Let’s conduct this inside your room.”

Bon followed my cue and stepped back to allow me inside. I entered and closed the door behind me, shutting out all the light from the corridor. In the dim glow of a nearby desk lamp I could make out a great number of the young master’s playthings strewn about the room.

Bon reached for the light switch.

“Leave it dark,” I instructed. “In a moment, I’ll have you turn off the lamp as well.”

A quizzical look. “Hm, very well.” He lowered his hoof from the switch.

I opened up my trench coat, retrieved the note from the changeling, and flipped it over to show him the crossed-out text. “This is a message we’ve received from the changeling. As you can see, they had some second thoughts about what they wanted to say.” In a low tone, I continued, “I would very much like to find out what that was.”

“From the changeling, you say!” He arched an eyebrow. “How do you figure that, Detective? You didn’t have another run-in with them, did you?”

“Not quite.”

“Hm?”

I didn’t care to explain.

I put the note on a nearby table for the time being, and gestured for Bon to take a look. He slotted in next to me and leaned over the table. He squinted at the scribble in the near darkness before quickly giving up. “If you want to read what’s written, I hardly think having the lights off is going to help!”

“You’re right, of course. But bear with me: I had in mind the light will come from your antlers.” I explained, “You see, ink from a quill will stain parchment differently depending on how it’s applied. For example, the angle and pressure involved while crossing out text is very distinct from that of ordinary writing. This can result in minute differences in how much ink is deposited, and how deeply. These differences may not be visible under ordinary lighting conditions. But, under exotic lighting conditions that the redactor never accounted for… suffice to say, they very much can be.”

“Oh, that sounds ingenious!” Bon admired.

“Not really. It’s the same concept behind blacklight spells bankers use for inspecting watermarks on promissory notes, or that the police use for finding trace evidence at crime scenes,” I said. “My specialty isn’t forensics, but over the course of years, I’ve picked up some tips and tricks around the water cooler.”

“Nonetheless, that’s still more expertise than the changeling has at their disposal, I should think.” He looked back at the scribble before, asking eagerly, “Now, how exactly might I be of assistance? What sort of light do you want?”

“I have no specific instructions. Just vary the intensity and the wavelength of the light from your antlers all across the visible spectrum—and perhaps the nonvisible spectra, as well, if you’re capable of it.”

“But of course!” The young buck all but squealed in delight. “And here I thought my infrared spell would forever remain a party trick…”

“I’ve been told UV is a better bet,” I critiqued. “But yes, you have the right idea.”

And so we began our little darkroom experiment. I held the paper up in front of his brow and angled it this way and that as he smoothly adjusted the glow of his antlers, like a radio operator scanning for frequencies amidst the static. I had to admit I was impressed when he began varying the light from each of his two antlers independently in an effort to increase the search space.

Somewhere around the UV-and-red combination of light, the paper underwent a change. I got my hopes up, but then realized too late what was happening: Both the scribble and the texture of the paper itself transpared, and the markings on the other side became visible.

“Huh, what’s that written on the other—”

He began to twist the paper around with his telekinesis. I jerked it away from him.

“It’s not important,” I growled.

It wasn’t.

The glow from Bon’s antlers faltered for as he took a step backwards. Despite my outburst, he stared at me with at least as much contrition in his eyes as confusion.

“I apologize.” I didn’t know what more to say. After a pause, I simply held the paper back up, scribble-side forward. “If you’d please continue.”

Hesitating at first, Bon acquiesced with a nod. The analysis continued, although the young buck’s enthusiasm never returned. He anxiously looked at me at least as often as he looked at the paper, which did not yield its secrets after a full minute of effort.

“Say, Detective?”

“Yes?”

“If I can’t make this work like you want,” he said, “might I suggest seeking Zorn’s assistance? He has plenty of scientific equipment that could, I'm sure, outshine even yours truly.”

“Hmm,” I grumbled, “I agree, that’s a good idea…”

In point of fact, Zorn was the first one I had gone to after discovering the note. He had refused to help me, once he had glimpsed what was not important.

“… but let’s keep at this for a little while longer, please.” I tried some more flattery: “I truly think you’re the best deer for the job.”

“Very well,” he replied, sighing a little.

The examination continued. “A little while longer” began to overstay its welcome as another minute passed, and then two. By this point, Bon was no longer smoothly sailing across the light spectrum with his antlers, but instead flickering through a multitude of color combinations that had simply been skipped over in the initial search.

All the while, I watched the paper unflinchingly. My eyes burned even more than their usual, but I resisted the urge to blink—and I was glad I did, because that was precisely when I saw it. “Hold it!”

Bon stabilized his current lights of orange and magenta, and peered in for a closer look himself. The scribble was faint, but so too were the words underneath. Cautiously, ever so precisely, he modulated his glow… and like magic, like science, the secret message was brought to light:


Searched Grid’s closet yet??

> 17. What Happens Now?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“If I told you once I’ve told you like a dozen times, dude! That’s where we’ve always kept—”

Grid cut himself short, and Bluebird startled at the sound of three patient, plodding knocks on the door. Was that his mentor?

“Grid! Are you in there?” bleated a much less patient voice, one distinctly higher pitched than his mentor’s. It was Bon?

The earth pony glanced at the door, but otherwise didn’t angle his body away from the cadet, nor drop his agitated glare. He sucked in a breath, then spoke up:

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Something’s developed in the case,” a deeper voice replied. Pesco and Bon? “May we come in?”

Bluebird could only shift uncomfortably in his seat on the bed. He had no more clue than Grid why his mentor was here.

The earth pony cracked his neck and rose from his desk chair. “Sure.”

He cut a line to the entrance, flipped the lock, and opened the door to greet the two visitors. “Bon, Pesco. What’s up?” he said. He stepped aside and gestured to the cadet. “Me and Little Guns were just having a little chat.”

Bon’s eyes darted between Grid and his closet, while his mentor followed Grid’s cue and looked at the cadet.

“Is that so?” Pesco inquired.

“Oh, yeah, ahah. I was just, you know, doing like I said, coming back to Grid’s room to search it. Just got sidetracked by a little conversation is all!”

“Search my what…?” Grid murmured.

“Have you—” Bon leaned forward too quickly and bumped his antlers on the doorframe. He realigned himself, and then continued, barely above a whisper: “Have you… checked the closet yet?”

“Nope, was just about to get on that!” Bluebird sprang up from the bed onto his fours and trotted over to the closet door. “Best place to start, if maybe a little too obvious, eh?”

His mentor mumbled an agreement, his gaze focused nowhere in particular, a bored look about him. He ambled over to join his cadet. “Let’s see what all we find.”

“I guess this is what we’re doing now?” Grid said.

As he slid open the mirrored doors of the closet, Bluebird turned back to offer a reassuring smile to the young earth pony. “Don’t worry about it, Grid. This is just a precaution we’re taking, with everyone at the villa. I guess we’re looking for a bunch of coats and granola bars, or maybe a super secret book? Ahah.”

He gave a playful nudge to his mentor, who was already crouched down and rummaging through the bottom of a chest of drawers. Meanwhile, the young master hovered over his shoulder, surveilling his work intently.

“Um, Bon?” Bluebird started. “I’m thinking Grid might feel a little more comfortable if you left it to us to—”

Bon gasped and drew a step backward. Pesco, for his part, had ceased his rummaging, and now stared into the drawer with a frown on his face.

“Found it quickly, now didn’t we,” he remarked.

He brought himself to a stand, but not before lifting in his foreleg his peculiar finding from within the drawer: a jagged, spider-shaped piece of folded sheet metal with a long rope attached at one end to its center. The rope coiled to the floor as he presented his discovery to everyone in the room.

“The buck is that thing,” Grid said bitterly.

“Um, it looks like a grappling hook?” Bluebird said.

He looked to his mentor for confirmation, who returned a sage nod before tossing the thing aside onto the bed. “That’s its appearance all right.”

Something else caught Pesco’s eye within the drawer.

“Hm, but wait, there’s more,” he said. “Convenient.”

For his next trick, he reached back down into the drawer, then held up and dangled for the audience the next absurdity: A thick iron prybar. Despite its extensive wear, this one was recognizable as an actual tool, and not something jury-rigged together from scrap metal. It soon joined its place on the bed next to the grappling hook.

“That’s… that’s bizarre, to be sure, but what’s it doing here?” Bluebird asked.

Genuinely, innocently confused, Bluebird bounced his gaze between his mentor and the accused. The former yielded no information with his stoic glare, while the latter… Bluebird understood from the M’s on his forehead and the pursed lips that Grid was on the verge of saying something he might regret if asked the wrong question.

It was Bon who broke the silence to voice his theory: “My sister told me that the evidence in her room, it pointed toward the changeling having broken in through her window. Grid, or whomever we’re speaking to… are these the tools you used to accomplish that?”

It was the wrong question.

“The tools I used to what!?” He snapped a hoof at the metal spider. “I’ve never seen that thing before in my life! What even is that?”

“It’s like the detective and the cadet said, Grid,” Bon explained, with an unusual calmness, “it’s a grappling hook. And well, it would seem we’re not the only ones who saw you with it. There’s been an anonymous tip.”

“An anonymous tip?” Bluebird asked.

“Not so anonymous,” Pesco said. “Long story short, I received a communication from the changeling. Tattling on Grid was their message—or at least, their original message.”

“Can somebody explain, like, a single hay-fed thing that’s going on?” Grid demanded.

The cadet was thinking the same thing. Bon ignored Grid’s booming voice and cut back to Pesco:

“Now what precisely is that long story, Detective?” he pried. “You’ve told me it’s from the changeling several times now, but frankly, the only evidence I’ve seen indicates something quite to the contrary.”

“It’s not important,” Pesco stonewalled. He turned to Bluebird and twitched the corner of his lips in Bon’s direction. The cadet knew to recognize this as a call for backup in the conversation, but he had to admit… it sure sounded important.

A petulant spark flared in Bon’s eyes—Bluebird wasn’t given the time to think his mentor’s order over, anyway.

A flash of light blinded the room as Bon made a play with his telekinesis to yoink something from within the detective’s trench coat. A ream of blank paper spilled out onto the floor from inside the coat, and in the chaos Bon pranced into the far corner of the bedroom.

“D-dude!”

Bluebird’s reflexes had him tackling the young thieving master to the ground before he could think twice about it. The next thing he knew, he was listening to the whimpers and groans of the flattened deer beneath him as they both lay staring at the pilfered evidence.

It was… a note?


WHAT HAPPENS IF I COME ALONG PEACEFULLY?


Bluebird felt he understood why Bon had acted the way he did, now. He couldn’t say the same for his mentor.

He dismounted the young buck and helped him to his four hooves. Bon stumbled and swayed as he stood, still reeling from the takedown onto the bedroom’s hardwood paneling. His attention was divided between the contents of the note and Grid as his gaze swam back and forth between the two. His brow tightened as he tried to fight back a wince.

“What was that all about, dude?” Grid took an uncertain, confronting/comforting step forward. Pesco remained riveted in place, critically unamused.

Bluebird wasn’t feeling very amused, either. “Pesco,” he began softly, “is this… what it looks like?”

“Depends,” Pesco said. “I don’t know what it looks like to you.”

With a hopeful tremor: “Well, it looks like the best-case scenario, doesn’t it? Our work is done here, as soon as the changeling turns himself in?”

“Yes, it would be,” he said. “But, he hasn’t. So, it isn’t.”

“Ahah, well he’s offering to, isn’t he? He’s only asking because he doesn’t know what will happen if he does! I guess he just wants to be sure we’ll take it easy on him?”

“So we read the same thing: The changeling’s compliance is contingent on a plea deal.” Pesco shook his head. “Bluebird, that’s called negotiation. You know as well as I do that process is best handled at the station behind reinforced glass, only after the arrest is made. Besides, we have no authority to cut deals even if we wanted to.”

The cadet knew better than to contradict his mentor at length in front of potential suspects, but he didn’t care. “Come on, don’t you think this is a bit of a unique circumstance? We’ve never had to deal with something like this.”

“Exactly. So tell me, what in good faith can you promise the changeling if they give themself up? Remember, we’ve never dealt with something like this. Or do you intend to lie to them, just to reel them in? Honestly, Bluebird, that’s just cruel.”

What had gotten into him? It was like his mentor had been replaced by a changeling.

They each took a moment to cool down. For as heated as the conversation was making Bluebird, for as passionately as he believed in doing the right thing, he could sense his mentor was struggling with emotions that were just as strong. Bluebird had only a hint of what they were.

Pesco knelt to collect the blank papers strewn about his hooves. “‘Come along peacefully’ is distorting the facts, anyway. Are you forgetting about when the changeling attacked you?”

Neither of them had cooled down very much. “No, of course not. But that was just self-defense! Just a little roughhousing, ahah! My wing’s already feeling better.”

“You can offer the perp your legal counsel if you want, for whatever you think it’s worth. I consider our partnership an equal one, so I won’t stop you.” He stood back up, and walked over to snatch the note back from Bon. “But know that the real takeaway of this note lies beneath the scratched-out message: The changeling’s original plan was to frame Grid, before they decided that begging for mercy was more likely to fool us. Frankly, this whole discovery stinks of a frame job even without the note.”

“Y-yeah!” Grid stammered. Bluebird had almost forgotten the other two in the room.

“Ooonnn the contrary,” Bon followed, in a strange tone of voice, “… I think that remains to be seen, Detective. It’s still perfectly possible Grid is the changeling, isn’t it?”

Grid blinked, and leaned a few inches back from his friend.

“Oh?” Pesco taunted. “You were so eager to defend him last night.”

“Why, why, I’m only following the facts as they present themselves!” he protested. “We found a grappling hook and prybar in his closet, Detective, does that not count for anything? And… while I cannot fathom why the changeling as Grid would have thought to leave an anonymous tip about himself, surely… surely the very bizarreness of the maneuver could be the intention! To get himself cleared!”

Bluebird clocked a smirk on his mentor’s lips. “All I mean to say,” Pesco said slowly, “is I think this whole act reduces Grid’s probability greatly.”

Bon’s face twisted in on itself, cringing as though he had just bit into a lemon. It seemed that everyone in the room remembered: Zorn had already lost this same argument last night.

“Okay, fine,” Bon pivoted, “perhaps the note was written by someone who found out about the changeling—Grid—and this matter with the tools in the closet. Somehow. And, they wanted to report it anonymously. But then, for whatever reason, they started to feel sympathetic for the changeling, and so scribbled out the original message and wrote this new one. There.”

Bon struck a pose a bit like a math professor finishing a proof on the chalkboard.

“Truly, that sounds like Girard’s operating level of shyness, if I had to speculate.”

“Bon, just think about it,” Pesco said wearily, “why would a changeling need a grappling hook to reach Blanche’s bedroom window? They have wings of their own. They have the wings of any species in Equestria, in fact. And just look at the tool’s poor construction—it’s even the same sheet metal as on the lockpick. The changeling is up to its old tricks.”

Grid finally found the timing for an outburst. “And how about the fact I’m too bucking stupid to do any of the things I’m being accused of!” He tried to rub the skin off the bridge of his muzzle. “Honestly, I feel like I’ve been losing my mind the past twenty-four hours. That thing with the kitchen makes no sense, I’m forgetting to lock my bedroom door, and now this thing with the protein powder… and apparently, there’s just straight-up ninja gear in my closet!?”

Pesco’s expression skewed at Grid’s latest remarks. His expression skewed again, and then he walked across the room to Grid’s bedroom door. The cadet at first thought his mentor was simply walking out on the entire conversation (he looked about ready to), but soon saw he was checking the very same thing the cadet had checked earlier—Grid’s door lock.

The three watched the detective at work. He opened the door and went through the same simple motions the cadet had, at first: He flicked the locking knob, observing as the deadbolt sprang in and out of its housing. He appeared content to conclude as the cadet had that this particular component was functioning properly.

Next, he shut the door. He flicked the locking knob, then pulled on the door handle. After a slight budge, the door opened—somehow, the deadbolt had failed to engage.

Further diagnostics. He had another scrutinizing look at the deadbolt, the locking knob, and the latch in turn, before turning his attention to the doorjamb, or more precisely, the hole in the strike plate into which the deadbolt was supposed to enter. He leaned over and squinted, before running his hoof over it. A small ripping sound could be heard as he did so. Finally, Pesco stood back up, walking back to the three with his hoof extended.

“Reasonably sure I learned this one while I was still a delinquent,” he said. “The changeling thinks they’re a lot smarter than they really are, and that we’re a lot dumber: It was insulting enough that they thought we wouldn’t get the picture if they’d just left the prybar, but now they think they can get away with this?”

The cadet cocked his head, feeling a little dense. But, the change of angle as he did so had the light catch it just right: Bluebird made out on the end of Pesco’s outstretched hoof a scrap of transparent tape. It appeared the mystery of the malfunctioning door lock boiled down to a simple piece of plastic blocking the bolt from engaging.

Pesco continued, “That they have to resort to tricks like this proves that you were right last night, Bon, when you conjectured that the changeling can’t pick locks. But this proves just as well that you’re wrong tonight. Grid is almost certainly the victim of a frame job—and a poor one at that.”

The young deer had been staring down at his hooves for a while now. “I understand. I grant that yours may well be the more likely theory, in the end.”

Bon lifted his head, and slowly turned to face his earth pony friend. Grid’s expression still bore the marks of the slew of accusations hurled at him these last few minutes, not the least of which were from Bon himself. And yet, all that frustration evaporated once he saw the dampness in his accuser’s eyes.

“But, hypothetically, assuming the detective is mistaken, somehow,” Bon continued, his voice hitching. He trailed off.

“Yeah?” Grid said.

Bon swallowed. “If you really are the changeling, well, I should just like to say that as long as the real Grid is still out there, alive and well, then… all would be forgiven as soon as you return him. That’s all.”

“I… dude, I wish I knew what I could even—”

Bon didn’t give him the time to offer much of a response. Bon had said his piece: He turned on the spot to leave, sniffling as he went. He crossed the room, gripped the door with his telekinesis, and opened it just wide enough to slink away…

He saw fit to turn around one last time. The cadet expected him to offer one last glance or parting word either to Grid or to the Detective, but he did neither. Instead, he only gave the grappling hook on the bed a long, contemplative look.

And then, without a further word, he departed.

“I think we’re done here,” Pesco declared, with an eye to his cadet.

Were they? Now was as awkward a time as any, he figured. Bluebird sighed and gave a halfhearted “all right.”

Pesco claimed the prybar and the grappling hook as evidence, slinging the latter over his shoulder as he led the way to the door. Bluebird followed in his mentor’s wake, for lack of any better guide in this mess.

The cadet looked back over his shoulder. Grid was standing like somepony in front of a burned-down building.

“Hey, Grid?”

The earth pony (?) met his gaze.

“Just wanted to say, sorry for the misunderstanding… and, ahah, if it wasn’t a misunderstanding? Well, in that case…”

Bluebird recalled the changeling’s words, just before he was attacked (“attacked”) by the changeling.

“… no hard feelings over my wing. Okay?”
> 18. The Drift
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Following the confrontation in Grid’s room, the cadet felt something familiar begin to set in: the calm, but not quite.

All too often, it was the cadet’s experience that right when a case was approaching its zenith, right when it felt like all the stars were coming into alignment and the bright burning light of truth was about to shine down upon the perp and expose his crimes for all to bear… it went quiet again.

Or maybe in this metaphor it would be better to say, “it went dark again”? And “bright burning light of truth” was a bit over-the-top, Bluebird had to think. “Zenith” wasn’t really the right word here, either. The cadet had always had an appreciation for poetry, but knew from high school experience that he was pretty lousy at it.

And really, metaphorically it was anything but quiet to the cadet. In the hours after he and his mentor had split up in order to pursue whatever-comes-to-mind in search of clues, he swore he could hear at all times the frantic panting of a changeling exile, pale and trembling, cornered and out of options. The bug spoke admissions of truth into one of his ears, and self-serving deceptions into the other; pleaded for mercy with one breath, and denied any help with the next.

Ahah… Right now, Bluebird couldn’t tell who was breathing down whose neck!

As the sun set on this second day (eternity) of their investigation, he crossed paths again with his mentor in the upstairs hallway.

“Bluebird,” Pesco greeted. His eyes were still red, but the bags which hung from them like drapery gave him a much more exhausted look than anything. He fished around in his pockets for a moment before retrieving his badge and identifying himself with it.

The cadet found the gesture more than a little strange. “Ahah, Detective Pesco Margherita?” he said, leaning in to read the lettering. “Nice to meetcha. My name’s Bluebird.”

“Your badge, please,” he responded dryly. “We can’t let our guard down around a shapeshifter. We wouldn’t want another ambush.”

“Oh, right. Fair enough.” Bluebird reached into his bags for his own means of identifying himself. Once convinced of his identity, Pesco turned around and gestured with a hoof for the cadet to walk alongside him.

Once at pace, Pesco continued, “I’ve taken the liberty of revisiting the six kids these past few hours in an attempt to learn any new information.”

“Find anything?”

A weary sigh. “For what little mood any of them were in to chat, I wasn’t able to glean anything we didn’t already know. I more thoroughly cross-examined their school memories while I was at it, and found no inconsistencies—at this point, I think it’s safe to conclude our theory of a long-term impostor is sound.”

“Suppose so.”

“Have you looked into anything in the meantime?”

“Oh. Yeah, ahah, I just decided to check out those places on my to-do list from earlier that Grid’s visit disrupted. You know, the attic, the boiler, a couple others.” The cadet had not, in fact, searched the attic, the boiler, nor a couple others. He couldn't remember much of anything he’d done these past few hours, besides wander the halls like a lost spirit. “Nothing to report.”

“I see. A shame.” His eyes came to rest on the cadet’s back. Bluebird followed his gaze to see he was looking at the prybar, strapped awkwardly to Bluebird’s side underneath his wing. “You might as well put that evidence in the guest room up ahead. I talked with Bon and arranged one for each of us to sleep in tonight.” He reached into his pocket and handed a ring of bedroom keys over to the cadet.

“Oh?” Bluebird felt his voice rise an octave. “No more couch duty for us? Or insomnia lookout duty for you? No complaints here!”

The cadet thought through the implications: Did that mean Pesco no longer minded if, in the dead of night, the changeling just so happened to…?

His mentor pushed a yawn. “It’s a luxury, I’ll grant, but it’s not for our sake—think of it as a trap for the changeling, first and foremost.”

Bluebird felt a lump in his throat as Pesco reached into his coat to retrieve two glassy, baseball-sized crystals and what looked like an empty kite spool. Walking with the light for a few seconds, however, Bluebird could make out sparkly little rainbows winking in and out of existence in the air around the spool; it appeared the spool was actually wrapped quite thickly with a transparent, faintly iridescent thread.

“Bon had some spare channeling wire lying around. I wound it around the first-floor exits of the villa, and then had Bon magically link it up with these beacons.” He tossed one of the gems over to Bluebird. A mischievous smile pushed up against the bags hanging from his eyes. “Suffice to say, if the changeling tries to slip away in the dead of night, these crystals will interrupt our beauty sleep to let us know.”

The cadet rolled the hefty little orb around in the crook of his wing. Its rough edges tousled his feathers. Like always, the great detective had thought of everything.

“Say, Pesco?”

“Yes?”

“Did you, well, mean everything you said back there? In Grid’s room?”

His mentor’s pace seemed to falter for just a moment. Maybe it was just Bluebird’s optimism. “Yes,” Pesco repeated. “Why wouldn’t I have?”

“Nothing in particular. I just know you sometimes like to ‘read the room’ before you say things—don’t we all? Especially in the presence of suspects,” he added. “And, ahah, maybe sometimes… you just don’t know how to say the things you really feel?”

They continued walking, but for a time, they did not continue speaking.

“B-but don’t we all?” Bluebird reprised. “I mean, no shame about it, I know I don’t most of the time!”

“I meant everything I said,” he reiterated. His eyes focused down the hall. “That includes what I said about our partnership—I consider us as independent equals. Beyond that, I value you as a friend. If you don’t wish to pursue this case any further, then I won’t question your judgment.”

His mentor had come right out with it. To tell the truth, the thought of quitting the case hadn’t seriously crossed the cadet’s mind before that moment. The thought of abandoning his mentor never had, in fact.

Pesco held his hoof out and eyed Bluebird’s beacon as he awaited a response. “Well?”

“Umm,” Bluebird stalled. “No, you’re right. We have our job to do. I guess we’ll just, have to see how things turn out?”

The hoof withdrew. Bluebird wasn’t sure what he himself meant with his latest words, but even if he did know what they meant, he didn’t know why he said them out loud. Pesco’s malcontent silence had him anxious that it wasn’t inspiring his mentor’s confidence in him.

Right when he was about to reaffirm his commitment to the case, they were interrupted by a voice behind them: “Officers?”

It was Blanche. They had passed her bedroom several paces ago, and the young doe now held the door open as she hailed the detective and the cadet from afar.

Given the mood, Bluebird was happy to have some company. “Blanche!” He threw up a wing to greet her before taking to the air and gliding on over. The sound of plodding hoofsteps echoed behind him as his mentor took his time in following along. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing terribly important,” she replied. Her business-as-usual frown indicated that whatever she had to say probably wasn’t an emergency. And yet, it was hard to miss the way she fidgeted in place, coiling and uncoiling her hoof around the doorknob. “Although, obviously I’m not here to waste your time… Do you happen to have the evidence that was found in my room?”

“Evidence?” Bluebird said. “Oh, you mean the parchment and wing fragment?”

Coil and uncoil. “Yes.”

“Yeah, Pesco should have it. Let’s wait for him together, shall we?”

The doe trained her gaze on the detective as he made his final trudging steps into the conversation circle.

“Blanche here was wondering if you had that evidence bag on you, Pesco,” Bluebird said. He turned back to Blanche. “What is it you said you needed it for?”

She took a long time to answer the question. “I would just like to take a closer look at the parchment. Overnight, if it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Overnight, huh.” Pesco looked dead on his hooves. “There’s something specific that has you asking.”

“Nothing really,” she deflected. “If it’s a no, I’ll understand.”

“You seem to be preoccupied with this parchment lately,” he said bluntly. “I would have thought you’d seen—and felt, and smelled—everything you could have wanted from it when I let you examine it earlier.”

A boa constrictor on the doorknob. “Don’t belabor it,” she said, restraining a sneer. “I understand. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Pesco sighed. “Wait,” he called, as she made to return to her bedroom. “Fine. It’s doing us no good at the time being, anyway. Just answer some questions for us first so we know we’re not loaning out evidence to the wrong creature entirely.”

His mentor proceeded to ask several simple memory-recall questions from the past thirty hours in order to confirm that the individual they were speaking to was indeed the Blanche they had come to know. Bluebird contributed a couple of his own, coming from their first interview together.

Pretty soon, they both ran out of questions. “Well?” she pressed.

“All right,” he conceded as he passed off the parchment. “We can expect to collect this tomorrow morning, then? Completely intact?”

“Yes.” She stood rooted in front of the doorway with the parchment in her telekinetic grasp, looking like she had more to say—something of finality, perhaps, or something to clue the cadet and his mentor into what all she planned to do with this blank piece of paper. Whatever it was, she decided against it. She thanked the two for their time, and made to return to the solitude of her workspace…

But Bluebird had one more question to ask. He hadn’t found any better timing for it, and he couldn’t think of any subtler approach than:

“Say, Blanche?”

Standing partway in her room, her door already halfway closed, she cast a glance backward to hear the cadet out.

“In your researched opinion, what do you think would happen to an outed changeling, in the best of cases? That’s to say, if he hasn’t hurt anybody or stolen anything. And maybe, ahah, wasn’t even here on Chrysalis’s orders?”

In his periphery, Bluebird caught Pesco rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, Blanche stepped back into the hallway. “It’s a prickly question, Officer, and one without much legal precedent. And you should know, precedent is everything in affairs such as this.”

The cadet didn’t feel he needed a lecture on the law from the girl, but he was eager to hear her out on the changelings.

“I’ll ignore your last criterion, since it’s by and large an unverifiable statistic,” she said. “That being the case, there is a short list of changelings who have been captured alive, and an even shorter list of those who have been captured when there was no crime in progress. I can tell you that, in each and every case that I looked into while researching Changeling Ringing, it was the opinion of the royal magistrates involved that the changeling’s capture only preempted any criminal wrongdoing—in other words, it would have only been a matter of time were they allowed to roam free.”

“That can’t be right,” Bluebird said. “It’s in the Equestrian constitution itself, isn’t it? Never shall any creature, regardless of species or citizenship status, be punished by Her Royal Authority in the absence of criminal culpability. Ahah.”

Truth be told, Bluebird did do more than just wander the halls these past few hours. He had also taken the time to pursue some choice reading in the library. He had felt it might become relevant to the case… or its aftermath.

Blanche shook her head. “Her Royal Authority has strived for benevolence in each case, but in each case it’s a quagmire. Let me recount one such incident from a decade past, one which directly inspired my book.

“News broke of a changeling busted in bustling Manehattan. He had disguised himself as quite the dashing rogue of a stallion, and he had earned a secret admirer of sorts, you see. This admirer was as awkward as she was prying. Eventually, she pried right past his disguise, and—in a fit of panic, and to her immediate regret—reported him to the authorities.

“A high court found him innocent of any charges beyond that of identity theft. He had not kidnapped anyone, but instead chose to continue the legacy of a suicide victim, you see. In addition, his orders by Queen Chrysalis, although he never denied having them, were never made clear. And so, the Equestrian government only requested that the Hive apologize for their agent’s involvement, and compensate them for procedural costs in exchange for cooperation in a deportation procedure.

“Alas, the Hive issued no response.

“Perhaps feeling their bluff had been called, the Equestrian government withdrew their demands. Without any preconditions, they granted the Hive diplomatic immunity so long as they arranged an envoy to transport their agent back home. But still, the Hive issued no response.

“By this point, a grassroots protest to see his release fomented, one headed by his very own secret-admirer-cum-whistleblower-cum-public-admirer, in fact. The protest gained traction in the local news. And so, mindful of their optics, the Equestrian government offered to send their own envoy, at their own expense, in order to return the changeling agent back to his homeland. All they requested is that their envoy not be attacked once they cross the border, as had happened in a previous diplomatic outreach. Once again, the Hive issued no response.

“Do you get the drift, Officer? The Hive doesn’t want their failed agents back. At the same time, there’s no place for them in Equestria. Thus, they are condemned to legal limbo in perpetuity—and as Prans Kafka would say, this is the only place worse than jail.”

“That’s nonsense!” Bluebird spat. His mentor flashed him a disapproving look. “You said yourself ponies wanted to see him released. It sounds like he has a perfectly accepting community waiting for him.”

The doe was too late to stifle a scoff. “I’m sorry, Officer. You have predicted what happens in my cheesy doorstopper, but not in reality. Let me summarize: In Changeling Ringing, he is detained and released in this way multiple times, inciting a greater and greater public awakening. (‘Zeitgeist’ is the word I used. Ad nauseum.) All the while he’s incarcerated, he nurtures a correspondence romance with his admirer by writing on this… this dreadful prison stationary he’s given. And this romance blooms once he is finally granted his freedom by an edict from Celestia herself.

“In reality, our dashing rogue never wrote a single word to his ‘lover’ after his arrest. And you should know, his true supporters could all fit comfortably side-by-side on the steps of the Manehattan district courthouse.

“Let me conclude with this: During the course of my research, I perused no small number of newspaper op-eds on microfiche. Perhaps the one I remember most clearly ran with the title Not in My Apartment Complex! and it was accompanied by an opinion poll. The results spoke to a reality far more satirical than my story could ever hope to.

85%—‘I wish the changeling the best and that he can find his freedom somewhere.’

70%—‘I would feel uncomfortable living next door to a changeling.’

60%—‘I would vote to keep my own community a changeling-free space.’

35%—‘I would support dehorning mandates for changelings in Equestria.’

“Et cetera. Do you get the drift, Officer?

“All in all, he was a flavor of the week. He lost out in the headlines to this new sparkly meteor shower, you see, and after that, I failed to find any more articles about him.” She leaned against the door with her eyes closed and nose held high.

Bluebird tasted bile in the back of his throat. It wasn’t his overactive imagination that had him thinking about a world where every third person would have him clip his own wings. He wondered, just how many paradoxes in society might be explained by the fact that 85 plus 35 was greater than 100? How many of the world's problems boiled down to wishy-washy well-wishers?

“Thank you for your account, Blanche,” his mentor said. “It’s been illuminating. We’ll come around in the morning to collect that parchment.” He turned to leave while looking at the cadet. It wasn't a subtle cue.

Whatever. The cadet knew that nothing he could say would change the past. Or the future, apparently.

The investigators found their way to their own bedrooms and dropped off (what remained of) their collected evidence. Bluebird had been unsure whether the hour was late enough, and whether Pesco was tired enough, for Pesco to call it a night. To his surprise, it was.

“Let’s be up bright and early to continue with the case,” his mentor said between yawns. “We only have so much time with this one.”

“Can do!” Bluebird agreed, feigning eagerness. It didn't sound like his own voice.

“And if you are, in the end, fully on board with the case,” he continued, mustering a last little bit of energy to convey some gravitas, “do make sure you sleep with that beacon within earshot.”

“… Can do.”
> 19. Cavalry Call
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

My head felt like it weighed a metric ton—and at least half of that weight was in my eyelids. I had done my best to keep my mind on the case, but now that the sun had set, I could no longer deny my body its basic biological needs. I knew even before my head hit the pillow that my time until unconsciousness would be best measured in seconds.

In other words, it would be a deep, rejuvenating sleep. But as wonderful as that sounded, it was also a liability to my ability to be woken up in an emergency. A liability which I minimized by placing the beacon on the very same pillow my head rested on, inches away from my face. Zero inches, to be exact, as the spherical crystal butted up against my cheeks and lips, refusing to stabilize anywhere else on the pillow’s surface.

On any other night, I would have found a less irritating placement for the object before trying to fall asleep. On this night, my fatigue made it a moot point.





A ringing. My eyes shot open. And yet, I awoke only to silence, darkness, and a completely inert beacon.

Even in my sleep my adrenal response was on a hair trigger. The ringing I had heard—that I thought I had heard—had me up and alert faster than smelling salt. I had had a deep and dreamless sleep that had felt like it lasted only seconds. Only the stiffness and soreness of my joints informed me that I had been out for several hours, at the least.

I fought against that stiffness to bring my head upright as I scanned my surroundings. Nothing was amiss in the darkness of the guest bedroom. Had I simply imagined it? A dream, a hypnogogic hallucination? Just as quickly as the adrenaline had awoken me, I felt it begin to leave me as I lowered my head back onto the pillow…

The ringing again. This was not a hallucination—it was the telephone, sounding off from somewhere in the hallway. I was surprised to hear it so clearly through my closed door. It might not have been the beacon signaling my trap had sprung, but a call at this hour was almost as urgent. It could’ve been from my superiors.

I cast off the stiffness as I rose to my hooves and trotted to the exit. I reached out with my hoof to undo the locking knob, but my stomach sank when I noticed it was unnecessary—my door was already ajar.

Someone had broken in. I had been tired, but not so tired as to leave my door wide open. Has the changeling learned how to pick locks after all?

The phone’s ringing resumed, demanding an answer. My bedroom needed to be investigated, but this call was a time-sensitive opportunity. Gritting my teeth against the possibility that this was some sort of trap, I took a bludgeoning grip on my crystal beacon as I peered out into the dim hallway.

On the fourth ring, I could clearly echolocate the phone’s position down the corridor. It was a ways away in the opposite direction of my partner’s bedroom. Not knowing how many rings were left until the call would expire, I picked up my pace. As I was about to round the last corner, the phone sounded for a fifth time… but it failed to complete its cycle. It was strangled mid-ring with a click from the receiver.

“Hello?”

I recognized the voice: Skulking about this fine evening was none other than Gloria. I relaxed my grip on the crystal, but only slightly. Meanwhile, the voice on the other end of the line was too faint to make out beyond that of a harsh, masculine tone.

“Why, the detective?” Gloria said. Even without line of sight, I could clearly picture that exaggerated body language of hers. “I’m afraid he’s settled down for the night. I would hate to disturb his rest. You should know he’s very much earned it these past two days, he and his partner likewise. But make no mistake, I could certainly—”

The voice cut her off with a gruff question.

“Oh, beg your pardon, Commander. My name is Gloria, and I’m one of the witnesses to this case. And I was just saying, ahem, make no mistake, I could certainly pass on a message for the detective come morning time. Truly, it would be no bother at all—”

A much more vociferous protest from the other end, now. Through all the yelling, I could make out some choice words, choice enough to bring a smile to my lips. Nonetheless, I decided to step in—the call was meant for me, and Gloria’s current handling of it was not going anywhere.

I rounded the corner, and Gloria startled as she directed her attention away from the obscenity-laden phone call and toward me. Her unamused glower would have me believe she regretted this whole exchange.

“It’s for you.” She opened her claw and the handset took a plunge. I barely caught it before it struck the floor. By the time I stood back up to thank Her Highness, she had already disappeared. Just as well.

I raised the phone up to my ear. It seemed the shouting from the other end had died down in the interim. “Yes?” I spoke up.

“And who the buck is this,” the voice replied.

“Pesco Margherita. Senior detective issuing from Canterlot PD. Badge number oh-two-six-three. At your service.”

“Now there we go!” he crackled. The quality of the call was poor, and I could hear a din of other voices in the background. “Commander Brightdawn, Canterlot Royal Guard. Are you alone, Detective?”

I looked around. I was at a juncture of three corridors with rooms and corners all around. A nearby clock informed me it was a quarter to midnight. “As far as I’m aware. Is it sensitive information?”

“Not really. Butcha can’t ever be too careful with these buggers, can you? Anyway, I’m heading the platoon that’s been dispatched from HQ to handle this mess. I take it you’ve— … shut it, Lance, can’t you see I’m…! —I take it you’ve been briefed on this, Detective?”

“Briefly,” I echoed. “My partner and I were told your company was up to a week out from arriving.”

“Yeah, we were! That’s what has us calling. The storm cleared up sooner than expected, so me and my colts have made good time through the mountains, I’m proud to say. We’re quartered at some poor schmuck’s inn nearby, just a dozen clicks down the pass from your location. We expect to reach the villa tomorrow morning by, oh, twelve-hundred hours or so. Eh? Yes, Private, twelve-hundred hours! That means up and bright-eyed at oh-six-hundred! What’s the matter, did you think you were enlisting into a sleep study?”

“Great to hear,” I inserted.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyhow, that’s all I really called to report. How is your end of things? What can we expect to walk in on? Any prisoners? Any bodies?”

I recounted the scant facts of the case in my head. I had plenty of theories, and my gut told me the perp was within hoof’s reach. But I had a feeling that none of my delicate speculations would be of relevance to a sledgehammer like the commander. “No arrests yet. I have my leads, but the perp is still at large and on the premises. Everyone is safe and sound.”

“Mmmhhh,” he sighed, blowing a deafening wave of static into the receiver. “Say, Detective, give it to me straight: What do you think is the over-under on this being a big, fat, glorious waste of time for everypony involved?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I mean, Detective, please tell me the first thing you thought when you got put on this case was that this was just a bunch of yuppie upper-crusters playing a prank. And if there still aren’t no bodies around, frankly that just makes the kid’s story all the harder to swallow. Anyway, I heard you and your pal got pulled off vacation leave for this. Bear with me, I’ll be blunt: You two haven’t already chalked this up to a false alarm and are just milking it for the hazard pay, are ya?”

As if. As far as our wasted hotel bookings were concerned, we were losing money on this assignment. A cold gust of air passed over me (or at least I imagined as much) as I phrased it unequivocally: “No. This case is tricky, but it is no false alarm.”

I was hasty to defend my honor, and so I realized a moment too late: I could have said something else.

“Eh? And how can you be sure?”

I have another opportunity.

I thought it over, gave it my deepest reflection. But in the end, I only continued to tell the truth. “We’ve seen the changeling with our own eyes. They attacked my partner. They’re actively engaging in subterfuge against the investigation. They’re real, Commander, and despite what you might think, we’ve spent every minute of our time on this case trying to bring them to justice.”

It may not have been the full truth—I wondered if I needed to say “I” instead of “we.”

“All right all right, I hear you. Just wanted to be sure,” he relented.

I nestled the phone deeper into my shoulder, about to make another comment. But a foreign sensation on my muzzle gave me pause: I felt a smudge of something wet brush up against my cheek.

“But really, I’m glad to hear that,” the commander continued.

I pulled the handset away from my face to take a closer look. Anybody would have recognized it, but I had a career of experience with it—blood. Fresh, too. Just a little bit, no more than a milliliter smeared across the handset and now my cheek. But it was there, and any amount of it was enough to be concerning.

“We might not be going home early, but it sounds like me and my colts can at least look forward to some action, now can’t we! … Hey, you still there, Detective?”
> 20. Cold Snap
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes, sleep was like a timid alley cat. The cadet had read that in a book at some point, or maybe heard it from a friend. In any case, on nights like these he felt he really understood its meaning: The more you called out to it and the more you chased it, then the more it ran away from you. But if you just lay down and ignore it, made no sudden moves over the course of several hours, then the cat just might work up the courage to approach you.

At around midnight, Bluebird could finally hear the cat approaching. But then, there began this tapping. A gentle but persistent tapping, a scraping sort of sound that made the cat lift its paw in alarm and look from side to side. Silly creature, afraid of the creaks and the cracks of this old house settling…

A piercing SNAP just outside the window sent the cadet bolting upright as the cat hissed and bounded away.

Crack  tinkle tinkle.

And then it was quiet.

He didn’t know what he had heard, but it was absolutely not the house settling. He twisted around on his bed to look through the window above his headboard. The storm had died down, but visibility through the (literal) frosted glass wasn’t great. He couldn’t make out anything amiss in the small garden which his room on the second floor overlooked, and the tapping and scraping had ceased following the louder racket. Maybe it had just been icicles snapping off the gutter? Or a mound of snow from the roof piling up and—

Never mind. Amidst the shadows of the garden he could make out what appeared to be a body splayed across a mound of dirt and shattered pottery. His heart began to race, but he held out hope that it was just a trick of the light. Up until the body began to writhe about slightly, ahah…

Dear god. What was going on at this villa?

Bluebird tried the window, but it was sealed at the seams. Flying down was a no-go. He sprang out of bed and made for the door.

There was a body, it was undeniable. But that body was moving, it was still alive. Bluebird knew that he was too optimistic as an investigator, too emotionally invested overall. He knew it clouded his judgment. When push came to shove, though, when a crisis actually emerged, he liked to think he wasn’t such a sorry excuse of a cadet.

He threw the door open and prepared to glide at full speed down the hallway, but turned around when he remembered it: the beacon. It was right there, sitting on his nightstand, completely inert. Despite this shadowy figure (victim? perpetrator?) outside, Pesco’s traps hadn’t been triggered. Who, and how?

Not a further thought to waste on it. He went back to snatch it before doubling back, then took to the air down the corridor as fast as his wings could carry him. But, no sooner did he start than he had to brake to a halt once again. He heard a familiar voice, issuing from further down the hall:

“No. This case is tricky, but it is no false alarm.”

It was Pesco. Bluebird was glad he had stopped when he had.

“We’ve seen the changeling with our own eyes. They attacked my partner. They’re actively engaging in subterfuge against the investigation. They’re real, Commander, and despite what you might think…”

The cadet winced. He knew the choice he would make, no matter how long he thought about it: He wasn’t a useless partner, but he would have to be a faithless one, just this time.

He apologized to Pesco under his breath. If that was the changeling out there, injured and helpless, where would that leave them? What happened then?

He turned around and glided down a detour route as he quietly unzipped his saddlebag. He located the syringe (Pesco had never asked for it back) and held it at the ready. The Pesco in Bluebird’s mind made him promise that he wouldn’t be an idiot about this.

He sailed down a staircase and into some of the lesser-frequented halls of the villa. He knew there was a back door around here, one that led right to that garden—

Pain. Pain, and sparkling lights. For several seconds, that was all there was to experience. A blurry awareness returned to him, an awareness that he had collided headlong with something as he had burned around a corner. Yeah, he really preferred flying outdoors, thanks…

He opened his eyes to learn that something had in fact been Girard, who was already getting up to his feet and stammering his unwarranted apologies for not watching where he was going. That kid’s skull must have been made of something else.

The last stars evaporated from the cadet’s vision to reveal Grid Iron standing behind the griffon. “Yo! We were just looking for you!”

Girard reached out a claw to help Bluebird to his hooves. But just as he went to grab it, Girard recoiled with a gasp and withdrew it. His effusive apologies died on his lips, and he stared vacantly at the cadet.

“Woah, watch where you point that thing!” Grid said.

Bluebird looked at his outstretched hoof. Oh—he was still gripping that syringe, business-end forward. Not the politest way to greet someone, admittedly. He stuffed the syringe back in his pocket and righted himself to his four hooves.

He just noticed: The right side of Girard’s face, his whole cheek, glistened with blood. Had he busted his face open when they crashed? A closer inspection revealed this was not the case, for better or for worse. The bleeding stemmed from a slice wound in the form of three horizontal fissures across his cheek—shallow, but sharp.

“The changeling. He’s back at it again,” Grid said. “You just run in with him too, Bluebird?”

The changeling did that to Girard? “No, but something is going on outside in the garden. An emergency. Stay put, you two.”

“Outside?” Grid echoed. He looked to Girard. “Is that where you saw him run?”

“Um, umm…”

By this point, Bluebird had already left the conversation, but he caught sight of Grid immediately defying his command to stay put as he scooped the hapless griffon up by the arm and galloped alongside the cadet.

“Heck no, I’m backing you up on this!” he bellowed. “You’re going to have to hold me back once I get my hooves on the little freak!”

There was no time for this. Bluebird could only grit his teeth and hope that his unsolicited adolescent backup would prove a help and not a hindrance. “I’m not going to hold you back, Grid. You’re going to have to control yourself. You got that?”

Grid shot him a rebellious look. Girard trailed alongside like a kite on a short string.

Soon enough, they reached the back door. It was a delicate and unassuming little exit, made of more glass than wood. Bluebird slowed to a stop and reached out for the knob, but then caught himself—his plan, he realized, it may have had a kink in it. The door alarm, was it still armed?

Grid had no such second thoughts.

“Wait!” Bluebird called. It took too long to reach him; by the time Grid processed the order, he had already thrown his griffon baggage to the wayside and wrenched the door open.

“Yeah?” he hurled in reply, legs spread and ready to sprint out into the snowy night.

The cadet hastened to retrieve his beacon. But still the thing was dark, quiet, inert. Was it broken? Had Pesco forgotten to arm this door? Was the trap discovered somehow and disarmed?

There was far too much going on to speculate. “Never mind. Just play it safe, Grid, and stay in my line of sight. That’s an order.”

Grid nodded his understanding before stepping outside and scouting his surroundings. The cadet had his misgivings about allowing a civilian, a minor no less, to take point in an emergency like this. But truth be told, the earth pony athlete’s steely build and even steelier attitude in this moment led Bluebird to believe he could more than handle his own if it came to blows.

It was doubtless that he could handle Bluebird, if it came to blows.

Meanwhile, Girard was nowhere near as eager to follow along. He shivered slightly at the threshold from the cold outdoor air, and drew a hesitant step back in an effort to slink away.

Bluebird clapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry you got dragged along, but you really shouldn’t go off on your own at a time like this.”

It didn’t click for him.

“It’s not safe.”

“… Oh.”

“Just stick with me, all right?”

Escorted by the cadet, Girard stumbled with halting steps through the threshold and outside. Hooves, claws, and paws all crunched through the thick layer of snow on the garden cement.

Grid, in the meantime, was throwing his head left to right, left to right, running forward and back like a dog on a chain to try to get a better view, all the while clearly straining to stick to the cadet’s order. The garden was a labyrinth of shadows, obstructed by the villa from the illumination of the night’s half moon. Only a small amount of light bouncing off the snow helped to distinguish the silhouettes of enormous potted plants and elaborate garden fencing.

The young earth pony took an about-turn too quickly, tripped over an ankle-high trellis, and fell flat onto his face. “Can’t see donkey dick out here,” he said, before immediately returning to his routine.

There was a better way to do this, the cadet realized. He looked around the ground, and despite the mess Grid had so far made of the snow, Bluebird managed to find them: hoofprints.

“B-B-Blanche…?” he heard the griffon say through chattering teeth. It seems he had come to the same idea. And Bluebird had to agree, these cue stick-like holes in the snow could be nothing but deer tracks.

“Or Bon,” the cadet added. Suddenly, he had an inkling who could have known to disarm the door alarm before leaving…

He hailed Grid over and told him of their plan to follow the hoofprints.

“Yeah, good idea, Little Guns.” His face was still stinging red from its date with the cement. “Good plan.”

Now, it was no longer a search—it was only a walk and a wait, patiently pursuing these tracks wherever they led, preparing for the worst behind each corner they turned. The prints kept close to the side of the villa, never veering off into the garden but for obstacles in the way.

All the while, there was only the crunching of snow to be heard. The crunching snow as well as the shivering, chattering, and throaty wheezing and coughing from Girard. Something about it was unnerving to the cadet. His shuddering, his quaking and lurching right now, he was handling the cold less like a griffon with plenty of brown fat and winter plumage, and more like a plucked chicken with pneumonia. The bird’s very shoulder felt like it was turning into a slab of cold meat under the cadet’s hoof…

Grid loosed a guttural cry: “Bon!”

There the scene was, the very one he had glimpsed outside his bedroom window. A body—Bon’s body, he could finally say for sure—lay with face and antlers burrowed in the dirt from a shattered potted plant. Bluebird’s stomach churned at the sight, and he could only imagine how much worse it was for the two kids. But he resisted the urge to look away, and he was glad he did: He could see Bon was still breathing.

In fact, he was moving. He seemed to have heard Grid’s cry, and now was attempting to stand. But what the cadet had mistaken for a foreleg was actually a hindleg bent entirely the wrong way, and Bon soon fell back into the dirt with a yelp and a whimper.

“Bon!” Grid began to scoop the deer up with a foreleg.

“Don’t move him!” Bluebird shouted. Didn’t that fancy high school teach anything about first aid?

In the same moment, the cadet scanned the scene for signs of danger. He found none. However, he did glimpse the glimmering metal of something curious, lying just nearby: It was the grappling hook they had confiscated from Grid’s room. Slowly but surely, things were adding up in the cadet’s head.

Grid complied with Bluebird’s order. He lay Bon down gently onto his back, but not without assaulting him with a disorienting string of questions as to his health and the changeling’s whereabouts. Bon ignored these, and preoccupied himself with wiping his nose and eyes with his hooves—an action which he quickly regretted, if the convulsive squinting from the dirt he’d rubbed into his corneas was any indication.

Once his vision returned, Bon sat up. He craned his neck inward, as if to examine himself and the state he was in. As he did so, his whimpering and his sniffling morphed into something else.

“Oh look at me,” he chuckled hoarsely.

His leg was broken, and his smoking jacket soiled and torn beyond recognition. A foundation of dirt and snot caked his face and framed two red, puffy eyes. He reeked of fertilizer and exotic wine.

Put simply, the deer was a mess.

“Fitting, isn’t it?”

And like that, the chuckle vanished. Tears like rivulets now streamed down his face, and his chest heaved as he began to weep.

“The heck do you mean, dude?” Grid’s face was screwed up, mixed with emotions. “Where’s the changeling?”

“Who knows,” Bon choked through the sobs. “You’re not the changeling. That I know. You never were.”

“Uh, yeah! Is that bad news or something?”

“Oh Grid,” he said, his chuckle rekindling. “You’re such a fool. You’re such a tool, and so am I. Can’t you see? We fit like lock and key…”

In the background, the cadet went to recover the grappling hook. Its rope was detached from the head, having cleanly snapped the fragile eyelet it had been fed through.

Bluebird held the broken instrument in his wing as he confronted the drunk, sobbing, jilted young master. “You must’ve taken this from Pesco’s room, huh?”

“Yes.”

“My mentor’s not the trusting type. You used a spare key to his room, to get at it while he slept?”

“Nope.”

“Did you pick the lock?”

“Oui, c’est ça.”

“And then, before you snuck out, you made sure to disarm the trap you had helped the detective set up on the door?”

“Why Cadet, they should promote you to detective!”

“And all of this—and please tell me I’m wrong about this part, Bon—all of this, just to test if that grappling hook we found was actually functional? If it could have been anything else but planted evidence?”

Another wistful smile. “What can I say. It couldn’t even support my scrawny body. Like my theory, it was a piece of junk.” He hiccuped, and added, “But I have to admit, it had a comedic sense of timing, didn’t it? Letting me climb for so long, so high, before cluing me in to reality. Mais non, I believe I’ve heard this joke before…”

“Seriously, dude?” Grid said. “You couldn’t have figured out a safer way to test something like that?”

“If the rope snapped, who really cared what happened afterward?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A rhetorical one.”

“You’re an idiot. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Am I though?”

The two continued to bicker like this.

The cadet no longer had a place in the conversation—their issue was not one to do with the changeling. He looked back at Girard, however, and realized this night’s madness wasn’t over.

“Girard? Everything okay?”

Like Bon’s, Bluebird’s question was rhetorical. The griffon was squatted in the snow, gazing at his navel, claws gripped over his pale face as if to bury his nails into his skull. Strangely, he was no longer shivering, not even a little bit—he was stiff as a statue but for swimming, blinking eyes.

This was the worst timing for a panic attack.

He turned to the other two. “Grid, Bon. Watch over each other for a minute, okay?”

Their bickering had turned into shouting, and it was unclear whether either of them really heard the order. They were, however, watching over each other very closely, and looked to remain that way.

Feeling like the last survivor of a horror flick, the cadet by himself dragged the griffon back along the garden path and toward the door of the villa from which they had exited. Girard stumbled alongside the cadet as if in a trance.

“C’mon, Girard… It’s all right… All right? … Ahah…”

Girard was cold as a stone.

“Bon’s fine, Blanche is fine, you’re fine, it’s all going to be fine…”

“Gloria?” he muttered.

“Gloria’s fine, too. She’s just inside.”

“Are we, are we leaving,” he said to no one. “Already?”

“Huh?”

There was no answer.

“Listen, kid… You’re going to get through this. Everything. I promise.”

Ten minutes ago, the cadet had been asleep. Since then, he had juggled the roles of athlete, detective, and now counselor. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made it hard to sound compassionate. But somehow, through some miracle, his disjointed, vague words of comfort had their effect. By the time they reached the door, the griffon had snapped out of his trance and resumed his “normal” course of shivering.

Once inside, Girard took it upon himself to shake the snow off his feathers and wipe his face dry of his own stream of tears—to his credit over Bon, he didn’t indulge in them. He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, on a slow and steady rhythm. He looked very familiar with the routine.

He worked up the breath to utter some words of explanation. “… S-sorry, it’s just… seeing them all, my friends, c-c-come undone like this… I-I-I-I—”

“Ahah.” Bluebird raised Girard’s head up by the chin with the tip of a wing. A droplet of blood from Girard’s cheek stained Bluebird’s furthest primary feather. “They’ll be all right. Don’t worry about them. You just look after yourself.”

This provoked no response from Girard.

“Hang in there, kid. Just keep breathing.”

After about a minute of Girard’s self-soothing and relaxation techniques, the color finally returned to his face. He had warmed up by this point, and no longer shivered. Nonetheless, the same ghosts seemed to haunt him. He knew there had to be ghosts haunting him, if that gash on his face was as painful as it looked.

“Girard,” the cadet spoke up, “I’m guessing it wasn’t a changeling that gave you that swipe, was it?”

He tensed up. “Who else could it have been?”

“Do you really want me to say it?”

“… It was, it was her. Gloria. The changeling d-disguised as Gloria.”

“That’s what we can tell the others, if that’s what you would like,” Bluebird said. “But, are you so sure the changeling is the one responsible?”

He rubbed his shoulder.

“Because if it is, the cop in me will have to ask you to revisit every last detail of whatever happened. But if it isn’t, well, we can always talk about it later. We can say the changeling got away. We can tend to your and Bon’s injuries, and we can just go back to bed.”

It took a while for Girard to think it over. He looked down at his open palm, as if examining a poker hand. He looked back up, as if realizing he had to fold. He gave a dismal nod.

As far as admissions went, it would have to do. Bluebird felt he had a trash hand, too.

“Every single thing has been my fault, not hers.”

There was more to be said, but neither of them found the words for it.
> 21. Boil Over
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

My crystal beacon never sounded during the night. In other words, my spider’s web of channeling wire had not netted me any bugs. So far as I was aware, everyone at the villa, save for Gloria and I, had slept sound as foals all through the night.

On the one hoof, I should have been happy. The changeling was running out of time to make their move. But on the other hoof, so too was I running out of time to catch them.

I wanted to resolve this case on my own. I wanted to tear past the lies and the traps. I wanted to see for myself the good and the evil that truly resided in this changeling’s heart, and in what ratio.

No more sympathy. No more hatred. No more running. No more fighting. No more framing. No more begging. No more weepy-eyed promises of sanctuary that we can’t keep to a creature that we can’t trust.

Was I the only one who still cared about the truth?

On the third and final morning of the investigation, I rose out of bed bright and early. In particular, brighter and earlier than my partner, who I did not bother to wake. An unusual chill hung in the air as I drifted through the corridors of the villa. I saw not a single face on my way to Zorn’s bedroom.

I gave a firm three knocks on his door. After a shuffle from inside, the zebra answered.

“Pesco,” he said flatly, before returning to a seat at his lab desk. It seemed that he, too, was up early with his own work.

I stepped through the door he had left open and closed it behind me. It was a warmer welcome than I was expecting, all things considered. “Good morning, Zorn.”

The zebra took little notice of my existence. He sat with his back to me, grinding a pile of dark purple herbs with a mortar and pestle. At regular intervals he would sprinkle a measured amount of the resulting paste into one beaker among a four-by-four grid, and then repeat his grinding and sprinkling for the next beaker in line. Perhaps he had been at this process for an hour already, before I arrived; just as likely that he would continue for another hour, so long as he could ignore my presence.

“Do you know why I’m here, Zorn?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. But I’m sure you have your ideas.”

“Something to do with the changeling, I would suppose. You have had a singular focus on unraveling them.”

“I’m sorry, though it is my job. You seem to be the only one who begrudges me for it.”

“I notice your partner has his own concerns.” He took a moment to measure and sprinkle some herb paste. “I like your partner.”

“I like him, too. I’ll give him your regards. But tell me, how do you feel about the Royal Guard?” I said. “That’s what has me coming around. The commander called me last night, and he says they’re making spectacular time through the mountains. They’re going to be here at noon.”

This, unlike anything else, gave the zebra pause. He finished sprinkling his current beaker and returned to the pestle and mortar. “And I suppose you expect me to take your word on that. I know what you are here for, now.”

“Believe me or don’t—in a few hours, we’ll see who was right. In the meantime, here’s a question: If I only wanted the changeling to be caught, no matter how or by whom, why would I not just sit on my hooves and wait for the Royal Guard anyway? This isn’t my idea of a vacation. I’m driven by my conscience alone.”

I found myself clacking my hoof in agitation against the floor, waiting for a response that never came.

“After all this time, I still don’t understand you, Zorn. You don’t fully trust either me or the changeling, so in lieu of admitting what you know about them, you sent me on my way with a big needle and told me to discover the truth for myself.” I shook my head. “That’s bizarre enough. What’s even more bizarre, is that now I’m the bad guy for doing exactly what you told me.”

“You held the truth in your hooves with that message of surrender,” he said. “You failed to recognize it. Without any evidence, you preferred to believe that there was malice written inside a scribble.”

Here was where Zorn was mistaken. He had no shortage of eccentricity, but this was the first sign of delusion. He had sent me away last night, thinking that I would have no means of uncovering the aborted message without the help of his scientific apparatuses. He had underestimated just how desperate I was to get at the truth. Like a changeling without love, I would shrivel up and die without the truth.

I trotted over to his desk where he was still hunched over, failing to give me even the courtesy of eye contact. I slid the message in front of him, scribble-side up. “Go ahead and take a look for yourself. Or just ask Grid what we found in his room, courtesy of our would-be whistleblower.”

Zorn put down the pestle, and scrutinized my face for signs of a bluff. He didn’t find what didn’t exist. He proceeded to clear his workspace before withdrawing from a drawer a slew of magnification lenses and light-emitting crystals. After drawing the blinds and shutting off the lights to his room, he began in earnest with his own investigation.

The zebra was deft with his tools, and he zeroed in on the winning wavelength. He put me and Bon to shame. I could see a frown tighten at the corner of his lips as he read the damning four words underneath the scribble:


Searched Grid’s closet yet??


But, so it seemed, he was not yet finished with his analysis. With a stubborn glint in his eye and that same dimple of a frown, he began to twist and turn the paper:


WHAT HAPPENS IF I COME ALONG PEACEFULLY?

over:

Searched Grid’s closet yet??


and back again:

WHAT HAPPENS IF I COME ALONG PEACEFULLY?


Zorn’s frown gave way to a deep and bitter scowl, his severe features illuminated from below by the crystals. I realized, then, what my singular focus had failed to hone in on before now: the handwriting. Both sides weren’t written by the same person.

“I see now what needs to be done,” Zorn declared. “I should not have abided this for as long as I have.”

In that moment, I came to another realization: I was not imagining the chill in the air, the one I had felt on the way to the zebra’s bedroom. Zorn’s breath hung like smoke in the air, and mine along with it.

He alighted from his workspace, and flipped the lights back on before sitting on his bed.

“It is quite cold in here, is it not, Pesco?” he said knowingly, while rubbing his hooves together.

“I’ve noticed.”

“It felt quite the same, one morning about two weeks ago. Later that same morning was when I would come to my first suspicions about the changeling,” he said. “Bon and I presumed a malfunction in the villa’s boilers. We were prepared to investigate the problem, but as it turned out, the problem fixed itself. I, and I alone, was of a curious mind to see this self-repairing boiler for myself.

“Pesco, I do not mean to be cryptic. It will be self-explanatory, if you go to the boiler room for yourself. Once you do, you will know everything I do about our past and present circumstances—and I pray you will have an appreciation for the complexity of our future.”





Earlier, my partner had told me he had investigated the boiler room and reported nothing of interest. I was not particularly surprised to learn that that was a lie. For a long time coming, I had sensed that I was the only one really left on this case. It was not a given that I could count on my partner—or the sledgehammer commander, or any of the kids—to make the right choices in this situation. It was not a given that I could count on myself to make the right choices. Now that I knew the truth, I no longer had faith that there were even any right choices to be made.

Here is what I found, when I visited that boiler room:

Before I’d stepped inside, I did not find it emitting that steady, low-frequency hiss that was so familiar to me by now. That morning, the boiler room, and perhaps the entire villa, was silent.

Once I’d stepped inside, I did not find the sweltering heat known to any functional boiler room. Neither did I find the adequate lighting or organizational principles common to any boiler room that was ever intended to be functional.

Instead, I found only the feeble, flickering glow of a series of dying fluorescent lights that did little to illuminate a morass of electrical cables snaking along the ground. It sufficed to say, it would come as no surprise to me if someone with a history of skulking around in the boiler room just so happened to have tripped over this or that cable, disconnecting this or that vital piece of machinery, and did not realize their mistake until hours later when a safety shut-off mechanism engaged and the villa went cold. And it would come as no surprise to me if this had happened not once, but twice now.

As I made my way into the furthest depths of the boiler room, I found one more source of light besides the fluorescents. A lit lantern on a workbench, far in the distance, beckoned my approach.

As I stumbled toward the workbench, I found three piles of winter gear stowed behind a line of water heaters. The largest among them consisted of an assortment of equipment for three out of the four resident species of the villa. This largest pile was also the most haphazardly assembled, as if cobbled together at random. The fourth species’ equipment was the content of the other two piles, very neatly arranged: They could each comprise the complete wardrobe for an individual hiker intent on a long trek, although one of these two piles included many more insulating baselayers than the other.

That fourth species was griffon.

At last, I reached the lantern and the workbench. And yet, I found myself transfixed not by the peculiar arrangement on the bench, but by the contents of the wastebin just beside it. I had no rational basis as to why I chose to investigate the bin before the bench; perhaps, like with the changeling’s note, it was my lifelong and professional infatuation with what was discarded rather than with what was put up on display.

In the wastebin, I found some papers. Papers with nothing more on them than some names written in cursive, but these were some very telling names, written a very telling amount of times. Here is what a few of them looked like:

‎ 
‎ 
‎ 

Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor ‎ Chancellor‎ ‎Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter  Chancellor Cross Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Chancellor Chancellor Cross-Canter    Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor  Cross-Canter Chancellor  Cross-Canter   Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor   Cross-Canter ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor  Cross-Canter Chancellor  Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎  Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor‎ ‎ ‎ Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎ Chancellor‎ ‎ Cross-Canter  Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎ ‎ Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter‎  ‎ ‎ ‎ Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Canter Chancellor  Cross-Canter   Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter  Chancellor Cross-Canter‎ ‎ Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter Chancellor‎ ‎ ‎ Cross-Canter Chancellor Cross-Canter  Chancellor Cross-Canter

Bridd Bridlebit Roy Bridlebit, Royal Clerk‎ ‎ ‎ Bridlebit, Royal Clerk   Bridlebit Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit,‎ Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk‎ ‎ B B B Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk   Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Bridlebit Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit,  Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridelbi Bridlebit, Royal Clerk‎ ‎ Bridlebit,  Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit,  Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk ‎ ‎Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk‎ ‎  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit,  Royal Clerk‎ Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk‎‎‎ ‎ Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk ‎Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, ‎ Royal Clerk  Bridlebit, Royal Clerk ‎Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk  Bridlebit,‎  Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk Bridlebit, Royal Clerk

Gorget, Griffonstone ‎Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Gorget Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liason Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorg Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison

Glenda, Griffonstone ‎Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Gorget, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Gleend Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Glenda Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glend Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison Glenda, Griffonstone Liaison


K King King Grayson King Grayson Grayson King Grayson King Gray Grey King Graysn G G G G G K K K K G K G K G King Grayson Kan't fucking Get it King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King King Grayson King Gray  Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grays Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson K King King Grayson King Grayson Grayson King‎  Grayson King Grayson‎  King ‎ ‎ Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King‎ ‎ ‎ Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King‎  Grayson King Grayson‎  King ‎ ‎ Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King‎ ‎ ‎ Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson King Grayson‎  King Grayson King Grayson King Grayson King ‎ Grayson

‎ 
‎ 
‎ 

Clearly, someone was a fan of others’ signatures—so much so, that they went to painstaking lengths to learn how to replicate them precisely. If the first few wobbly attempts in any set could be distinguished from one another by the occasional slip-up or variation, then the later attempts could only be compared to the work of an autoquill.

As I rifled deeper through the trash I came across yet more papers, however less interesting than the signature practice; it was merely a backlog of Girard’s high school homework assignments, in various stages of completion. Perhaps they, along with everything else in the wastebin, were deemed to be of no further use to whoever had pitched them.

At the very bottom, underneath all else, I unearthed the last but not the least of the wastebin’s curiosities: a pocket-sized photo album. By all appearances, it was a family photo album, serving to remind its owner—and whoever they might share it with—of the happy family that is the Kralle-Karom royalty. Here is a description of the subjects of several of the photos:



Gloria

Girard

Gloria and Girard

King Grayson

Queen Gloria

Gloria and King Grayson

Gloria and Queen Gloria

Girard again

Older griffon royal

Gloria and older griffon royal



Most of these photos were taken in front of rocky outcrops, caves, and boulders. While one might be led to believe these features were most indicative of the Griffonstone mountains, I couldn’t help but notice that not one photo among the collection actually had a mountain in frame, or contained any geographical feature one couldn’t find in Equestria if one truly wanted to.

I also couldn’t help but notice that none of the photos depicted more than one of Gloria’s supposed family members at a time. Not a single one.

But enough rooting around in the garbage. I moved on to the workbench, which had a host of its own curiosities to showcase.

The very first thing I noticed were the dark red candles, numerous enough to turn the workbench into an altar if they were lit, but none of them were. In fact, none of their fully intact wicks showed signs of ever having been burned. And yet the candles were all melted at their bases anyway, some of them reduced at this point to nothing but waxy stubs.

The means? I had to imagine the nearby hand lighter had something to do with it. The motive? I had to imagine the forged royal seals had something to do with it. They were practiced over and over again on nearby parchment, just like the signatures in the trash.

These practice seals weren’t the only clue. I finally found Gloria’s hidden book on the workbench, and its contents were exactly as she had described (being the honest bird that she was). I also found a number of razors and fine sculpting blades strewn about the workspace, each of them caked with dried red wax. They framed the practice pages, as well as the documents where the final products ended up.

These documents with the final products—that is, the forged royal seals, of Griffonstonian, Equestrian, and Hippogriffian authority—included but were not limited to:



Passports for two young griffons. Although I recognized neither of their names, I had to say that one of them bore a striking resemblance to Gloria, albeit with some ruffled facial feathers and a different hairstyle. The other griffon, for their part, bore zero resemblance to Girard. They weren’t even the same subspecies. They weren’t even the same gender.

Extensive documents, written in intensive legalese, conferring an order of political asylum to the two young griffons on behalf of the Hippogriffian government. Apparently, the two griffs had suffered some great injustice in their home country. Which country, I was not surprised to read, was not Kralle-Karom.

Promissory notes from the Bank of Vanhoover, backed by the full faith and trust of the Equestrian government. These checks did not amount to a fortune; my guess was they would be just enough to finance a modest cross-country voyage, but not enough to induce a closer look by whomever might be paid with them.



All in all, it was enough. Enough that I could be certain now of the perps responsible, and the bigger picture. All that remained were the details, and the resolution.

That is to say, all that remained was one final interrogation.
> 22. Return to Sender
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The griffons’ shared bedroom was already open when I reached it. The right chamber—Gloria’s chamber—was empty, while the left was occupied: My partner stood over the bedside of Girard, who wore a large bandage over his right cheek and a lackadaisical smile on his beak. There was a dispirited, seemingly disembodied muttering which I would not have attributed to my partner but for the fact that Girard's beak was not moving. I rapped my hoof against the doorframe to announce my presence.

Bluebird turned around to face me. “Oh, Pesco,” he noted dully. He pushed a feeble grin. “This is a bit familiar, isn’t it?”

I gave a nod. Like the day prior, we found ourselves together in Girard's room again. Based on the look on my partner’s face, I had to wonder if we weren’t here for similar reasons. My partner’s next question confirmed we were on the same wavelength:

“What brings you around?”

I cast a glance at Girard on the bed; his presence constrained my response. But to tell the truth, it was a stretch to say Girard was present at all. He lay outstretched on his stomach, his neck contorted in order to gaze up at us from his pillow. His eyes seemed to swim about like bubbles of foam in freshly stirred coffee, looking everywhere and nowhere at once, and that wide, lackadaisical smile writhed like a worm on his beak. Something was very wrong with the bird—or should it be said, the bug.

“I checked your bedroom, but you weren’t there. Blanche was up and told me I might find you here,” I said. I proceeded to nod in Girard’s direction. “What’s the matter with him?”

My partner’s grin faded as he pointed out a nearby empty bottle of cold medicine. I could smell it on Girard's breath from a distance. “I guess Gloria’s been taking good care of him,” he said. “Like always.”

I’ll say. Girard was medicated beyond the point of interrogation, and I could only imagine that was the point.

I knelt down to check the bird’s pulse, all the while as he giggled some incoherencies to nobody in particular. His heart was racing, his breathing uneven, and if I stared at his feathers closely… it was as if they shimmered and shifted before my eyes like an optical illusion. I did not think this last symptom could be attributed to the cold medicine.

“Gloria has all but given him an overdose,” I said. “We should consider ourselves lucky that he’s even conscious.”

“Yeah, you didn’t exactly miss out on much meaningful conversation.”

I asked my partner directly, “What conversation would that have been, if he were in any fit state to talk?”

“Ohhh, well, ahah.” He rubbed his neck raw. “Just a strange little thing that was on my mind as I was lying in bed. A bit of fridge logic, you know? Nothing much. But also, ahah… I don't think I slept a wink last night.”

“I think Pesco will understand the feeling,” Girard drawled, enjoying a moment of partial lucidity. “Yesterday, he had those same red eyes as you…”

 “Anyway,” Bluebird continued, looking now at the bird, “it was something you yourself said, Girard. Or at least, something you told Pesco, and he told me after the fact. It made sense at the time, until I really started to think about it. And when I did, ahah, I guess some other things started to make sense, too!

“What Pesco told me was that you didn’t think changelings handled the cold as well as, ahah, ‘us mammals.’ If you forgive the weird phrasing—we all have our uncharismatic moments, don’t we?—it does sound reasonable, doesn’t it? We mammals—you know, ponies and deer and zebras… and griffons—we have thick coats on our hides and warm blood in our veins. A changeling, on the other hoof, doesn’t have any protection against the elements. But, what about when they transform into a creature that does? I couldn’t think of why that wouldn’t be an obvious fix. It was a strange thing to me, but I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, and also not an expert on changelings. So I went and asked Blanche about it this morning—”

“Blanche,” Girard repeated, as if by reflex. “Blanche, yes, is a little strange. But I swear on the stalactites, I would have it no other way… still love her, I do, all the same…” he sang before trailing off.

“And what did she tell you?” I prompted my partner.

“She tells me that it ultimately has to do with one of those misconceptions the public has about changelings. They really seem to be a misunderstood lot, don’t they? I guess Blanche’s take on it is that they wouldn’t be so misunderstood and reviled if they weren’t so deceptive. To each their own opinion, I suppose.

“Anyway, this misconception, she says, consists of a misnomer for their entire race: The truth is, changelings don’t actually do a whole lot of changing. Even after they transform, they don’t become the genuine article, in other words. She told me to imagine a changeling trying to pass itself off as a griffon, just as a hypothetical: They may grow their exoskeleton to approximate the rough size and shape of a griffon, and erupt all over their body with these chitinous little extrusions meant to mimic the texture of feathers and fur and what have you. But in the end, the transformation is only an illusion, she tells me. The changeling channels most of its magic not into sculpting its own body, you see, but into carefully reflecting the light this way or that, and then filling in the gaps of the illusion with a passively exuded hypnotic field.

“It all sounds so impressive to me! But ahah, I guess all the illusion magic in the world couldn’t keep a bug in a blizzard from freezing to death, now could it?”

Bluebird hadn’t told a joke, but Girard laughed all the same.

“And while I had her,” he continued, “I had in mind to ask Blanche something else. It was something I’d had an idea about for a day or so, but I figured that she or Pesco must have already thought about it and dismissed it. That idea was: What happens when a changeling loses some part of its body? Does the illusion stick around?

“She thought I was asking on account of the wing fragment. She explained that a healthy changeling will normally leave a reservoir of its magic behind in any part that detaches from its body. These sheddings can maintain the illusion for up to a month! Impressive, huh? Apparently, back in the olden days, they would take the hair of a suspected changeling and play exactly this waiting game to determine their guilt or innocence. Or, if a town was feeling crueler than it was patient, they would just do what Bon suggested and lock them up and starve them of any and all affection!

“All that is to say, the undisguised changeling wing fragment could only have been left behind accidentally if our changeling was feeling very hungry. Blanche took that to mean that it must have been left behind intentionally, but if that’s the case, well, ahah… then I don’t know what to make of the color of the blood I woke up to on the tip of my wing this morning! Or on the cheek of your face right now, Pesco!”

He aimed a trembling wing in my direction. I observed on his furthest primary a smear of blood, or at least, what I had long since come to recognize as blood but for a single key difference: its ghastly green hue. I turned to examine myself in a nearby standing mirror. Bluebird was not mistaken; that same green stain existed on my right cheek, perhaps exactly where the bloodied phone receiver had brushed my face the night prior.

“Girard…” my partner whispered, “… you’ve been hungry for a long time now, haven’t you?”

Bluebird hadn’t told a joke, but Girard laughed all the same.

There was no time for this. I leaned in and clacked my hooves beside his ears, trying to snap him to attention. “Girard, I’m afraid the game is over. You and Gloria have run out of time. Together, my partner and I have all the evidence we need to arrects you and Gloria for forgery and identity theft on a nigh-geopolitical scale. Your acts may even constitute treason.”

Girard gargled his spit like mouthwash.

“However, you may have lost the game,” I said, feeling my throat tighten a little, “but I don’t think my partner or I count this as a victory. It’s not the game I thought it was. I see that now. The fact of the matter is, we’ve all run out of time—the Royal Guard phoned last night, and they’re not days away, they’re hours away. And I told them the truth: I told them I’d seen you with my own two eyes. Do you know where the truth will get you in a situation like this?”

He swallowed his mouthwash and blinked at me attentively.

“It won’t get you far.” Blanche’s speech was still fresh in my mind. “You asked me a question yesterday, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to respond. You asked what would happen if you turned yourself in. On behalf of the Royal Guard, my answer is it wouldn’t make a lick of difference, given what you and Gloria are already guilty of. On behalf of myself, my answer is that I don’t know. I simply don’t know what needs to happen, Girard. We still don’t have all the facts about the present, let alone the future. You need to tell us your side of the story.”

I had his focus, but only barely. Girard’s intoxicated euphoria gradually gave way to something more melancholic as he muttered into his pillow, “I just don’t understand.”

“Hm, don’t understand what exactly?” Bluebird asked.

“Don’t understand why… why she would write such a beautiful story about changelings… about a love farmer, falling in love… coming out to everyone, changing everyone’s minds… Why would she write all of that, and then call the police on a changeling, just for saying hello?” He shook his head, and appeared to make himself quite dizzy in the process. “Blanche, yes, is a little strange.”

I sighed, and turned back to my partner. “This is getting nowhere.”

“Seems like it.”

“We’re going to need to get at this through Gloria, and fast. I wasn't lying about the Guard. Commander Brightdawn said they’ll be here by noon. I suggest we tranq Girard with the magic suppressant just to be safe, and then go—”

“Wait just a moment, Pesco,” my partner said calmly. “I should tell you, Blanche gave me something before I left. It was the parchment she promised she would return to us. And it’s weird, I asked her why but she wouldn’t explain why she… Well, she told me to give it to Girard.”

My partner unzipped a saddlebag and pulled out the former piece of evidence. It was intact, but no longer in its original form: The parchment was folded into a quarter of its former size, and inked writing bled through the creases.

“She write some sort of letter?” I said, unamused.

“Suppose so.”

In lieu of any other action in this pressing moment, Bluebird took to fiddling with his tie.

I felt my brow furrow. “And what does it say?”

“She didn’t tell me not to read it, but I feel like she should have, so, I haven’t…”

But then I realized its significance, and at that very same moment, I think Girard did, too. His swimming eyes finally came to rest and focused on something, that something being the twice-folded parchment in Bluebird’s hoof. He sat upright on his bed, looking even more ill than before.

“Blanche w-wrote back?” he said.

In one motion I snatched the parchment from my partner, unfolded it, and began scanning the first few lines of the letter. I had already reached my conclusion as to its contents: “We can’t show him this.”

“Why not?” my partner protested.

Because he’s already on the brink of cardiac arrhythmia. “Because it’s irrelevant, and right now we need to—”

I’d taken my eyes off the accused, and paid the price; Girard, who was docile and immobilized but a moment ago, now whirled past me in a blur as he swiped the paper from my hoof. He staggered away and slammed into the doorframe, still reeling from the medicine. I immediately gave chase, only to damn near kill myself tripping over his dirty laundry on the floor.

“Bluebird!” I called out as an impotent heap on the ground. “Stop him!”

But Bluebird did not stop anyone. He remained rooted where he stood, perfectly aloof.

It was too late now, anyway. Girard, who was collapsed in a slump at the doorframe with the parchment in his lap, had certainly read the gist of the letter by now. I could only defer to my partner’s judgment as I picked myself up off the ground and limped over next to Girard. I was soon joined by my partner. As an unhappy trio, we read the contents of the letter in silence:





Dear Girard,


Thank you for your support, as a fan and as a friend. I am glad my stories have consistently entertained you over the years.

I need to ask you to stop reading into my stories any more deeply than that.

I need to ask you to stop reading into our relationship any more deeply than that.

I need to ask you to stop leaving toolmarks on my windowsill. Or more precisely, I need to ask you to stop reading my work before I'm ready to share it.

My apologies that this letter is two days late—perhaps we misunderstood each other's messages? But that's strange, since I've never known you to misinterpret the meaning behind my stories, even the more convoluted ones—perhaps we only see what we want to see?

Speaking of what we want: I don’t want anyone in my life who doesn’t respect my boundaries. If I need to explain why, then I can't explain why. It will fall on deaf ears.

But I'll admit, I feel I know less, now that I know more. Maybe you know the true meaning of Changeling Ringing better than I do. “Death of the author” is a fashionable phrase these days, after all.

So perhaps one day I'll publish a second edition of Changeling Ringing—it'll have the exact same words, but an entirely different message.

Such a large revision, however, will take me time to process.

I need to ask you to be patient.

BD







I reached the end of the letter, but there was no indication that Girard or my partner had yet finished. So I read it again, only to reach the end again. And again. And then one more time still. I understood that we all must have been rereading the letter multiple times, waiting for the world to start turning again.

I decided it was most prudent to stay quiet. Girard, for his part, was still as a corpse—albeit one with its eyelids peeled clean off. Among the three of us, it was my partner who flinched first:

“Hey there, kid…” he tried gently. “Buddy?”

This was the corpse’s cue to reanimate. Without a word, Girard stood up. Politely handed the letter back to me. Traipsed into the shared bedroom’s common space and toward the exit.

“Girard?” Bluebird tried again.

With a face and a gait like a bird possessed, Girard followed through on his trancelike departure out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Bluebird started after him with soft steps and misty eyes, but I passed Bluebird by at a much brisker pace of my own: The confirmed perp is simply waltzing out of the interrogation.

I reached the exit a mere moment after Girard had, but my first glimpse around the threshold was of the bird in full flight all the way down the hall—he had broken into a mad dash just as soon as he had left our sight.

“He’s making a break for it!”

I whipped back around at my partner, skeptical that I would be receiving any help at all from this point onward. To my surprise, he spared only an instant to wipe his eyes before taking to the air himself and darting past me. I galloped after him to keep the pace.

Not only did Girard have a head start on us, but he was more familiar with the cramped and tortuous layout of his friend’s villa. He gained ground on us, and we soon lost all sight of him in our pursuit. However, this was not an issue. If we couldn’t rely on our eyes, we could rely on our ears; Girard’s weeping and wailing as he went meant he truly had nowhere to hide.

We rounded corner after corner guided by nothing but the peals of pure anguish. Girard started to sputter as he lost his breath. He choked and hacked and slammed into walls with greater and greater frequency, his stamina and coordination no doubt hamstrung by the pitiful state he was in both physically and emotionally.

We closed the distance he had gained on us, and he reentered our sights. I braced myself to tackle him by his hindlegs dangling in the air, but it seemed fortune was on his side as he flew around what would have been his very last corner: We had reached the spiral staircase that led down into the foyer.

Wheezing and whimpering on his lopsided flight path, Girard clipped his shoulder on the banister and spun into a crash landing onto the carpeted floor below. He picked himself up—a testament to his endurance that he was still conscious—and looked frantically about his surroundings. The foyer was not empty. On the divan Grid and Bon sat as a pair, the former tending to a makeshift splint on the latter’s hindleg (I was beginning to wonder if I hadn’t missed something important last night), and on the far side of the room, perhaps just having walked in from an adjoining corridor, there stood his dearest “cousin” Gloria, gawking bewilderedly at his distress.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself into her chest, draping his dead weight over her shoulders.

“You were right all along!” he cried, clutching her tightly. “You were r-right, right all along… I should have listened…! It’s all f-fallen apart, just like you said…”

My partner glided over the banister and floated down to the floor at a respectful distance from the unfolding drama. I kept a keen eye on the perps and the scene at large as I descended the stairs, wary of how this would unfold.

For a moment, Gloria’s claws flexed and shook, her nails protruding like knives as they hovered just behind Girard’s neck. But, through what looked like no small amount of willpower, her claws retracted and she reciprocated Girard’s embrace.

She stroked the back of his head as she cooed, “There, there, my little dove. Say no more. We'll be all right. I'll fix this. I always can.”

“B-Blanche, she wrote b—”

“I said, say no more.”

She pushed a matronly smile as she tenderly pried Girard off of her. She cast a glance at the two involuntary spectators on the divan, and then stared down me and my partner further away.

“Would I be correct to assume,” she chimed, “that this is you two fine officers’ doing?”

My partner responded, “Um, yes, sorry about that. We were talking with—”

“You mean were interrogating him, despite your promise that I could be present during any such proceedings?”

“ … H-huh?”

“Honestly,” she brooded, “one has to wonder if the changeling is the real menace around here.”

She was lying, of course. We never made any such promise. I had to suspect that this was all amateur theater in order to win over the audience on the divan. This audience—Bon and Grid—still sat blinking in confusion for the most part, but thanks to the theatrics of all that they were seeing and hearing, it was clear they were starting to view me and my partner with newfound suspicion.

Gloria was tempting me mightily to reach beyond this whole game of hers and simply arrest the two of them. She was unaware of the extent of what we had on them, and was preying on uncertainties that we no longer had.

But I still needed to learn the truth of this situation, and my best chances of learning it lay with the changeling themself. “It’s not like that,” I said. “We only want to hear Girard’s side of things.”

“If you must speak to him so urgently,” she said, “then at the least, I insist I be present to act as his spokesgriff.”

“These are sensitive matters, Gloria.” I am literally incapable of believing a word out of your beak.

“With all due respect, you’ve already browbeaten my cousin to such a point that I believe he is unable to represent himself.”

Grid interjected, “Yeah, and I mean, it sounds like you gave her your word, Big Guns? I think you should really be a bit more considerate to Girard…”

I hate this situation and everything about it.

But right then, a gravelly, baritone angel came to my aid. “Everyone, we have a problem.”

A new actor entered from stage left. Zorn walked up behind Gloria and her abused pet. Despite the insanity all around him, he was cliff-faced as ever as he continued:

“It is frigid in here. I fear the boiler is malfunctioning.” He looked over at Grid. “May you come with me to investigate?” And then to Bon. “And you as well, Bon. You may be the most familiar with your own villa.”

Grid began, “Huh, yeah, sure, I can—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gloria snipped. “I’ll check it out with you, Zorn. Grid is a bit busy tending to Bon’s leg, as you can see.”

“Oh?” Bon said. “But weren’t you insistent on remaining with your cousin?” There was a skeptical flourish to his tone that made me want to clap for him.

Gloria’s body language tightened up as though she were actively being crushed in a vice. “They can wait for us, Zorn and I, I mean, to—”

“Really, it’s no bother!” Grid said, innocently but to my infinite amusement nonetheless. “Right Bon? I don’t think you’re totally bedridden or—”

“All right, all right, I’ll admit I may have overreacted on my cousin’s behalf,” Gloria said flippantly. “I’m sure this incident was but a well-intentioned misunderstanding on everyone’s part, and we can all move past it with the proper decorum moving forward. Do be kind with him, officers.” She stepped over her still-sniffling cousin to pair up with Zorn. “Let’s go. I think I simply tripped over a stray cable when I was in there.”

Grid paused to look at his friend on the divan, and then back at Gloria and Zorn. “You were in the boiler room?”

I’m sure Gloria only pretended not to hear him as she ushered my guardian angel away.
> 23. Say No More
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in Girard’s bedroom, I sat sideways in a chair in the corner while my partner tried his luck with the bird at his bedside. This time he was upright, and sober enough to understand what was being said to him, and what he was saying—which was nothing.

“Girard?” my partner prompted.

There was no response.

“You’re the changeling.”

Nothing.

“Um, we know that now. It’s not really in question anymore.”

Even from across the room, I could see the shimmering all throughout his form. But beyond the shimmering, I could see the depths of his shame, his fears, his regrets. His hunger.

“Ahah, but that’s all right! We’re on the same page now. You, Gloria, Pesco and I? We’re all on the same team. Okay? Together, we can sort this thing out.”

Something, almost.

“And I know it may not compare but, believe me when I say that changelings aren’t the only creatures that pretend to be something they’re not. And, ahah, they sure aren’t the only creatures that need love! And I think they deserve it as much as anycreature else.”

Nothing, still.

“And, well, I for one think your friends would be on your team, too, if they knew the truth! Heck, I don’t even think this has to be goodbye!”

Please, Bluebird. Don’t be cruel.

“Are you afraid of what they’ll think when they find out?”

“… Y-yes. Yes.”

Bluebird smiled. “Then you and your friends are good company for each other!”

Girard couldn’t resist mirroring the smile. “How do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve learned about your friends. Parts of themselves they’re afraid to show, because they’re afraid of what others will think. But for each and every one of them—and that includes you, Girard—I can say their fears were unfounded. I didn’t think any less of them the more I got to know them.”

To put it lightly: Gloria might be an exception.

“And it might sound like I’m just being nice, but I honestly think that of all your friends, you’ve hidden the least. At least, when it comes to what counts. Y’know? And that’s admirable. You’ve got almost a perfect score for honesty, in my book. So I figure, ahah, why not make the almost perfect, perfect?”

Girard rubbed his shoulder and grinned, this time unprompted. However, the grin died just as quickly. “But, Blanche…”

“What about Blanche?”

“Besides Gloria, she’s the only one I’ve ever tried to tell.” He looked down at his hindpaws as he continued, “So, b-besides Gloria… you could say I have a perfect score for being reviled.”

As Girard began to sniffle and shimmer again, and Bluebird’s speech devolved into mere comforting tones and syllables, I could only push a sigh. I reached into my trench coat and unfurled the letter that Blanche had written, and which Girard had given back to me before his great escape, and I walked over to the bed.

I held the paper under his beak. “Can you point out where exactly in this letter you think Blanche reviles you?”

Girard looked up at me, and then down at the instrument of torture I held before him. With his beak, he said nothing; with his eyes, he asked why I was so cruel; with his claw, he pointed on the paper to several acerbic lines in succession.

To all of his claw’s answers at once, I responded, “This isn’t because of what you are. This is because of what you did, all while trying to hide what you are.”

He reread the note more closely. His eyes lit up as he began to see what I wanted him to see, and believe what I wanted him to believe. “Do you mean, d-do you really think, that if only I had… in the first place, been a little more… Do you think it could’ve turned out differently…?”

“It’s very likely,” I lied with compassion.

Girard slouched down and twiddled the fabric of his blazer between his thumb and forefinger. None of us said a word for upwards of a minute, and I began to wonder if my tactic hadn’t done more harm than good to the therapeutic process. Maybe he saw through my lie, and he understood that in my heart of hearts, I had no hope for him, and I only saw shadows in his future. I was lying to him as brazenly as I had lied to Gloria about finding her book. The worst part is, I didn’t even know why I was lying, or why I was so sure it was a lie in the first place.

Girard at last ceased his twiddling, and he made his announcement:

“I think I would like to show them, now. Show my friends what I am,” he said. “And I think, I think I would like to try to explain some things. I would like to tell my side of the story.”





From Girard’s room on the second floor, we deliberately took the scenic route in returning to the foyer. We walked and talked as he started from the very beginning of his tale.

He described his former life as a love farmer, and his distinctions from Queen Chrysalis for his exemplary service.

“Oh, the taste of royal jelly. Sweet, succulent, divine. Rapturous, ambrosial, elysian. I don’t think I’ve ever found the words to properly describe it,” he said, “but it’s the only thing that comes close to how it feels when I think about Blanche.”

He described his betrayal of Queen Chrysalis, by arranging the escape of so many of his and his colleagues’ prisoners.

“To be honest, I think the only reason I got away with it for as long as I did was because I tended to target the least productive of the lovestock—um, that’s to say, the prisoners,” he explained. “The ones who languished in the darkness of their cells, the ones who n-never, never smiled… the ones who had absolutely no love left in them. I think I know how they felt, now.”

He described his own betrayal at the hands of one of his own failed escapees—Sidereal—and his colleague, Clypeus, occasionally known as Windshear.

“I was dragged in chains before Queen Chrysalis herself. My colleagues, my hatchmates, my broodparents, and so many strangers among them, they were all there, clamoring for my death. Their cries reverberated off the walls of the royal caverns. The guards held one hoof over their ear as they escorted me, that was how deafening it was.”

His gait became irregular and halting, as if he were in manacles. He held a hoof halfway up to his ears, but the invisible manacles stopped him. He was awash in a flood of memories.

“But, Chrysalis denied them,” he said. “She extended me her forgiveness, on one condition: That I assist in the recapture of each prisoner I had let go, with Clypeus as my handler. I denied her.”

The floodwaters receded, and he was released from his manacles. He shook his head and chuckled.

“You know, it was only because of the royal jelly that I survived that day. It changes our very bodies when we taste it. It imbues us with a well of magic of last resort. I don’t remember much of what happened after I tapped into it, but I guess even the Queen and all her guards couldn’t stop a thrice-taster after he’d transformed into a rampaging Ursa Minor!”

He described how he trudged for days through the desert wastelands that separated the Hive in the south from the rest of Equestria to the north—and, as it happened, Griffonstone to the east.

“That was where I first met Gloria,” he said. “I thought she was a mirage at first, or a hallucination. In the state I was, I didn’t have the magic left to disguise myself. To tell the truth, with the heat, the exhaustion, the despair, I don’t think I had the magic left to make it another hour. I simply collapsed at the mirage’s feet and hoped for the best.”

Bluebird interrupted, “You mean changelings can literally die if they run out of magic? Or love? How does that work exactly?”

Girard shrugged. “Magic, love, sustenance, it’s pretty much interchangeable for us. I’m not one-hundred percent sure how it works. When I was starting out as a love farmer, I spent much more time reading about the dietary needs of ponies than I ever did my own kind. But, I know that when Gloria hugged me out there in the scorching hot steppe, it felt like… like something close to royal jelly.”

“What was Gloria doing out there?” I pried. It was my first utterance since we had left his bedroom.

“Oh, well, Gloria only ever told me her past once, over the campfire of our very first night together. It was also the only time I’ve ever seen her cry. I didn’t ask about her past then, and I know I couldn’t ask about it now—I don’t know, in some ways I feel she’s changed over the years.

“Anyway, she was out in the wastelands for a similar reason as me: She’s a bit of an exile herself. She wasn’t exactly forced out, but, her father had recently been found guilty as a counterfeiter and executed—it’s a pretty heinous crime in Griffonstone. If she had any other family, she didn’t mention them. I got the impression that she looked up to him, and he taught her everything he knew about his craft. Sadly, I guess her townsfolk got that impression, too, and that was why she had to leave.

“Gloria forged a new life for us both in Canterlot. She was the brains, and I was the body—any body that she could have needed in order to fool a bureaucracy that we were foreign royalty, or to defraud a rich pony or three. She said the world owed us at least this much, that we had done more to earn our keep than any of the Canterlot elite, that people like Bon and Blanche who were simply born into wealth were the perfect example. And if our friends deserved the good life, she would say, then didn’t we?”

He asked this last question with sensitivity. He looked from side to side at each of us, and I realized he was expecting a response. Neither of us had one.

“She told me we would help others once we had finished helping ourselves, but I guess that day never really came, did it?” he asked in a similar tone of voice.

“Let’s fast-forward to the last couple of days,” Bluebird said as he flipped through his notepad. “It sounds like this all started because of mistaken ideas you had after reading Changeling Ringing?”

Girard shivered as he recollected. “Yes… I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it. All a stupid mistake, one that Gloria specifically warned me not to make,” he said. “Gloria told me to never reveal myself to anyone under any circumstances, while I wanted to go on up and knock on Blanche’s door in the form I was hatched in! I don’t know if I would have had the courage for that, anyway. In the end I decided on a half measure, that I would just leave an anonymous message for her. I just wanted to see if she already knew it was me, if she wasn’t writing that whole book for me.” He tried to shake the past from his head. “Gloria was right. I wasn’t seeing things clearly. Changelings never can, when it comes to love.”

I had in mind to say something flippant about the young master, before thinking better of it.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was that message exactly? You have to admit it was a little cryptic,” Bluebird said. “Ahah, even the inimitable detective Pesco had his work cut out trying to decipher it!”

“Oh, well, there was a certain reasoning to it. And it seems Blanche figured it out eventually,” he said. “Basically, the main character in Changeling Ringing, he finds himself in jail at one point—well, several points, actually. But the first time is the most important one, and it’s when he’s first visited by this secret admirer of his. And you see, in the prison library, our MC finds this… absolutely beautiful parchment with which to write to her. Well known for its use in love letters, historically.”

“Let me guess,” my partner interrupted, “paper made from willow pulp?”

“Precisely! And when I found that very same paper stocked, of all places, in a dime store at the winter resort down the pass, I suppose I took it as a sign.”

“You seem to have an affinity for anonymous notes,” I said.

Perceptive as always but for his highly peculiar blind spots, Girard picked up on the meaning. “Oh, you mean Gloria’s note?” he replied. “Gloria told me to do three very specific things, whenever you first came around to interrogate me: ask for a cup of tea, as subtly as I could; hug Pesco, and slip that note into his pocket; and keep my beak shut at all other moments.”

He stared at the ceiling for a few paces.

“I never really understood the first order, but from what I could make of the second, it just didn’t sit right with me to get Grid wrapped up in this. Even if only to buy time.” He rubbed his bandaged cheek. “She was pretty angry when she found out what I did. I’ve put her through a lot, and I guess I just keep screwing it up for the both of us.”

Our walking and talking was at its end. The foyer lay just around the corner.

I now had all the details I needed to reconstruct the timeline to the present day and resolve the paradoxes of the past. I now knew how a certain griffon girl could simultaneously have been a prim princess, a crafty scoundrel, a selfless caretaker, and a callous abuser—the answer was that half of these were false pretenses. I now knew why a changeling would expose himself in a staged display of lockpicking—the answer was that it was arranged in such a way that it would indisputably clear a certain griffon girl, who just so happened to have an indisputable alibi for a certain griffon boy. And I now knew why, despite Girard’s partial efforts, there was such a proliferation of odd happenings surrounding the earth pony Grid Iron.

But I also now knew the dilemma that Zorn found himself in, and so chose to recuse himself from. I knew that Girard was still dependent on Gloria to a concerning degree, both psychologically as well as circumstantially. As it stood, theirs was a curious case of mutual, obligate parasitism.

Beyond that, I knew, with increasingly painful clarity over the past forty-eight hours, the dilemma I myself was in. The Royal Guard was on their way to resolve the situation by force, and I had no clear course of action either morally or materially. I had spent so much time looking for the proof that the changeling was the villain; everything would have been so much simpler if I had found it.

And so, once the three of us had finished our journey and stepped into the foyer, the only thing I did not know…

… was how our story would end.
> 24. How It Must End
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I had not anticipated everyone else already being gathered in the foyer once we’d arrived. Even less had I anticipated that everyone else would be awaiting our arrival, complete with stiff postures and pointed looks. And yet, this scene was exactly what we walked in on, or very close to it—there was the notable exception of Blanche, who was nowhere to be seen.

Girard followed my lead in taking the stairs down, while Bluebird attracted the majority of the pointed looks by gliding down ahead of us. Of these looks, Gloria’s was surely the sharpest, and it was the only one that could outright be called hostile. Grid’s was one of strict concern, while Bon’s appeared merely curious. Zorn’s was inscrutable as always, but it was telling that he was the only one whose gaze still stuck to me and Girard rather than my partner.

“Ahah, you guys… waiting for something?” my partner said.

“Waiting for you, yeah,” Grid replied with an uncertain level of politeness. “Gloria said you probably have something to say about Girard, if you’ve been talking to him so much lately.”

Gloria nodded sagely. “Indeed I did. And I wanted to be among the first to hear such a thing if that is, in fact, the case.” Her gimlet eyes sharpened even further. “And I do hope that’s not the case.”

“I think we would all be inconsolable if it turned out Girard was the one who’s been replaced,” Bon agreed. “Nonetheless, I put my trust in the investigators. I imagine the detective and the cadet have their reasons for concern.”

“I can’t,” Gloria said. “My imagination must not nearly be so inspired as yours, Bon, because whenever I try to conjure up a picture of my ‘changeling’ cousin breaking into Blanche’s room while at the exact same time playing a game of draughts with me in our room, why, I simply draw a blank.”

Bon’s eyes migrated to an empty corner of the room, and he grumbled meekly, “I only mean to say there must surely be an explanation for the matter.”

“Oh, if you truly have one in mind, I implore you, allez, allez! Stand up and share it!” Gloria pursued. “I’ve never known you to be shy about it.”

Gloria was not currying her audience’s favor, this time around—she was deliberately instilling tension. Tension that could very well become chaos, which would be inhospitable to any sort of vulnerable confession on Girard’s part. I think every single person in attendance had something to say following Gloria’s crude swipes, but it was Bluebird who won out:

“Now, now,” he said with a placating waft of his wings, “Bon is right that we’ve had our reasons for talking to who we have. We don’t just do things arbitrarily, after all. And I can also tell you all with our fullest confidence that Girard has not been replaced—he is the exact same Girard you’ve ever known and loved. That said, Gloria is right that there is something we have to say about Girard. Or, ahah, something that I think he would like to say, on his own behalf.”

It was a nice segue. Just to be sure, I gave Girard a gentle pat on the back to drive the cue home. Bluebird ceded the floor to Girard, who inspired deeply before speaking his piece.

Or at least thought about it. Gloria cut him off. “Girard, you don’t have to say anything! If they’re making you do this, it’s because they have nothing on us. On you, I mean. They’re framing you!”

To my surprise, Girard stood his ground. “They’re not making me do this,” he said simply. “And, well… I’m sorry, Gloria, but I’ve told them everything. Everything about who we are, what we’ve done, and why we did it.”

He walked over and wrapped his now-catatonic cousin in an embrace of wings and claws. It was a much more composed and dignified hug than the one he had given her not half an hour ago, but it was just as unreciprocated.

“I know it’s scary, and I know it’s my fault we have to go through it in the first place,” he told her. “But I think we have to trust them if they say they’re on our side. And if they can say that, I think our friends will, too.”

Frozen in frame, this was what Gloria’s face told me: Had Girard’s embrace lingered for one more second, she would have surely throttled him in front of everyone.

Girard paced back to center stage, closed his eyes, and plopped down onto the carpet. Diffidence and confidence mixed in equal parts in his voice as he finally spoke up. “Um, I’m not sure what the best words are for something like this. At least, I can’t think of any better way to put it than this…”

He said no more. Slowly at first, green sparks buzzed at the crown of his head, and then, like a curtain falling they raced down the length of his body, obscuring him completely. The lights and the sparks soon subsided, and what remained of the timid griffon they had consumed was another creature altogether.

It was a creature that was otherworldly in its appearance with its armored, jet black carapace and its sharp, perforated limbs. It was a creature that was wholly nonthreatening in its posture, seated there on its haunches on the foyer carpet, eyes still closed with its chin tilted up and fangs protruding. It was a creature that was perfectly reminiscent of the one it had replaced in the way it swallowed and buzzed its wings self-consciously.

It was a changeling who was eager to start a new life with old friends.

Bon and Grid were the most taken aback—they were, after all, the only two who had not yet known. My partner and Zorn both beamed as brightly as ever I had seen them, even if for the latter, that meant no more than a curl at the corner of his lips. I didn’t bother to read Gloria’s face, because I was sick of it by now.

I myself was in on the reveal, and not prone to emotional display, but I must have betrayed some amount of surprise to the extent that Girard’s true form subverted my expectations in one peculiar way: He was not bald but for a cartilaginous frill on the back of his neck, as I had believed was the case for every one of his kind save Queen Chrysalis herself. Instead, quite like Queen Chrysalis herself, he sported a full straight-locked mane of hair. Unlike her seaweed cerulean, however, his was bright and golden. I could only imagine this was the privilege of those who had partaken of the royal jelly.

“… W-well?” Girard swallowed again. “I bet you all, all have a lot of questions, huh?”

Girard did not see, and probably did not even hear, Gloria creep up to within throttling distance. “You could say that.”

He opened his bright compound eyes, and startled at how close she had gotten. “O-oh?”

She toyed with his locks with a crooked finger, with a crooked smile, saying nothing.

“Gloria, like, did you know all along?” Grid asked.

“Why yes, Grid. I knew.”

“Then all this matter of the draughts in your room, the hostility toward the investigators, the framing of Grid Iron,” Bon followed, “all this was a consequence of your complicity?”

“Like, Bon, she had to do all those things!” Grid said. “Right? She knew she had to protect Girard! This has all been for his sake, hasn’t it?”

Gloria gave a morose chuckle. “I appreciate the support, Grid. However”—she turned to me and my partner—“there’s not much hope if I try to run with that angle, is there?”

Silent up until now, it was Zorn who answered on our behalf. He put it perfectly: “Not a chance in Tartarus.”

“Right, right.” Gloria stopped toying with Girard’s hair, and slicked back her own with a claw. “Anyway, Girard, I do have some questions I would like to ask you, in light of all this.”

“Haha, d-do you?” he asked. “Sure, but, maybe we should answer our friends’ questions first, given that they—”

“My first question is,” she said, “what was the last thing I told you, before the two officers took you away for your latest round of interrogation?”

“Um…”

“Oh wait, never mind, I remember. It was, ‘say no more.’ Silly me,” she said. “But that leads quite naturally into my next question, which is, how ever did ‘say no more’ translate to, ‘spill your goddamn guts to the police and then detransform in front of everybody’?”

And now, Girard began to tremble.

“Don’t have an answer? That’s okay. I can’t for the life of me figure it out, either,” she said. “Let’s try another question: How the hell do you think we’re going to survive this?”

Once again, she received no answer. She repeated her question, this time with a different inflection:

“G-Girard…” she said, hiding her face and turning around, “… how the hell are we going to survive this?”

Gloria’s emotions were as fake as her identity, and just as self-serving. It didn’t take a full-fledged detective to tell what she was trying to do, as evidenced by my partner, who flew over to call her out. “That’s about enough, Gloria!”

But Gloria knew enough to keep talking, and Girard didn’t know enough not to listen. He was transfixed on what she had to say in her moment of faux-vulnerability, and I could tell that nothing short of physical force was likely to change that.

“I can’t fix this one, Girard. I just can’t. I promised you I could, but I think I lied.” She took some sharp, unsteady breaths, but somehow found the strength not to cry. “Please, just this once… I need your help.”

“My help?” he whispered.

“I’ve made the preparations for our escape—at least, most of them, we can make it if we struggle. But they’re going to stop us if we try.” She turned back around to face him. “I need you to stop them.”

Unsteady on his hooves, Girard turned around to give a nauseous look at me and my partner. “… You mean, hurt them?”

“Only if it comes to that.”

“I-I don’t think it will!” he exclaimed, trying and failing to push a smile. “They said, they said we’re all on the same team! They can help us!”

“You mean, they’ll really let us escape? We can really trust them?” She forged some hope in her eyes. “Then come on, Girard, we need to get going!”

She took her emotionally disoriented cousin by the shoulders and, with a clear hurry in her step, began to escort him away from his friends and in the direction of the boiler room. I already knew she had predicted my reaction, but I had no other choice. “Stay right here,” I ordered them.

Obediently, she stopped. “Oh,” she said, her hope extinguished. “I suppose they’ve tricked the both of us, then.”

Girard shrugged his cousin’s claw from his shoulder. It was clear in his voice, however, that he had not fully shrugged off her spell. “I… don’t want to hurt them,” he said. “And I, I don’t want to leave my friends! If that means we have to fess up to the Royal Guard and plead our case to Celestia herself, then s-so be it!”

“Attaboy!” Bluebird said. “Attabug!”

Gloria deepened the look of hopelessness on her face as she stared at her cousin’s feet. Her hair covered her face as she asked, “What makes you believe they’re going to think any differently about you than she did?”

“She who?”

“Blanche.” She lifted her head back up. Something else, now, flickered in Gloria’s eyes, something very genuine: Malevolence. “Blanche? The apple of your eye, the love of your life? You showed her your true form and she was disgusted. What makes you think the rest of Equestria is going to feel any different?”

Hang in there, kid. “B-but, in the letter she wrote me, she wasn’t disgusted with what I am, j-just, just, just what I did, and if I—”

“Oh, is that what she said?” Gloria’s tone was dripping with false concern. “Tell me, do you know where Blanche is right now?”

“In her, in her room?”

“Correct. She’s pining away in her room, working on her stories in accordance with her daily schedule,” she said. “We tried to gather her. We told her that the investigators had something important to say about you. Knowing what she does, I’m sure she understood what that might have been. Still, she refused to come along.”

I thought I had seen malevolence in her eyes several times before this hour, but I had been mistaken. I had only seen flickers; I had not seen the flame.

“Do I need to spell it out for you? She’s repulsed by you. And open your eyes, Girard, she’s not the only one!” She grabbed Girard by the shoulders once more, this time to crane his head and panicked eyes at all his friends around him. It was true, they were repulsed—but not by the changeling.

“Don’t listen to her!” Bluebird railed.

After Gloria’s latest stab, it no longer looked like Girard was listening to anybody. His face caved in as he tore himself away from her and collapsed to his knees, and began counting his breaths in and out, in and out. But Gloria was relentless as she vaulted over him and pressed her forehead against his.

“You won’t help out just once!? You won’t trust me just once!?” she shouted. “Not even when our lives depend on it?”

“I’m sorry…” he mewled.

If this was the flame, what followed was the inferno. Time itself seemed to melt away as she wrenched him by the shoulders one more time:


“Girard?
               Girard…

Girard! Look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you!
When I’m begging you!        
                                                                            
Begging you to help me one fucking time to clean up this shitstain of a mess you made!
                   
Please, Ardy, I love you…                                                                             
Remember how good things used to be?
Back when it was just the two of us?

Let’s go back to those times.

Let’s leave these fairweather friends behind.                               

They never loved you.

Blanche never loved you.

She called the police on you and now she’s broken your heart.

God, I’m so sorry, I feel so guilty,                                                 
I couldn’t stop her from breaking your heart.

I tried, I tried… but you didn’t listen.

You never listen.

…
…
…

Girard…

Girard?

Do you want to see me go to prison, Girard? 

Is that…‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Will that...
what you want? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ make you happy?

Girard, where do you think you’re going to go?

If you hate me so much you can’t stand to be around me
and you don’t care if they hang me in the town square like my dad
then that’s fine, I get it,
but what about you, Girard?

What happens to you?

Do you honestly think you can do what I do?

What do you know about watermarks or royal seals or
official inks or signature forgery or diplomatic mail channels
or the formatting of birth certificates or the at-mint densities
of every last denominations of authentic Equestrian coinage?

What do you know?

You can’t even do your fucking homework by yourself, Ardy!

…
…
…

I’m scared for you, Girard…

I’m scared that you’re making another mistake you’re just going to regret—”



It was at this point that someone in the foyer finally broke free from her gruesome spell. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t my partner, and it certainly wasn’t Girard.

“You shut your mouth, Gloria!” Grid hurled. Drunk on adrenaline, limbs rigid and quaking, he marched to confront her.

It snapped Bluebird back into action as well, who joined him in his step. “Yeah!”

Grid and Bluebird positioned themselves as a physical barrier between Gloria and the target of her abuse, who sat bawling his compound eyes out all the while muttering a litany of apologies and self-deprecations. She had broken him, there was no question about that—but he did not succumb. The brainwashing did not take.

By now, Grid was furious, furious enough to raise a hoof and place it on the lapel of Gloria’s robe. It was a threatening display, but if a fly had been resting there on her lapel, it would have surely been uninjured. What Gloria did next, I am sure Girard could not have seen from his angle: She latched onto Grid’s hoof and twisted it up in the fabric of her robe, ensnaring his grip.

“What the—”

“Ow! Grid! That hurts!” With Grid in her tow, she slammed herself up against a wall, stood up on her hindlegs, and screwed her face up in pain. “What are you doing?”

“Please, let her go!” Girard begged. Purple—not green—sparks popped and shocked the air around him. “It doesn’t have to be like this!”

Bluebird was quick to react, but he only made things worse. He pulled her from the wall and grabbed her to try to disentangle Grid’s grip, but succeeded only in giving Gloria the opportunity to fall backwards and send her two relentless aggressors crashing down on top of her.

“Scolus!” she wailed. “Do something!”

At last, Scolus succumbed.

“It didn’t have to be like this…”

The sparks around him ignited into a violet flame where he sat, which grew like a house fire to consume him whole. Once he was nothing more than a spire of flame, the spire itself began to grow, and grow, and grow. When it seemed certain that the foyer would be reduced to ashes and likely the villa with it, finally the flames subsided. In their wake they left nothing burned, no soot, no ash. What they left behind was much worse: a mountainous beast of fur and fangs, an Ursa Minor ready to rampage.

Following its birth, it only stood there, staring indomitably at myself, Zorn, and Bon. But we were not its targets. Once it had its bearings, it turned around with pounding footfalls to train its gaze upon the two who would dare assault his protector, the two who still lay atop her, paralyzed with fear like the rest of us. The Ursa Minor lumbered toward Grid and Bluebird…

“Not these two!” Gloria ordered. “Get Pesco! He has the magic suppressant!”

The beast obeyed. It whipped back around, this time showcasing its frightening speed and coordination.

I did not know what part of Scolus or Girard was still inside that Ursa Minor, if any part at all. With strength like that, he could kill me by sheer accident. I was resigned to a death sentence at Gloria’s behest.

I reached a trembling hoof inside my trench coat for my only means of self-defense. My body was acting of its own accord, because my mind knew it was utter nonsense. In every conceivable timeline, I would fail to inject an Ursa Minor that already had me in its sights. It readied to pounce…

From behind the beast I heard the unzipping of a saddlebag, and then a screech from Gloria:

“Wait!”

My hoof found only an empty pocket where I had been keeping the syringe. My eyes found that very syringe now buried in the hip of the Ursa Minor. The beast turned around to stare in horror at its injector, the true owner of the magic suppressant for these last twenty-four hours: Bluebird.

My partner grimaced as he punched the plunger, emptying the syringe and sending its payload coursing through the beast’s veins. The beast roared and lashed out blindly, in the process coldclocking Bluebird on the muzzle with the flat of its paw. But this was a paw that was, like the rest of its body, already beginning to dissolve into a weeping glob of purple glitter.

“Scolus you imbecile!” Gloria seethed.

Her misdirected insults could not save him. The Ursa Minor bellowed and pawed at itself futilely as its body washed away like a sandcastle in the tide.

The beast had been vanquished as soon as it had been summoned, and now was no more. In its place it left behind Scolus, standing amidst a pile of ripped carpet, broken furniture, and dying purple flames.

As the flames turned to sparks and the sparks evaporated into nothing, the bug raised a hoof to his head and started to sway dizzily in place. “Not a s-single thing, huh,” he said, his eyes glazing over. “I couldn’t do a single thing right…”

He walked a lopsided few steps, this way and that, before collapsing in a heap on the floor. He didn’t get back up. He didn’t even stir. Is this how the magic suppressant is supposed to work?

“No!”

It was Zorn. He was the first to react, and with a loud and panicked urgency that I would not have expected from him. He bounded from his seat, slalomed around the broken furniture to reach his deathly still changeling friend, and bent down to cradle him in his hooves.

Gloria was the second to react: She started laughing her ass off. That didn’t bode well.

“Zorn, what’s the situation?” I said.

He didn’t reply at first. He was too busy searching for a pulse on the changeling’s body, to no avail. Maybe he was unfamiliar with their biology; maybe there was no pulse to be found.

I cut a line through the rubble in his and Scolus’s direction, and was joined more timidly by Bon from behind. Bluebird was still out of commission from Scolus’s errant swipe, and Grid could only gape uncomprehendingly while still wrapped up in the robe of the cackling witch beside him.

“Zorn…” Bon called softly, more than a little shell shocked, “is there something the matter with Girard—or Scolus, is it?”

Zorn had heard the question, and he was not too busy to answer. And yet, he elected to say nothing as he continued to palpate the unconscious changeling’s body. Standing over him, I could at least be sure Scolus was still alive; his chest rose and fell in a shallow but steady rhythm, and a faint wheeze rattled from his throat.

“There is, isn’t there?” Bon insisted.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Zorn said.

His vagueness wasn’t helping things. “What was in that serum?” I demanded. “Was that not a magic suppressant?”

“It was.” He gave up on Scolus, and began to palpate his own brow instead. “I should have known.”

“Should have known what?”

Gloria caught her breath for long enough to chime in. “Oh, this has just been a comedy of errors for everyone, now hasn’t it?”

Bluebird was finally coming to his senses and taking stock of the situation, while Grid braced Gloria up against the wall—for real, this time. I was glad he had finally found a healthy outlet for his anger. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he snarled.

“Well, I certainly screwed up,” she said. “Not for lack of effort, mind you: I tried my absolute god-damnedest! But in the end, Scolus was less like an albatross around my neck, and more like a six-ton Ursa Minor. I simply underestimated his stupidity.

“And I think Scolus underestimated his own stupidity, too. I’m sure he had an inkling what could happen when he went behind my back to pursue that parasocial romance of his, but do you really think he could’ve predicted this?

“How could he have predicted that among all his friends, Zorn—the smartest cookie in the jar—would fail to foresee what a magic suppressant would do to a creature for whom magic, love, sustenance, and their very life force are all one and the same?

“You might as well have injected him with cyanide! If nothing else, it would have all been over sooner!

“Honestly, I thought you at least had an idea of the risks, but your faces all say otherwise. Just goes to show that more than anybody else, I always knew what was best for the disobedient little grub, and I—!”

Her soliloquy met an untimely end as Grid slammed her to the floor and lodged a hoof in her upper abdomen, where it stayed. We could finally enjoy some peace from her cackling and her schadenfreude speeches, but what filled the silence in their absence wasn’t any easier to listen to: Scolus’s wheezing breaths were growing more strained by the second. And I didn’t think it was an illusion on his part, the way his body seemed to wither and dessicate before our very eyes.

Amidst the rasps, Scolus started to burble, as if to say something. The four of us who were free leaned in to try to listen. Alas, if there were any words at all among his feeble croaks, nobody was able to make them out. Going by the intonation, it seemed he was asking a question, or perhaps a series of them. Eventually, he gave up the effort, and a singular tear rolled down his cheek.

I doubted we had the answers to his questions, anyway.

“Surely there’s something we can do!” Bon cried, wringing his hooves as he huddled beside the bug. He looked up expectantly at Zorn.

“I don’t know,” was the expert’s answer.

“Absolutely nothing at all?”

“I can not think of anything.”

“How long will this drug stay in his system?”

“My roughest guess, informed only by body weight, is three to ten hours.”

“Well, it’s a magic deficiency, isn’t it? And I have antlers! Can’t I channel him magic somehow?”

“You can try,” Zorn said, “but I do not think it will work.”

“And why not!”

Without waiting for Zorn’s response, Bon primed his antlers and enveloped Scolus in the aura of his magic. He tried jostling him one way and another, desperate to discover some way to feed his friend. He ripped off the bandage from Scolus’s cheek by accident, spattering the carpet with coagulated green blood. His wound had festered.

“I’m sorry!” Bon yelped, his voice cracking.

Beyond this slip-up, his jostling was only aggravating Scolus's breathing troubles. “Please put him down, Bon,” Bluebird said. “You’re only making it worse.”

The young master complied and set the bleeding, wheezing creature down. He appeared to take his plan’s lack of success as a personal failing. “Why?” he asked. “Why won’t it work?”

“Extracorporeal magic is a waste metabolite,” Zorn said listlessly. “The effects of a spell are no more than an exothermic resonance which is itself devoid of any magicaloric energy, created as the end product of an enzymatic reaction which catabolizes magicaloric compounds. Beyond that, no known magicaloric compounds exist which can be transmitted intact through inorganic media. Stable resonances in the form of enchantments and prostheses are no exception, as they do not interface with any known metabolic pathw—”

“I get it! I get it!” Bon bleated. “You knew all that, but couldn’t have predicted this?”

“Magical biochemistry is remedial. Changeling amitabolism is conjectural.” He shook his head. “I made a mistake. I made a mistake.”

Behind golden locks Scolus's eyes had floated halfway open, but I saw no light left in them. The only signs of a creature still fighting to survive came from his chest, and he was losing that fight.

“Well, if he can’t take Bon’s magic, can’t he still, ahahaha, take our love?” my partner suggested, ticking traumatically. “Or in his condition, would that just be… a waste of time?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“If there’s any hope at all in it, we must try it,” Bon said.

There was a silent consent. However, the look Zorn and I exchanged made it clear that neither of us were capable of aping any emotion beyond despair at the moment, even if it were to save our own lives. That left it up to Bon and Bluebird, who weren’t gushing with confidence either.

My partner initiated, kneeling down to blanket him with one wing while giving him a pillow with the other. With a hoof he wiped away the lonely tear from Scolus's cheek, but he did not say anything. Not even any generic coos to assure him that things were all right, or that this, too, would pass. Perhaps he felt guilty enough as it was without lying to him on his deathbed.

Bon, on the other hoof, cleared his throat and ventured a verbal approach:

“I wish I had more time to consider my words, to prepare for my performance, so to speak—you know me, it is my habit. But I understand that this is rather do-or-die, now isn’t it? Very well, I’ll speak from the heart…

“I know we may not have always been the closest of friends in our clique. Perhaps I only really knew you as Gloria’s cousin, and you only knew me as Blanche’s brother. Blanche’s haughty, pretentious, inimitably insecure and assuredly alcoholic brother. I suppose I always assumed you were a good judge of character, and that that’s why we never really bonded.”

This is a eulogy. It’s a mercy killing.

“But no matter! I think it’s become abundantly clear as of late that we were all mistaken, each and every one about each and every other. For example, it turned out that we actually have a lot in common, you and I. Or maybe we have but one thing in common, that nonetheless binds us as kindred spirits pour toujours, at least in my eyes. Do you know what that thing is, Girard, Scolus, my friend?”

I did not know if Scolus could even hear him. Regardless, Bon paused politely for an answer before giving his own:

“We have both felt the sting of a romance that rewarded our cowardice more than our courage; we’re both loveless losers with nothing to show for it.” He teared up and choked up as he leaned in. “Don’t be selfish and die now, my friend. We have to survive this, for each other’s sake.”

There was almost a tender moment.

“You poor fuck, Bon! Is that what you call sympathy?” Gloria heckled from a distance. “Prench and all, that’s just the same old narcissistic drivel I think we’ve all come to expect from—”

Grid sunk his hoof deeper into her belly. He had a full-time job on his hooves stifling Gloria’s squawks as she tried to squirm free. “Shut it!” he said, before turning to the rest of us. “I could use some help here!”

There were two of us available who could have assisted in the restraint of the dangerous criminal: the adolescent civilian Zorn, and myself, the trained law enforcement officer. I stood there until Zorn realized waiting on me was hopeless and walked over to help.

Hopeless.

The entire situation was hopeless.

If Bluebird and Bon’s therapeutic first aid could do anything at all, if it wasn’t simply prolonging a long, painful, hypoxic death, then it was being undone by the background noise of his beloved Gloria being strangulated by his own friends. And even if it wasn’t being undone (it was), even if it was all he needed to survive (it wasn’t), it would have made little difference in the arithmetic. When it was 10am and the Royal Guard was due to arrive at noon, three-to-ten hours was one-to-seven hours too long for a changeling to stick around.

No, the story was over. The plotlines were finished, their loose ends all tied up in a slip knot. To any reader who was paying attention, it was patently obvious: Nothing remained but the epilogue.
> 25. Epilogue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime, weeks or months later—after I would personally see to it that Gloria be incarcerated at the closest thing the Equestrian juvenile detention system had to a supermax—I would be sitting at my desk late one night, staring at the ceiling, pondering the life that Scolus had lived and lost. If I could stare through that ceiling, I would be counting the stars in the sky that had all needed to align in order to inflict such a fate as his. It wasn’t a cosmic mistake—it was too perfectly awful. It could only have been divine intervention by a god far greater than Celestia and Luna, and far more sadistic.

Belief in a sadistic god was my optimistic heresy. It was the only means I had of retaining faith in the fundamental goodness of my fellow mortals. For I knew that Scolus's fate was not wrought by the stars, but by every person he had ever trusted.






He was betrayed by an escapee, the benefactor of his mercy…

Stung by a colleague and exiled by his own kind, who had no mercy of their own…

Perpetually abused and endangered by a malign savior…

Reported and rejected by the one he loved, and thought he understood…

Hounded until the end by the one who didn’t want to believe in him…

Lethally injected by the one who had believed in him all along…

With a poison concocted by a friend who failed to speak up.






If only one star could have been knocked out of alignment. If only he could have encountered any other creature in the world than Gloria while wandering through the wastelands, his story would have been happier. If only he could have encountered no one at all, and simply perished out there—an agonizing death by thirst and exposure under a scorching desert sun.

If nothing else, it would have all been over sooner.
> 26. Afterlives
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Pesco!” my partner wailed. “Do something!”

The fog of the future dispersed, shrieking as it went; I snapped out of my dark dreaming and returned to the reality of the present day.

Bon and my partner sat weeping over Scolus's body, which was not yet a corpse. All the color had drained from his locks, and his body was gray and feeble. It was as dire as ever—but it was not hopeless.

I strode from the sadder part of the foyer to the angrier part, where Grid and Zorn together still struggled to restrain their squirming, vindictive former friend. Something of hers must have rubbed off on them, as their shouting was by now at least as loud and guttural as hers.

There was no time to indulge. “Step aside,” I told them, swiping a hoof between them and Gloria. “Let me take care of her. You two go tend to the bug.”

Their commotion stopped, and for a moment, all three of them glared at me with an eye of suspicion. Reluctantly, Grid and Zorn obliged, and left me to my lonesome with Gloria. She picked herself up off the ground and stared at me, her robe in disarray, her chest and shoulders heaving, out of breath from her wrestling.

“So… then… Detective,” she puffed, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

If only she were as out of breath as her cousin. “You had better cut it out with this crab-bucket tantrum of yours, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Aw, are you not having any fun? Personally, I see this all as some much, much needed catharsis for all of us,” she said. “Besides, I’m already busted. What do I have to lose?”

I forced myself to say it: “Your freedom, for one.”

She smiled like a scythe. “Oh? Do elaborate.”

“If Scolus dies here, there is a zero percent chance you walk away from this. If Scolus survives, then your fate is a little more complicated.”

She laughed herself to the point of wheezing. “Really now, is that what’s going to save me? Could it have been that simple all along? I overestimated you, Detective!”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Just to be clear,” she added, “my fate will not be complicated—I will need to get away scot-free. If I am arrested for any reason, no matter when or by whom, they’re going to find out that I wasn’t the only one involved in my hijinks over the years. I couldn’t protect Scolus from that even if I wanted to, and I couldn’t protect you or your partner, either, now that you’re involved.”

“Trust me, I’m not staking our lives on your good nature.”

“I’m glad we understand each other, then.” She clasped her claws together. “Shall we discuss the finer details of my escape?”

I glanced back over my shoulder at the emergency therapy session in progress. “No time. Right now, you need to be taking care of your bargaining chip.”

“You mean, apologize to him? Encourage him? Tell him all the sweetest things?”

“Yes, lie to him. I’m confident you’re up to the task.”

She smoothed out the creases in her robe, and flattened her ruffled feathers with a claw. “Oh, I’ll try my best.”

Gloria proceeded to walk over to the others, softening her features as she went. By the time she reached them, her changeling-like transformation into a sensitive, apologetic cousin was complete. The beginnings of her saccharine script soon followed.

Scolus's support circle had more than doubled, now, from two to five—even Zorn was finding his words. It had even quintupled, if Gloria was counted as a negative asset before her conversion. The effect this had on Scolus's complexion was immediate as his former color rejuvenated his body and his golden locks. The faintest glow returned to his eyes.

But the fight was not over. His breathing could still best be described as agonal, and it was anybody’s guess whether his body and brain could last for hours in this state, or whether his friends could keep up. It certainly was not my guess that the Royal Guard would help out in this sentimental ritual.

No, I needed to recruit one more very important person to the circle, and I wasn’t talking about myself. I was talking about the cause of—and solution to—all of Scolus's tragedy these past two days.





Gloria had earlier indicated that Blanche was sequestered in her room, busy with her writing despite Scolus's confession. I trusted my instincts that this was a lie, or at least an editing of the truth. Her bedroom was close enough to the foyer that she surely would have heard the commotion with the Ursa Minor and come searching, no matter her emotions.

Instead, I found her far deeper within the villa. She sat in the sunroom, her back to the doorway, engrossed in the expansive vista of the surrounding mountains. It was perhaps the first time I had seen her without any quills or parchment at hoof’s reach.

“Blanche,” I said, “there’s been a development. I need you to come along.”

“If it’s about the changeling—that is, if it’s about Girard—I’m already well aware,” she replied.

“Are you aware he’s knocking on death’s door as we speak?”

She glanced back at me, but only for a moment before returning her attention back to the mountains. “How’s that?”

“It’s a long story. The short of it is that he’s had a reaction to the magic suppressant, and he needs all the love he can get if he’s going to survive.”

“Well… he has my condolences. Sincerely,” she said, straining. “But if he needs love, I will not be of any help to him.”

“It doesn’t have to be steamy. Just be there for him, and tell him you don’t hate him.”

She bowed her head. “What if I do hate him?”

“Do you hate him?”

“I hate his kind, Detective. I wasn’t lying when I said I see them as repulsive creatures, inside and out.” She shook her head, and afterward needed to adjust her glasses. “Recall, I wrote a book making fun of everyone who thinks otherwise.”

“Do you hate him?” I repeated.

She glanced back, this time holding my gaze. “I don’t hate him, but I don’t have the smallest, saddest scrap of love for him, either. I’ve never seen anything in him, and whatever Girard saw in me—as an author, as a friend, or whatever-the-hell—he was mistaken. I cannot give him what he wants; I literally do not have it.”

“If you don’t hate him,” I said plainly, “you can come along and help him. If you want him to die, you can stay here.”

She sighed. “If that’s how it is, then I don’t have a say in the matter, do I?” She stood up and joined me. “I don’t want his blood on my hooves.”

We left the sunroom, and set out on our journey from the far end of the villa back to the foyer. We traveled a quarter of the way at a half-trot in the strictest silence. Blanche’s lips were pursed all the while.

Silence, if it worked, worked best.

“That letter I wrote him… You should know I only wrote the last half of it to be nice to him,” she eventually spoke up. “I can’t imagine, now or ever, that my feelings on the matter will change.”

“Why did you feel the need to be nice to him?” I asked. “Why did you feel the need to write back to him at all?”

“Tch. Hmph.”

We half-trotted another quarter of the way without another word between us. This time, I was the one to break the silence:

“For what it’s worth, Blanche, I think you have a right to feel the way you do about him. His circumstances don’t excuse him.”

“Well, I’ll admit they go a long way, at least,” she said. “But thanks.”

Another lull in the conversation, up until the last quarter.

“There’s just one more thing that doesn’t fully add up,” I said. “Maybe you can help clarify.”

“Yes?”

“That changeling you were telling me and my partner about last night, the one who’s currently locked up in a Manehattan prison. What did you say his name was, again?”

“I never said his name,” she replied, “but it’s Myrmex. And he was never imprisoned in Manehattan—he was held at a special facility in the Foal Mountains for nine years. Last year, he was transferred to a county jail in Baltimare on good behavior.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with his story.”

She shrugged. “I do my research.”

“And this changeling, Myrmex, you said that his story was the one that inspired you to write your book in the first place?” I asked. “Your book that is, supposedly, making fun of everyone who would believe changelings aren’t universally repulsive?”

She didn’t seem to have an answer for either of my questions.

“You know, I spent a long time on this case trying to fit a simple answer to a complex question. I tried to convince myself it was the only answer,” I told her, “but I don’t think I ever would have succeeded. Even if I wrote a whole book about it.”





Throughout the course of our partnership, Bluebird and I always had our different outlooks and predictions as to how a case would pan out. For his part, he believed in innocent misunderstandings, in fairy tale endings. For my part, I believed in cruelty and betrayal, and in crimes without justice. I didn’t keep a close count, but I would say there were about zero times that either of us were completely correct.

This case was no different. As it drew to a close, it had both its high and low notes.

For example: If Zorn’s serum had been the poison, then Blanche had been the antidote. Despite her misgivings, her performance (if it was one) in reassuring Scolus that she had meant what she wrote in her letter—not a word more or less, from either the mean or the nice parts—was all that he had needed to hear. The last of the glow returned to his eyes, and he could even lift his head to show her them up close. She instinctively cringed and looked away, as if viewing something indecent.

“Y-you know…” he said to her. These were his first words since his crisis. “… my real name is Scolus. You know, just so, you know.”

“Hmph.” She overcame her instinct, and met his eyes with the corner of one of her own. “Like the setae-covered spinose projection?”

“Haha, is that what my name means?”

Scolus was still unable to transform, and had to catch his breath after each utterance and movement he made. Nonetheless, he would survive, once the magic suppressant ran its course. This was the highest note of all.

As for the lowest note of all: Gloria was going to walk away from this with no more punishment than her victim. There might have been enough mercy to go around in this world; the same couldn’t be said for justice.

“Say, an idea just popped into my head,” Gloria mused, as she and I stood at the front door arranging her winter gear. “What if I don’t go alone? What if I insist on taking Scolus with me, and I say it’s either my way or the highway?”

“Frankly, I would rather Scolus be in prison than remain in your clutches,” I told her. “You’re free to call my bluff and wait around for the Guard, though.”

She chuckled in what I think was the closest thing to good nature for her. “Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if even Scolus feels the same way by now.”

For once, there may have been a certain truth to her words. When I had returned to the therapy circle with Blanche, Gloria had not been a participant. She had instead sat and sulked in the corner, mentioning something about “her usual” not working like it should have. In the end, the bug was revived without her assistance.

“Oh well. I need a vacation from him, anyway.” Gloria slipped on one winter glove, and then the other. “Perhaps a vacation from the crooked and fraudulent, too, if I’m going to be lying low. You know what I mean? Try out this whole ‘law-abiding citizen’ shtick I’ve heard so much about.”

I felt her use of air quotes was justified. “Law-abiding, you say?”

“That’s right!”

“You mean, apart from the fraudulent promissory notes you’re planning to redeem.”

“Eh, right.”

She finished putting on the remainder of her winter gear, and slung her bag of survival and getaway essentials over her shoulder. I opened the door for her to leave (chivalrous as I was) but she only stood there, staring wistfully at the horizon while the cold swirled around her like a cloak.

“You should know, I’m actually a couple years older than I made myself out to be,” she said into the outside air.

“How old are you?”

“I don’t remember.” She fooled with a few zippers on her coat and bags, even though they were already exactly where they needed to be. “But if I’m caught, I’m sure I’ll be tried as an adult.”

Now that’s tempting. “What is this with regards to?”

“Oh, nothing, I suppose. I just felt like saying.”

She turned to me.

“I really had a good thing going here, didn’t I?”

Just as quickly, she turned back.

“Ciao.”

And with a mighty beat of her wings, she took off into the sky and was gone.

If, at the end, there were the high notes and the low notes, then there was also what could best be described as a deceptive cadence. It was a long one, and one that the orchestra had scarcely an hour to practice ahead of time.

“You’re saying what?” Commander Brightdawn had barked upon hearing our testimony. “You let the changeling get away?”

“I’m sorry, sir. There wasn’t much we could do,” Bluebird testified.

“Negotiations broke down. The situation was volatile,” I corroborated.

“She took Girard as a hostage!” Bon cried. “We let her get away with murder!”

“It’s not murder. We haven’t found the body, if there even is one,” Zorn corrected. “At present, it’s a kidnapping.”

“It’s not even a kidnapping,” Blanche contested. “Girard may not have been the changeling, but he was a co-conspirator. Honestly, I would be surprised if this wasn’t their escape plan all along.”

“You think you know someone!” Grid bellowed.

“Hold up, hold up,” Brightdawn said. “Lemme hear it from the detective: What happened, and where do we need to look?”

I explained to them with sober regret how it had all gone down. Gloria had been the changeling, and she was in cahoots with Girard. The two of them had been living under fictional identities as Kralle-Karom royalty for years now, completely undetected. It had been hard to believe at first, I said, but I was confident that a closer examination of their paper trails would prove the extent of their lies.

“Sir,” Brightdawn’s second-in-command interrupted. He was currently taking a call on the villa’s phone (for good measure, I had made sure to wipe off the green blood) while Brightdawn’s other subordinates crowded the hall. “Should we circulate posters of the perps?”

“For the Girard kid, sure,” the commander replied. “For this Gloria girl, don’t bother. The bug will already have a new face, and we don’t want to split our resources. The best chance we have of nabbing this changeling is through its griffon accomplice—focus any search bulletins on him.”

“Yes sir!”

“What a fantastic mess,” the commander groaned, turning back to me. “Do you at least have any idea where they might have knocked off to, Detective?”

“I found an itinerary that would have me believe they were planning to flee to Seaquestria. She took it back by force before she left,” I said. “As for their immediate line of escape…”

I guided the commander to a window, and pointed out a large, distant peak that was 180 degrees in the opposite direction from where Gloria had set out.

“… that is where they flew.”





At risk of stretching this musical metaphor to its breaking point, there was one more key feature to Scolus's ending song: a series of unresolved chords. His future, in other words.

Bluebird unlocked the boiler room. While standing at the threshold, he called out, “Did you hold up all right in there?”

Scolus stumbled out from behind a piece of machinery, and smiled at me and my partner. “Yeah, I think so. A little dizzy, but I made it through!” he said.

Just to be sure, Bluebird strode up and gave the changeling a warm, nourishing hug. Scolus's face was equal parts surprised and sublime. He wasn’t used to such a luxury.

After the moment had passed, he asked, “Are they gone?”

“Yes, the Guard has left,” I said. “For now, it looks like we’re getting away with it.”

Scolus hummed a pleasant tune as we walked him back to the foyer. I wasn’t feeling very carefree, but I was surprised to see my partner wasn’t either, if his meandering eyes and stiff upper lip were any indication.

He spoke up, “So, kid—actually, ahah, that’s not even remotely the correct term for you anymore, is it?”

“Heh, I guess not. I’m not really sure what I am,” he said. “Whatever I want to be, in a way! … At least, once the magic suppressant wears off.”

He wouldn’t be Girard, at any rate. No matter the Royal Guard’s best efforts, that face would never be seen again.

“Well, I was just hoping you weren’t feeling too anxious about what happens from here on out,” Bluebird projected. “I know we might not be as experienced at it as Gloria, but me and Pesco will do our best to craft you a new identity and keep you in contact with your old friends. And hey, it’s no Villa Vivant, but crashing at my place won’t be so bad!”

“Thanks, I’m looking forward to it!” he said. I had to admit, his positivity was contagious. “But no, I would say I’m feeling less anxious than I have in a long while. Dropping out of high school wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Ahah, is that what’s on your mind right now?”

“Yeah, sort of! But part of that was because I didn’t want to have to say goodbye to my friends, or upset Gloria. For different reasons, I guess neither were very well-founded fears.”

I thought to myself: That about summarizes it.

Sometimes, we were a changeling in the throes of respiratory failure. Sometimes, we were a self-serious detective about to be mauled by an Ursa Minor. And sometimes (but hopefully never), we were a worthless abusive liar abusing and lying for all we’re worth in order to outrun the long leg of the law. But when we weren’t any of these things, then our fears in life tended to fall into one of two categories: those that had no basis in reality, and those that weren’t worth worrying about.





The crisis was over, but Bluebird knew he and his mentor both had their work cut out for them as far as Scolus's living situation was concerned. He had volunteered to host the bug at his place, sure, because he felt it was the least he could do. The conclusion of an investigation was a mountain of paperwork as it was without adding an illegal alien to the mix.

“Just in case the Guard returns, you stay here with Scolus and the kids,” Pesco told him. “Myself, I’m going down to the sheriff’s. I’ve got a police report to fabricate. Among other things.”

And like that, he was off.

Pesco wasn’t the only one who made himself scarce following the action. Soon afterward, when the conversation among the five friends was finally starting to sound like one—more laughs, and fewer tears—Bluebird realized that it was actually a conversation between four friends: the young reindeer doe, who had been standing right beside him, was no longer there.

The cadet looked around briefly, but she was nowhere in the room. If she had wished her changeling friend goodbye and good luck before leaving, she had not said it very loudly. Perhaps not at all.

Oh well. The conversation continued anyway, and Scolus was happy to be a part of it.

“So… how do you feel?”

Surprisingly, this had not been a question for Scolus, but from him. His three remaining friends—Bon, Grid, and Zorn—were puzzled.

“What do you mean? Like, knowing that you’re a changeling?” Grid said. “Guess I feel kinda excited, really! There’s this whole other side of you we get to learn about now!”

“And truly, at risk of sounding vain,” Bon said, “how many people can say that they’re friends with a changeling?” He tipped his head and crossed his chest. “I’m honored.”

“Uh, aren’t we not going to say we’re friends with a changeling?” Grid asked. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

“You’re right, Grid. Poor wording on my part. All I mean is, Scolus's secret is my privilege.”

Scolus surfaced a smile, and covered half of it with a hoof. Please, no more, the gesture seemed to say. “I appreciate all that, really, I do. Though, what I really meant to ask is… I hope I didn’t take too much?”

Zorn placed a hoof at the pulse of his neck, turning inward in thought. “I should think not.” In a charmed tone of voice, he asked the cadet and the others, “What about you? Feeling healthy?”

The cadet wondered what sort of illness could possibly overshadow the relief he felt that all of this was finally over. He, Bon, and Grid said they felt fine.

Zorn turned back to Scolus, and said, “If anything, I may have more than I did before.”

“Heh, that’s good to hear. It’s a little bit weird sometimes, isn’t it?” Scolus replied. “Love, I mean. Even I don’t really understand it, how it’s made and how it’s consumed.”

“Perhaps it’s not subject to a conservation law, unlike so much else in the world,” Zorn said. The cadet had to wonder what his batting average was for understanding Zorn’s oblique remarks.

“You were worried, Scolus, that you might have induced this ‘love malaise’ in us?” Bon asked for confirmation. “I was under the impression that was a changeling-exclusive affliction.”

“Yeah, it is, I was just, just wanting to make sure. After all, you gave so much, each and every one of you.” Scolus's gaze zigzagged in the empty spaces between his friends’ heads. “I don’t think I deserved it.”

Nobody countered with “Why?” or even “How so?”—Bluebird felt it was understood. It would only cheapen something on Scolus's part, something which he spent a good deal of time trying to verbalize as he stared at some ripped up carpet.

“It’s just, I was lying to you, all of this time. And it goes deeper than just being a changeling.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t my plan to go to Canterlot Country Day, and I wasn’t qualified to be there. It wasn’t my plan to befriend you guys, and I’m not qualified to be your friend. I put all of you through so much trouble, and why?”

Bon rose to the challenge: “Scolus, the one who put us through so much trouble has already left the building.”

The cadet was pretty sure he didn’t mean Pesco. Not one-hundred percent, though.

Scolus didn’t buy it. “I didn’t have to go along with her plans. I could have stopped her at any point.”

“It sounds like you tried to,” Bon countered. “And if being manipulated by Gloria is a sin, I’m afraid we’re all beyond salvation.”

“Blanche doesn’t really forgive me. She was just being nice.”

“Either way, it’s a first for her.”

Scolus pointed at Bon’s splint. “Your leg. I broke it.”

Bon chided Scolus; he was just reaching, now.

Grid agreed; that was all his and Bon’s fault, and Scolus had nothing to do with it.

Bon asked Grid if he had helped throw him off the roof.

Grid was confused. Of course not, he had climbed up there himself!

Bon told him that was exactly his point.

Grid was even more confused.

Bon hiccuped as he laughed. “We’re all hopeless, aren’t we?”

At the end of it all, Scolus allowed himself to cheer up, as if to say he had no more arguments. It was a brittle kind of cheeriness—it was a signal for others, and not an emotion for himself.

Zorn must have picked up on it, as he walked over and clapped a friendly hoof on Scolus's shoulder. (It was surprising how many things you didn’t realize someone never did, until they did it.)

“Somebody wise once told me: You do not have to understand something to believe in it,” Zorn said.

“Heh, who was that?”

“Ancient zebra mystic,” Zorn said with a wink. (It was surprising how many things…)

“What is ‘it’ in this context, exactly?”

“Love. Friendship. Amitaminergic compounds and interactions, generally,” he said. “Any sample of it has its impurities. No system can reliably produce it. Let us be grateful it exists at all—not in abundance, but in sufficience.”





None of us are the characters we want to be, or pretend to be. Our story never develops how we want it to, or expect it to. And yet, the narrative strings us along anyway, until the very end.