Dumb Fabric

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“Oh! Smell that. Nothing spells ‘Ponyville’ quite like spiced hay-cake in the air on a summer day. It’s just about overpowering...”

Rarity spoke loud enough to hear herself as the aroma hit her and a throng formed and moved past her on the train platform, making her forget the ride she had just endured in coach. She had felt tired and sallow, there, and stepping onto the hot cobble of the streets delighted her shuffling hooves; this world seemed to have taken a siesta from everything.

Absently, whilst admiring the fragile anonymity of the ponies rounding a busy corner across the street, she checked the pockets of her blazer jacket.

“No use stopping at Carousel, now,” she said, coming up empty. She found a spot by the plaza fountain to set down her bag and skim her reflection, in lieu of a compact mirror. It was difficult for her to make out more than a silhouette.

“Sweetie Belle and I can swing there on our way back from the old town.”

She made a few quick adjustments to a checkered ascot she had taken from the city and mussed a beret cap that had been purposed by her to disguise a recent hair-pulling habit. Making a glance about, she ducked her head down closer to the darkened image and satisfied herself of the propriety of her appearance. Then she reached into her bag and drew out a folded parchment sheet.

It will be hard to miss, it said. Past Bo Peep’s Paint Supplies, big red building. If you reach the joke shop, you’ve gone too far. Just ask someone there.

Rarity put the paper away and leaned back against the ledge of the fountain.

“Goodness knows I’ve heard enough about that damned church from Dad. I wonder if he is there today, working on windows. Will I have to see him too, at the same time? Dad and Sweetie Belle—now that is not a fair welcome to the weary traveler. They’re so awfully alike...”

The sun tarried in the sky. Just below it, she noticed the tree line that surrounded the east side of town.

“Oh yes, I see what they are talking about. A hearty race of caterpillars has found them. Completely bald like big infants. Should be fresh and green by now. Oh well. One can make do without leaves, I suppose.”

Fixing her hat again, she took her things and went in the direction of the old part of Ponyville where the event would be taking place that evening. ‘Black Box Theater’, Sweetie Belle had called it—though, in her elusive way, leaving out any explanation as to what ‘Black Box Theater’ really meant. All Rarity knew was that it was the culmination of her sister’s many weeks spent in Rolling Oats, studying acting under an apparently well-known director—‘Miss Bon’, with whom Sweetie Belle had become a partner in making mysteries.

As she was walking, Rarity spied the campus of the School of Friendship.

“Quite the alternative to that,” Rarity thought. “And yet, so fitting.”

She crossed a bridge into the historic district where she saw signs of the restoration project that was underway, part of an initiative to galvanize tourism in the lapsing town. That’s how her father, Hondo Flanks, had gotten the gig at the church—and, in turn, how Sweetie Belle had managed to pull a venue for Miss Bon’s theater troupe. The area was becoming a haunt for local artists and a few entrepreneurs, fusing the derelict, the functional, and the chic into one peculiar expression. Amidst these storefronts, the church was given away by its stature above the other buildings, and, at present, by a half dozen carriages which were parked along its premises.

Ponyville Gravitationist was a shingled affair with three or four stories slumped against the foot of a hill. The entrance on the street was boarded off; instead, a steep pathway beckoned the visitor to a side entrance fitted with a heavy metal door—an arrangement which, altogether, reminded Rarity of a legend she had heard about the Second Patriarch of Pen Buddhism during her travels abroad.

“Perhaps I will have to sever my left leg,” she observed as she marked the ascent, “and cast it at the doorstep of the Holy One to gain access to her wondrous Enlightenment.”

The place smelled powerfully of new paint and garbage and it was impossible to see through the blackened windows on the rising side. She listened intently for any activity or speech she might catch coming from within, which might have given her a hint as to what was happening and how best to proceed; but she met with nothing but the silence of her father’s unfinished fenestrations.

She hit a red buzzer by the big door—nothing happened. She noticed sweat under her pits. “I feel like fried dough,” she thought. She touched her pockets again. “Can’t believe I left it on the bathroom counter. For goodness’ sake, I wish we could get on with it.”

The door opened with a loud clack! from the latch, and standing before her was an overfed, saccharine-looking boy, smiling over a woolly black turtleneck and exuding a tremendous odor of perspiration. He was ashen with an ember-colored mane that tumbled down one side of his head, but which was shaved on the other. He was half as wide as the door frame, making it impossible for Rarity to see what was happening in the darkness of the vestibule behind him.

“Can I help you, Ma’am?” he asked cheerfully.

“Oh, yes,” said Rarity, “I’m here to see Sweetie Belle.”

The boy had a flash of recollection. “Oh! Miss Sweetie Belle? You must be her sister. She told us you would be coming.”

“Why, yes!” Rarity answered.

“Can’t let you in, though,” he said. “Not at the moment, anyway. The company is wrapping up a dress rehearsal. Almost done.”

“I see,” she replied. “Do you know how much longer it will be?”

The boy shrugged.

“In that case, my name is Rarity,” she said, taking a step back and tucking her mane behind her ears. “It is a pleasure to meet you… er…”

“Free Hoof,” said the boy. “And likewise, of course.”

“Charmed. I will admit, Free Hoof, that you were not the pony I was expecting to see. But we will make the most of this, you and I! Will you come with me into town, and we can get ice cream and a hooficure and we can talk about boys and how your life is going? I do so very much look forward to that sort of thing.”

Free Hoof’s large mass heaved with a chuckle. “Why, that’d be lovely, Miss Rarity. I can see that you and your sister both have that Ponyville sense of humor.”

“Oh, goodness, is that what they call it?” Rarity peered with greater exaggeration into the room behind where he was standing. “Forgive me for asking a silly question, Free Hoof, but what is it exactly that your group does? I can’t seem to get a straightforward answer from my sister because… well, you know… she has that famous ‘Ponyville sense of humor’.”

A look of consternation crimped the boy’s soft features. “Gosh, Miss Rarity. Let’s see… Where to begin? Hmm! Well, are you familiar with the work of Miss On Scene?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Free Hoof exhaled like a skier at the foot of a tall slope. “Okay, then! Super famous theater director from Boar-doe. She pioneered a method of object-based storytelling as a response to traumatic events that divided her from the old aristocracy, into which she had been born.”

“Object-based storytelling?” Rarity interrupted him. “Are you referring to the realistic depiction of ponies and settings, as a protest against the sentimentalized high mythology of provincial nobility?”

“Oh, no, no,” answered Free Hoof, “very far from it, in fact. Miss Bonn likes to describe Black Box as ‘the pursuit of the verb’. It has nothing to do with positing ponies or things of any kind.”

“Very well,” Rarity replied, “so we shall dispense with nouns. Not a problem. Then, if I understand you, Free Hoof, Black Box Theater is concerned with bold expressions—the cries of a sensing subject who seeks liberation from and within a process which invariably wraps itself up, as it were, in the tattered clothing of form and figure.”

“We get that a lot,” the boy said demurely, “and I can see why you might think that. But once you’ve been doing this a while, you realize that what we are after lies underneath the level of abstraction, indeed, in a very continuous sense of the concrete.”

Rarity puzzled for a moment. “It sounds like a bunch of monkeys trapped in a room who have to learn to stack crates in order to reach a banana.”

“Like that. But take away the monkeys.”

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” Rarity said with a sigh. “And this is what my sister does, you say?”

Free Hoof smiled. “I think it may help to be acquainted with Miss On Scene’s backstory to better understand what we ‘do’. That will get you up to speed—if you have a moment, Ma’am.”

“Please,” said Rarity, seating herself on her haunches. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Oh, excellent!”

Free Hoof let the door shut behind him with a bang!

“Her father,” he proceeded, “was a minor noble of the old principalities, who had friends in the courts and who fell in love with a stenographer. That coupling was not looked upon so favorably by his blue-blooded contemporaries, who saw it as a conceit to the middle class. Believe it or not, many customs which originate long before modern Canterlotian aristocratic reform still persist in the provinces.”

“They certainly maintain some strange traditions,” Rarity agreed.

“Growing up, Miss On Scene witnessed her father’s moral deterioration as a result of his estrangement from the nobility. His house gradually fell into lower standing. The old baron, having no recourse, discovered that he had luck with dog fights, and spent his days recovering his sense of reputation in the seedier parts of Boar-doe. He eventually became a heavy drinker. As a young mare, Miss On Scene became so disenchanted with the culture of the aristocracy that she framed a scathing condemnation of it in her first work as a budding dramatist, called Optimum Nox Semper. It combined her childhood love of puppet shows with the story of a group of officials who get together to flog one another, perform quadrilles in tar—what have you—all to compete for the privilege of attending the soirees of a wretched old magistrate.

“Unfortunately, in composing her early masterpiece, Miss On Scene seemed to have forgotten that the language in which she had couched it—Pony Latin, a traditional favorite for satire—was in fact the lingua franca of the upper class.”

“I imagine that didn’t sit well with the lords,” said Rarity.

“You imagine correctly,” Free Hoof replied. “The more literate nobles got together and trumped up a sedition scandal against her, and she was sent away to a prison camp in the mountains of Neighberia.”

“You don’t say!” Rarity interjected, trying to keep from snickering at her personal associations. Sweetie Belle’s participation in the theater camp—as Rarity had deciphered it, from the reports of two parties—had been a compromise between her sister and her parents, at the tail of a year of poor grades and truant behavior at Friendship Academy. And that was just how everyone referred to it in their correspondences—a ‘camp’.

“It happened one day,” Free Hoof continued, “that a fellow inmate discovered a disposal area where there were large caches of discarded household objects. It fascinated Miss On Scene that the wardens, who were charged with keeping the prison running like clockwork, could be so indolent in this one respect. She began to retrieve these objects and set them in places around the compound in such a way that only the prisoners were cognizant of their correlation and purpose. She set up a trail of pins and beer bottle caps which led from behind the document storage facility to a cordoned-off patch of brush and cookware which she called ‘The Great Cairn of the Snails’. The other inmates were inspired to make their own assemblages, which were imbued with emotive suggestion but still beyond the apprehension of any of the guards. It was then that Black Box was born in the mind of Miss On Scene, with whom our own Miss Bon had the good fortune to study before the mistress passed.”

A cacophony of shuffled chairs and hoof steps issued from behind the door where Rarity and Free Hoof were speaking. The boy recollected himself, and said, “Excuse me, Miss Rarity. I got a little bit carried away—it sounds like the troupe is wrapping up right now. Let me check to see what’s going on.”

“I would appreciate that,” Rarity began, “even though I am really enjoying listening to you, I do have to—”

Free Hoof disappeared back into the church before she could finish her douceur, letting the gate shut thunderously behind him. Rarity sighed again, and, with the thought of encountering her sister revived, began to prink the locks that fell like wet purple ribbons from under her cap.

“Blast it, what I wouldn’t do for a mirror right now,” she said, quietly to herself. “Dear, dear… Now, what am I going to talk about with Sweetie Belle? Not business. No, anything but business, that’s the most dreadful subject. Maybe we can talk about Enlightenment instead. Mountains and all of that.”

“Come on in, Miss Rarity!” Free Hoof hollered from the dark.

Rarity passed through the shroud of the vestibule into a high, raftered chapel room. Softly lit on the walls were murals of ponies gathered around wells, swinging on vines, and showering under the long arches of rainbows, all in a flattened, fresco style. Everything appeared freshly painted—probably by a previous youth group—and evoked photographs she had seen of ancient artwork from Maze Island. There were two or three squadrons of adolescent ponies working in the main hall, moving pews into a hexagonal formation. They joked and shouted orders at one another with teenage bravado, laughing loudly with the reverberation of the warehouse floor, but with no sign of Sweetie Belle.

Rarity heard Free Hoof’s voice once again, this time resounding from the back of the chapel. He came out from one of the office rooms with a stunning old mare by his side: she had a tan hide with lustrous, sagging, golden eyes, which made nodding replies to Free Hoof’s indecipherable declamations. A bright blouse clung to her neck as though it had been laundered in the Fountain of Youth. As she creaked over, her eyes caught Rarity’s, and in the glimpse the latter sensed a wave of icy inspection; then, with a smile that pinched the rest of her face, the old mare began:

“So you are Miss Rarity, how very nice to meet you. My name is Bon Temps, but my students—and my friends—simply call me, Miss Bon.”

“It is nice to meet you, likewise,” said Rarity, shaking hooves with her.

“Miss Rarity is a fashion designer from Manehattan,” said Free Hoof.

Miss Bon raised an eyebrow. “Manehattan? Well, it’s been some years since I’ve been there, myself, but I know that it is certainly a very difficult town to be successful in. Good for you, m’baby.”

Rarity sighed painfully, and said, “Yes, one day at a time, as they say. Though, I’m afraid you may have misheard something my sister said. I’m not from Manehattan at all, but grew up here in Ponyville. It is a very sleepy town, I know.”

Miss Bon replied, “Oh, I adore little places like this, with antique customs and affectionate churches...” She laughed, and added, “Saint Clyde’s in-the-bowery is quite pristine, I’ll give you that, but—well, I don’t mean to battle you on our first encounter, Miss Rarity.”

“Be my guest, please.”

“A building like this one,” Miss Bon said in a quieter voice, “has a little bit of yellow from the sun. Dy’hear? It is an old book with torn and earmarked pages, and one knows straight away that ponies have lived and died here. It has an authenticity that one rarely finds in a city like Manehattan, where they’re always cleaning everythin’ up. I believe, Miss Rarity, that it is to the credit of you and your sister, that you were both born and raised in a town like Ponyville, and have an appreciation for the artistic portent of things in a state of decay, where we can most vividly measure the intentions of an author against the treacherous march of time—'quaint’, in other words.”

“Right… Well, I’m afraid that I’m usually so busy that I rarely have time to stop and smell the sepulchers,” Rarity answered her. “But I see your point.”

Miss Bon flashed her another pinching smile. “I am glad you do. Manehattan is hard, m’baby. Rolling Oats can be, too. But you and Miss Sweetie Belle may always remember what home is like.”

Rarity looked uneasily around the room—the young ponies had mostly retired from the chapel hall, and the headmistress seemed in no hurry to follow them.

“Speaking of whom,” said Rarity, “you wouldn’t happen to know where the little bugger ran off to, would you? I haven’t seen mane nor tail of her, and I’m beginning to worry that she got lost—looking for objects, perhaps?”

Miss Bon winced and lingered on the remark like the long drag of a cigarette, then said with eyes sidelong away, “What a keen and understanding young mare she is. No, I am not her keeper, Miss Rarity. And, as I extend her good qualities to you, her sister, I would ask that you refrain from referring to our work as ‘looking for objects’. It is a degradation of the vision of Black Box Theater.”

“Why—goodness me!—perish the idea, Miss Bon!” Rarity replied with a nervous, conciliatory laugh. “I assure you, I intend only to convey respectful curiosity. Humor is a form of praise with me. Why, we are looking for things all the time, aren’t we?

“Just last week I lost business with an important client who claimed that he had been issued the wrong tailored jacket for an executive dinner, and therefore had nothing to wear on that occasion. And, what’s more, when it came to a point of business dispute between the two of us, I was unable to find the original order invoice anywhere in the system that I ask my assistant, Coco Pommel, to keep. Can you believe—when I asked her about it, she said she might have discarded it as part of an operation to keep the back-office tidy. Well! I tried to convey to her, as gently and cordially as I was able, how unprofessional we appeared to be in that moment, and how now is not the time to be making such mistakes. It’s never the time—but, as an enterprising mare yourself, Miss Bon, I’m sure you understand me perfectly well…”

Miss Bon nodded, but refrained making a reply. Rarity let out a breath and continued.

“Coco was rather upset with my tone and ran off in a blathering huff, as my friends are sometimes wont to do. I thought I would not see her again, and that it would be best to go on without her. Oh, but I missed her after the first day. She is a hard little worker, and comes from little means, you know. She is always looking out for me when I get stressed, and is my partner in crime when it comes to coffee and doughnuts. And it turns out, I’m not exactly a natural when it comes to keeping invoices—or designing methods for doing so.

“You’re probably wondering, with all this bungling, how it is that I managed to get through that week without tearing my hair out?” she went on, twirling her hair around one of her hooves. Miss Bon was silent, still, her golden eyes probing, until Rarity was obliged to continue, “Well, it so happened a few days later that Coco had left a few things at the boutique, and had come to retrieve them and end things formally. But she saw how it was going with me. She took charge, the dear, and gave me a moment to have a good cry. Then—boom! boom!—we were superheroes once more, sweet sisters in the industry of fashion!”

Rarity straightened her ascot; then, casting a glance back at Miss Bon, said, “And wouldn’t you know? That night we found the invoice which belonged to the nefarious customer from before. Coco tried to apologize—but I stopped her. I told her that I was the one, indeed, who should be apologizing to her, for treating such a close friend so poorly. And I noted as well—quite brilliantly, I might add—that, although I had been searching for an invoice to resolve my original dilemma, that the real invoice had been right beside me all along, sharing doughnuts with me in the morning.”

“And what would you have done,” asked Miss Bon, breaking her silence, “if Miss Coco had not returned to retrieve her belongings that day?”

“I suppose,” Rarity answered after some thought, “that I would have had to carry on with my business in the state that it was in, and eventually hire someone else.”

“It wouldn’t be exactly the same, though. You might wonder, in fact, late at night over a glass of wine, whatever became of your ‘sweet sister in the industry of fashion’.”

“That’s correct,” said Rarity, blushing at being reminded of how she had framed the relationship between her and Coco Pommel.

Again came the pinching smile. “What I love about you—that is to say, about young ponies, is your excitement for life. At the same time, Miss Rarity, it seems to me that you missed the point of what happened to you entirely. Let me tell you a joke. My grandfather was a city planner in Boar-doe—really. He became quite well-known there. Well, one evening he went into a café in a neighborhood for which he himself had been the architect. Imagine that! A young waitress, knowing his reputation, approached him. She asked, ‘How would you like your coffee this morning, Monsieur?’ and he answered, ‘Without sugar.’ Whereupon the young dear gave the most natural reply—"I’m sorry, Monsieur, we are out of sugar today. Would you like it without milk?’”

Rarity waited for the punchline.

The old lady gave her a piercing look. “Your long-lost assistant came back. Who cares? It seems to me you are lookin’ for your sister.”

The clamor in the chapel had died down, and the light on the walls had gotten brighter, illuminating the fresco under the covered windows.

“If you understand me, Miss Rarity,” Miss Bon said after a pause, “I think you will have grasped something about the essence of Black Box Theater.”

“Miss Bon,” Rarity rebutted as perspiration began to prickle about her cap line, “I do appreciate your coming to speak with me and your attempt to help me to understand your art. But, really, I cannot abide by your insinuations. You want me to picture my reunion with my old happiness as a symptom—a malady no different, perhaps, then if I were preoccupied with trying to crawl back into the womb. You say that it is a separation which cannot be fixed. Well, that is modern Enlightenment for you—we are ever to roll our tumbling Tom uphill in monological contentment, and yet the whole question of bondage is dialogical. The ‘who’ that comes to Fate’s bargaining table is formed in relationship to others, in the reflection of other minds. Our inner world is not only labor, but communication. And, if you cannot grasp that, then you have a very confused notion of freedom, indeed.”

Miss Bon laughed into the echo of the rafters and gazed back at Rarity with her sad, golden eyes, but made no answer.

“I think she’s downstairs putting chairs away,” Free Hoof interceded between them. “Sweetie Belle, I mean. She’s been our point pony for this project, since it was largely her initiative.”

“Yes,” Miss Bon resumed, “we are very grateful to your sister for arranging to have us play here. She has proved ardent and reliable in that capacity. We all look forward to seeing you and your family at the performance tonight, dy’hear? Please remind Miss Sweetie Belle that we would like to begin the silent cleansing at four o’ clock.” She smiled again. “It has been nice meeting you.”

“Will do. And it was nice to meet you, as well,” said Rarity, wiping sweat from her brow as they turned to leave.

Un-sisters

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The chapel room was empty. Rarity could begin to hear hoof steps downstairs muffled beneath the floor boards, and then a clank! that resounded into the high ceiling. A door wheezed shut; then, Sweetie Belle arrived at the access, wearing a loose black turtleneck like the one Free Hoof had on, and laughing at the sight of her sister like a sailor at the approach of dry land.

“There you are,” said Rarity, a little surprised at the suddenness of her appearance. “You have no idea what I’ve had to go through to find you.”

Sweetie Belle swayed over and gave her a smooch on the right cheek.

“Practically from the moment I got off the train it’s been nothing but prison camps and cryptic punchlines and hot air that smells like alcohol and carnival fare,” Rarity complained. “And I still don’t know what you do and I dare say I am afraid to find out.”

Another kiss. Sweetie Belle pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Do you not take the well-being of your sister seriously?” Rarity said. She wrenched herself in her sister’s hold so that she could meet gazes with her. “I could have been killed out there!”

“Killed?” Sweetie Belle replied. “Well, thankfully I’m here to save you! What would you do without me, Rare?” She couldn’t repress a devilish smile. She gave Rarity one more smothering kiss and let go of her in a fit of giggling.

Sweetie Belle was tall and wiry, with a mop of full, unruly curls. This by itself was enough to make Rarity alternate between admiration and jealousy of her; but besides this, she managed to be a match for charm with her older sister, despite poor grooming and her father’s indelicately large nose. She had sparring, thoughtful eyes which flouted her sister’s formal airs.

Sweetie Belle grabbed her satchel and they went out through the side door to the entrance on the sunbaked hill where Rarity and the guard boy had talked. They stopped as she took a moment to look through her belongings. Finally, she drew a tiny etched key out of one of her pouches and used it to turn the church’s lock, giving the door a tug to be sure it was secure.

“Ugh! And I ought to start calling you ‘Sweaty Belle’,” said Rarity, puckering her nose. “You stink!”

“You’re going to love it,” Sweetie Belle said, bypassing the remark, and beaming as she spoke. “This is really right up your alley, I think. Black Box is way more cathartic than thespian acting.”

“And do I strike you as a feverish lady, hungry for whatever pathos is on offer?” Rarity quipped.

“No, no, no” Sweetie Belle replied. “I said ‘catharsis’. With ‘pathos’ you have tension, climax, resolution, denouement—traditional stuff. We try to enhance the encounter that the audience has with its own space. So, in a way, you will be the star of tonight’s show, Rarity. And that’s why you’ll like it.”

“Moi?” Rarity replied in mock befuddlement. “Why, Sweetie Belle, I haven’t any notes! I’ve not had time to let the art of experiencing transform the role! I don’t even have an understudy! And in front of all our friends? Well, this will be a thing to see.”

Sweetie Belle laughed, but before she could counter, Rarity continued, “I thought we would stop at Carousel to freshen up a bit before meeting Applejack and the others. You don’t need anything at Mom and Dad’s, do you?”

“It’s all ready to go,” said Sweetie Belle, smiling. “We had dress rehearsal this morning. At this point it’s just a matter that everyone shows up on time. Nothing to worry about—we’ve got a rhythm.”

Rarity returned her smile. She looked her over a moment, and said, “I have to tell you, Sweetie Belle, how impressed I am that you’ve managed to pull all of this together. Your director was just telling me what an excellent job you’ve been doing in your retainer role. Going to that camp was so good for you, I can see it in the way you walk.”

Sweetie Belle became cautious. “Just luck, really. We were exploring possible venues for our end of project performance and I thought it would be fun to come to Ponyville. I told Miss Bon that I knew some of the princesses and that they would come to the show—before I confirmed with them, heh.”

“Now, now,” said Rarity, raising her hoof, “don’t sell yourself short. It wasn’t ‘just luck’—that’s using your wits and your connections. And I know for a fact that Twilight would love to come and see your troupe perform. She really enjoys the theater, you know, and I believe she thinks quite fondly of you.”

Sweetie Belle bit down on her lip. “I’m kind of nervous about it, to be honest. Princess Cadance is also going to be there.”

“Cadance, too? Well, haven’t you been busy!” She perceived a distance that entered Sweetie at these words, and changed her tone. “Listen. I want you to look at me. We are having a moment, you and I.”

Sweetie Belle looked at her.

“It is perfectly natural for you to be feeling ‘nerves’. I have had the privilege of meeting Princess Cadance on a number of occasions, and I can report that I have met few ponies of such fine discernment, even under pressure. And I may say the same for Twilight, of course. To have these two mares as part of a small audience for your theatrical debut here—why, I’m not only envious, thinking back on my early days in fashion design—my eyes are as green as the Everfree Forest!”

The conversation broke off as Sweetie Belle collided with another pedestrian—she had become so preoccupied with her sister’s performance that she had forgot to pay attention to where she was walking. She reeled back, as much in surprise as by force, and hit the ground with considerable momentum. Both the passerby—a hearty old stallion with a serene squint—and Rarity, offered to help her up; but Sweetie declined the invitation on both counts.

“Dinged you there,” said the stranger. “Sorry ‘bout that. You okay?”

Sweetie Belle nodded and flashed her assailant a toothy grin. “Chipped teeth?”

“No Ma’am,” he replied.

“Bloody nose?” she asked with a sniffle.

“Looks fine to me,” said the old buck. “You’re ready for the ball, Miss.”

Sweetie Belle propped herself up, and answered him in a sharp tone, “You’re paying, right?”

The stallion blinked at her. “Paying? For what? You’re not planning on pressing charges, now?”

Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes and gave him a knock on the shoulder. “For the ball you just invited me to, you dope.”

“Oh, well now!” he chuckled. “I’m not sure a modest fellow like me could afford your likes.”

“True, true. I am a rather expensive date,” said Sweetie Belle, feigning an inspection of one of her hooves. “But listen. I’m not totally heartless. Just see me again when you have more money, and we can work out an installment plan.”

“An installment plan… Well, if I’m involved, you may have to take that proposal up with my beneficiaries.”

He and Sweetie Belle laughed together; then, remembering his manners, he paid his respects to Rarity.

“How do you do,” she replied witheringly.

“Very well, thank you.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, sir,” Rarity continued. “For all you know the young lady may really be going to a ball of her own, and feel perfectly willing to attend looking like a dirty mushroom, thanks to your carelessness and indifferent praise.”

Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes. “It’s Sweet Apple Acres. We’re just going to lunch with friends. And I’m sure they wouldn’t hold it against me if I showed up in a big bowl of mushroom salad.”

“Perhaps not,” Rarity replied, still addressing herself to the elder pony, “but this will be more than just a get-together—it is a special picnic prepared just for you, dear, in honor of your theater event in town tonight. Don’t you want to look nice for your big moment?”

“Huh, that so? Where at?” the stallion broke in.

“Ponyville Gravitationist,” said Sweetie Belle, pointing back up the street. “You don’t want to miss this, I would say. I’m with a company under the famous Bon Temps—haven’t heard of her?—well, she rarely makes appearances outside of Rolling Oats. Seating is limited due to capacity restrictions but if you come around six thirty I’ll make sure you can get in.” She gave him an elbow, and added, “I won’t tell the fire marshal. I promise.”

“There’s also a silent cleansing at four, if you’d like to attend that,” said Rarity.

The old stallion tottered his head toward the town clock. “Heh, we’ll see. I’m sure anything either of you lovely ladies decided to star in could pack the house. You watch your step, now,” he said, ambling on his way.

As Sweetie Belle waved him goodbye, Rarity sighed at her. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’re taken in by an old flatterer.”

“It’s called ‘using my wits’. Remember? That ‘old flatterer’ might be a patron of the arts.”

“Sconced in these ancient alleys of Ponyville, you think?”

“We grew up in these ancient alleys, and we’re artists.”

“Not yet, dear. You have an aspiration, which is partly reflected in how you dress and how you think of yourself. It’s true for me, too.”

“Just because my outfit is a bit dusty doesn’t mean I don’t care about what I do,” Sweetie Belle fired back at her. “You wanna know where all this sweat comes from?” she said, stretching the collar on her sweater. “Demanding rehearsals in a hot chapel. Moving equipment. Arranging pews—”

“I didn’t say that you don’t care about what you do, dear.”

“But you meant it.”

They started walking again. They turned down a path through some tall bushes to shortcut the main plaza in Ponyville Square.

“You were just telling me how nervous you are that Princess Cadance is going to be attending your show tonight,” said Rarity, after some time had passed. “That’s all. I didn’t intend to upset your artistic sensibility. She won’t be at the lunch, then?”

“She’ll be there,” said Sweetie Belle. “It will be her, Twilight, Rainbow Dash, and the Apples. Very casual, I expect.”

They carried on a short way in the confidence of the bower. “I know it is pressure for you,” said Rarity. “I just want you to be steady on your hooves, and to know that your big sister does not doubt for a moment that you are ready for… whatever it is you are going to do tonight. I suppose I didn’t have anyone like that when I was starting out. Well, Mom and Dad, maybe.”

Sweetie Belle made no reply.

“Sore subject?”

“YEE!” cried the other, catching her hoof on a small root in the path as she was pondering, again, and taking another spill. This time, she flung her shoulder bag and spewed its contents in all directions—including the church key, which arced through the afternoon branch light, straight to where her sister stood staring at it like an incoming projectile.

Rarity let out a squeak—whereupon, in the brief window of her surprise, the key landed and lodged itself in the back of her throat, where it might have choked her, if she hadn’t the wherewithal to swallow it with executive instinct.

She recovered herself and made over to where Sweetie Belle had fallen, where her help was once more turned away. Sweetie brushed herself off and started corralling her belongings from the dirt. “I promise I won’t make a habit of this,” she said, working at a quick pace. “Well, what is it? Give me a hoof, will you? I thought you wanted time to ‘freshen up’.”

“I was just thinking,” Rarity replied, as calmly as she could manage, “that we might need to stop back in town… That maybe we might need to see the chapel administrators before we are on our way. They are in town, right? Part of an historic committee, or some such thing?”

“Maybe we might… What? Why?” Sweetie Belle asked.

“Oh dear. Because, well, I might have their key! In my tummy. That little white one you had in your bag, I think. It flew out of your satchel, and it came toward me, and I had to do something. I thought it would be a good idea to go see them and get a spare, before your show begins. Then we can freshen up.” She turned cheerily in the direction of town, and waited for her sister to follow her.

“You ate the key to the building I’m in charge of,” came Sweetie Belle’s voice behind her.

“It would seem so.”

“The building which is the venue for the performance I’ve spent weeks putting together.”

Rarity turned and began to massage her throat. “Um… Well, when you put it that way, yes. But we may still have a perfect afternoon!”

“Oh, really?” Sweetie Belle snapped. “Does it involve smashing more of my dreams against your forehead like an empty cider ale can?”

Rarity felt the tingle of sweat around her hat again, like she had during her exchange with Miss Bon. “Oh… I take it there isn’t a spare key, then?”

“Heavens, no,” Sweetie Belle replied, mocking her, “it’s an eighty-year-old door, dear.”

“Be nice, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said quietly. “I came a long way to see you.”

“Fine. I’m sorry. It’s not like you swallowed it on purpose, I guess.”

“Never mind it all,” Rarity went on. “Now, chin up. We just need to come up with a plan. We’ve been through far worse, haven’t we?”

“Easy,” Sweetie Belle said, heading in the direction of Sweet Apple Acres. “We can ask one of the princesses to unlock the bolt. Their magic should be more than strong enough for that. Think so?”

Rarity hesitated to follow her.

“Yes, well, um… Hmm… No, I don’t think it will be necessary for us to go through with all of that.”

“What do you mean ‘with all of that’?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“What I mean, my love—and I do hate to put this sort of spin on things, but I think you’ll understand once you’re further advanced in your career—what I mean to say is that, mares who are in established positions—such as myself—who rely on their professional reputations as much as their talents to meet their daily obligations, must make other considerations when it comes to asking favors of respected colleagues. Shall I ask Princess Cadance if she knows how to pick locks? Or perhaps I should pull Twilight aside on her holiday, and get her involved in some hole-and-corner business, on such a hot day, like a shade carriage mechanic? Now, I am sure that they would condescend to help us, if we asked them to do so. But that would be owing to the goodness of their hearts, and not to the tact in our request. And my chances to break bread with friends are these days so rare, and so interfingered, as it were, with prestigious company, that it does not wear well to use those occasions to ‘cadge the swells’ for the sake of small inconveniences.”

“Lucky for us,” Sweetie Belle answered, showing some vexation in her voice, “I already have a poor reputation, so any publicity Twilight might give me talking smack in Canterlot would be a plus.”

She turned to leave again, and Rarity called out, “Sweetie Belle, listen to me! I wish you wouldn’t be so impulsive.”

“Your grievance has been duly heard and duly addressed,” Sweetie Belle called back. “Come on!”

Rarity plunked herself down on the dirt path. “I’m not moving one inch, ugh! …Okay, fine. It’s stupid Rainbow Dash that I’m worried about. She prides herself on being an obnoxious little cur. If she finds out that I ate something important which belongs to you it will never see an end. She’ll make jokes about it at the round table. She’ll stick padlocks in my Puddinghead pudding every Hearthswarming Eve, just because she thinks it’s funny. You might find it amusing, but at my current stress level I’m not sure how much I can take…! Mind you, because these are my vacations we’re talking about—”

“Okay, okay,” said Sweetie Belle, strolling up. “Geez. Well, what am I supposed to do? What about my vacations?”

“Now, Sweetie Belle. Do you really think that I would turn down such a sensible suggestion, as you have surely made, if I did not have one of my own—other and better—which will satisfy both our requirements? For there is, indeed, a natural solution to our predicament.”

“…You’re kidding.”

“This would be strictly confidential, of course. Just between us. I will find a moment to excuse myself while we are picnicking—they have a lovely, homey little water closet in the manor at Sweet Apple Acres. A few moments of fine conversation—I’m sure you can help with that part—and I return to the company, fully restored, and with your performance schedule restored, to boot.”

Sweetie Belle could hardly conceal laughter as she looked back at the blazered pony who had made her such an offer. She could see her squirming. At the same time, her proposal had an appeal. It might, for all intents and purposes, work out just as well as her own recommendation for retrieving the lost key; and the thought of her sister being obliged to undertake such a task seemed a harmless but fitting penance for the arrogance she had shown her during their conversation with the old stallion.

“I’m… touched,” she replied, after some consideration, “that you’d be willing to go through with something like that for my sake. Really. I would only be worried that we’d be putting trust in something which is, erm… beyond our control. Call it ‘misplaced faith’.”

“’Faith’ is what you are willing to die with,” said Rarity. “What we are dealing with here is a little chance and probability—that’s all. And that can be dealt with by planning. I’ve got a rhythm.”

An embarrassed grin betrayed her at the accidental joke, and was enough to crack Sweetie Belle’s final defenses in opposition to proffered stratagem.

“I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Oh! We could stop at the pancake house and fill up, and just tell Applejack that you had a big breakfast on the train.”

“Oh, no! We couldn’t do that,” said Rarity. “You know how Applejack is. It would be extremely inconsiderate of me if she went through all of the trouble to host a lunch, only for me to turn away from my plate. She really is a star for doing this.”

“Maybe just a few pancakes, then?” said Sweetie Belle, as they took each other’s side again. “As a little insurance policy. I demand at least one short stack of you!”

“Okay. Half a stack. I’ll do it if it makes you feel comfortable.”

“Mhm. We can rinse a little at the restaurant,” Sweetie Belle said. “Perfect!”

They started in a trot back toward town.

“Yes, see, I told you it could still be a perfect afternoon,” replied Rarity, feeling the slog of the train ride seep back into her.

What's 'Uncouth'...?

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The girls went to Bayard’s Café and settled on a three-stack of blueberry pancakes as an adequate preparation to carry out their plan de sortie.

“It’s my favorite,” Rarity explained to the waitress.

“We’ll have that ready for you, Ma’am.”

“I just go into town and I’m diabetic, you see.”

The waitress smiled. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Yes. Type one.”

“I can get you some toast and jam, if you like—”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. The pancakes will do. I have to exercise some moderation, after all.”

The waitress made her a nod and jotted something on her writing pad. “We are what we eat. Right?” She turned to Sweetie Belle. “And for you, Miss?”

“I’ll have nothing, thanks,” she said.

The waitress laughed.

“Oh, you don’t mean that!” she said with a playful tap on the table. “What’s your pleasure, dear?”

“No, really. Not too long from now I’m going to be performing on a stage. Today, the theater is my repast. It’s like you said—we are what we eat.”

The waitress placed a hoof on her hip. “So… That means you’re not ordering?”

“She’s fine,” Rarity interceded. “I’ll just have all the gooey pancakes by myself. Big fat gooey Rarity!”

The waitress frowned and went off to deliver the order to the kitchen.

“’The theater is my repast’... Please! You could have at least gotten a cup of coffee,” whispered Rarity. “This is so embarrassing!”

“Embarrassing? You embarrass yourself! Since when do you have diabetes?”

“She thinks she’s doing a good thing, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sweetie Belle groaned. “I’m just trying to keep myself psyched. This stuff demands a lot of energy, apart from having to make calculations about your ‘movements’. Now I have to tell myself—it will happen, it will happen, it will happen…”

Blushing, Rarity replied, “Well, what would you do if you were onstage, hmm? Would you worry about what you were going to be doing after the show was over?”

“Of course not,” Sweetie Belle said. “But what do you mean?”

Reclaiming a more dignified air, Rarity explained, “I mean that you should think of this as though you had two performances today. And all this stress is the tell of a beginning actress. The audience is not there to see you. It is a bitter medicine, Sweetie Belle, but a good one to swallow, because it will allow you to immerse yourself in the task at hoof. And that’s your responsibility to the ponies who come to the theater, is it not?”

Sweetie Belle fetched a sigh, but made no reply.

“No sweat!” Rarity went on. “Here come the pancakes now. Have a bite, will you, for me? Yes, Miss, we will be sharing, thank you.”

She took a bite.

“Okay, Sweetie Belle. We will have your troupe onstage in no time!”

From the café they went directly to Sweet Apple Acres. As they crossed the property line they began to hear distant talking from across the lawn, and were able to guess that most or all of the guests were already in attendance at the picnic. There was an upswelling of ribald laughter, from which Rarity was able to discern a gruff and unfamiliar voice; she presently turned to her sister and asked with some agitation if there was an invitee she had neglected to mention during their talk in the bower.

When she received an answer in the negative, Rarity proceeded, “I’m not trying to be pushy, but I wonder if it’s one of Rainbow Dash’s Wonderbolt friends. Oh, dear! I’m starting to worry what I’ve gotten myself into.”

Whereupon Sweetie Belle asked whether one of Rainbow’s Wonderbolt cohorts was not at least as ‘fine and sensible at critical junctures’ as Twilight or Cadance were supposed to be in the context her own performance.

“That’s totally different!” Rarity snapped. “You are justly concerned about the christening voyage of your artistic career. Your only trouble is your confidence in your ability to execute, which is nothing but self-guessing. I, on the other hand, have known Rainbow for many years, and though she and I are dear friends, our ‘predicament’ is the last thing I would want her to know about. Everything is a laughingstock with her. That is the real crime, Sweetie Belle, that nobody will learn anything from any of this. And I worry that the presence of one of her bunkmates might infect her with a mischievous spirit.”

They arrived at the spot during a lull in the conversation of the guests. Everyone was gulling about a red checkered blanket, upon which was laid out Sweetie Belle’s true repast: bean burgers and red lentil salad, topped with walnuts and a creamy pumpkin sauce. To these were added a few other selections. There was a white bean soup, which shone like a pearl under the noon sun, next to a light green watercress. Down-blanket was macaroni and cheese, vegetable pilaf, and roasted onions with singed tips that crackled in the breezes. A mound of salted almonds in a beveled dish, barely touched, marked the appetizers, which included sautéed mushrooms and potato and squash wedges with spiced eggplant dip; the spread was rounded off by a batch of honey-drizzled apricots, which promised a sweet and sticky conclusion to the gathering of friends.

Sweetie Belle blushed furiously at the presence of the feast, and felt her throat tighten as the guests turned to salute her as she and her sister approached the blanket. On one side was Princess Twilight, Princess Cadance, and Apple Bloom, waving at her with a toothy smile; across from them were Rarity’s bête noire Rainbow Dash and her guest, Master Sergeant Spitfire, the owner of the voice which she had heard from down the yard. Applejack, the cook and curator, greeted them from the head of the blanket; the end opposite her was left open for the guest of honor.

“Ah, the star of the hour has arrived!” Cadance announced upon the sisters’ arrival. “Perhaps you would care for something to eat?”

Rarity marched past her sister and plopped herself firmly in the corner spot by the Master Sergeant. “Sweetie Belle, sit! It is your rightful place at the head of the blanket. Hello, ladies! Look at you all, lovely lot.”

“Sit down!” said Apple Bloom, beaming at her. “Gosh, I missed you!”

Sweetie Belle hesitated for several moments, thinking of the harsh feelings she had harbored toward her sister not long before in the bower—then took her place. Between quick breaths she thanked Applejack for her effort, which she said was wasted on her, and hoped that the group would not have too much fun noticing her faults.

“The only thing getting roasted today are these here onions,” replied Applejack, “and that’s over and done with. Eat up, darlin’! To your heart’s content.”

Cadance winked at her. “The pumpkin dressing is delicious.”

Rainbow Dash peered with unconcealed amusement at Rarity, who had already made a plate for herself with two bean burgers and a pile of macaroni.

“Geez, Rare,” she said, “you know we’re supposed to be congratulating your sister, right?”

Rarity made sure to finish chewing before replying.

“One thing I have learned in my travels, Rainbow Dash, is that if someone makes you an offering of food, one should almost always accept it. It’s not just about one’s own pleasure, you know.”

“Well, I’m plenty comfortable, thanks to you.”

“Now, now, there’s enough for everyone,” said Applejack. “And I say—a good appetite is the mark of a good mare. Poor Rarity’s been running around all morning, I wager, coming from the city and all, and she deserves a good meal.”

“I’ve been up since quite early indeed,” Rarity replied within bites, “and you would not believe what my sister has gotten herself into—do you mind, dear?”

She passed her plate across the blanket to Cadance, who passed it to Twilight, who slopped a helping of vegetable pilaf onto it before it was sent back.

“Thank you, darling,” Rarity said. “Let me tell you, this is no small-time stuff. It’s something involving… monkeys, or rather, a lack thereof, and I have never seen so many restless teenagers in the same place. They are all arranging church pews and brooding under a shadowy headmistress. It is almost beyond comprehension.”

Twilight nodded and took a small sip of salted lemonade. “Tell us about your theater group again, Sweetie Belle? I’m afraid I didn’t understand it from the description in your letter. I recall something in Pony French.” She muffled a belch, and said, “Épater la bourgeoisie?”

“It’s Black Box Theater, dear,” Rarity said, making little jabs in the air with her fork. “Black. Box. Like something you can’t see into.”

Apple Bloom grabbed an apricot and scratched the back of her head. “Is that like… You know when someone is doing an impression, and you don’t know who it is, but you can tell it’s someone, and it makes the impression funnier?”

“You know it’s something before you know it’s something…” mused Cadance. “I like that.”

“Some hayseed, or some ex-mayor, or someone,” Apple Bloom continued, mouth full. “That’s what you’re talking about, right Sweetie Belle? Like, the audience is supposed to guess?”

“No, no,” said Twilight, over the din of plastic cutlery. “It’s not about guessing. It’s about different levels of meaning. Mathematical symbols are structured the same way. A vector gives you an explicit instruction, while a cipher indicates something implicit. A line can mean anything, but it’s its function as a line which makes it important for a wide array of problems. You can extrapolate and perform new operations with it, without having its numeracy in front of you. Black Box Theater, I would presume, strives toward a sophisticated degree of order.”

“Metanarrative… type… parody,” Rarity said, munching an onion. “That’s where you and Apple Bloom meet in the middle. Indubitability is the word I would use. Yes, I think we really nailed it, eh Sweetie Belle?”

The sound of summer cicadas drifted in over the meadow and filled out the cessation of talking as the company dropped the enquiry and went on eating. Sweetie Belle remained silent, and poked at a few squash wedges which she had gathered on her plate.

“You on a diet, kid?” asked Spitfire.

Sweetie Belle laughed a little, and said, “Heh, not really. It’s a lifestyle thing. Helps not to overeat before a show, you know?”

“Ah, true! …Straight A student?”

“Heck no,” Sweetie Belle replied. “What makes you say that?’

Spitfire shrugged. “You write letters in Pony French? I couldn’t do that when I was your age.”

“It’s just a phrase,” said Sweetie Belle. “My mom says I’ll grow out of it.”

They blinked at one another. Then the Master Sergeant, realizing she had been outmaneuvered, gave out the same kind of big belly laugh which had first startled Rarity when she entered the property. “That’s pretty bright!”

“Her parents thought she was doing poorly in school, so they sent her to Rolling Oats,” said Rainbow Dash. “And now you see the result. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I like you, kid,” said Spitfire. “Rolling Oats, eh? Not what my folks would have done with me, I’ll tell you that much.”

“It has a good art scene,” said Cadance.

“Does it, now?”

“That’s what they say,” Rarity interdicted, pumpkin sauce dribbling from her chin. She took a napkin. “Mmm! Excuse me, this is tasty. Anyhow, if you want to know my opinion on it, I’ll give it to you. I think there is too much emphasis placed on a certain sort of subject art in places like Rolling Oats. Everywhere you look there is someone playing a trumpet, someone riding a street car. There is no sense of thematic grandeur. It’s either woohoo! or it’s not—a big comic book shop. Not that I doubt interesting things can happen there.”

Cadance frowned a little. “I don’t know, Rarity. What you describe is precisely why I enjoy visiting places like Rolling Oats, and I’ve never been on a streetcar.”

“It’s a novelty, sure.”

“Let me give you an example,” she continued. “Shining Armor and I live in the Crystal Empire, which has a long imperial history. The architecture there is… ‘opulent’, even more so than what you might find in Canterlot, in my opinion. It’s meant to impose on you. It makes me feel like the ground is made out of marble, and that we ordinary ponies are a new thing. Shining and I have gotten into many disputes about architecture. He gets so mad!”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Twilight. “He’s very passionate about certain things. And he’s always had a proclivity for bold linework, and he loves decoration, much more than I do, I would say.”

Cadance rolled her eyes. “That he does! The atmosphere in that city would be stifling to me if I weren’t so used to it. But in Rolling Oats the energy is totally different. Rather than feeling like you’re standing on something hard and carved in stone, you’re a creative participant. I can totally see why Sweetie Belle would love it there. You’re part of the clay. You know you’re at the source when you’re walking the street.”

“I agree with you about the Crystal Empire, dear, one-hundred percent,” Rarity said, raising to her lips a glistening piece of watermelon. She bit down to the rind, and, masticating with precipitous slobber, proceeded, “I do love Shining, but I’d be excited to get out of the house too, if I were in your place. On the other hoof, I just don’t find anything eclectic or intellectually satisfying about Rolling Oats, though it may give off the appearance of those things. It’s just color for the sake of color,” she said, throwing out a watery red hoof. “Now, personally, I think Canterlot trumps them both, as I’m sure the present company will agree.”

The ladies began to giggle and whisper to one another. Rarity tossed her sullied napkin down and folded her legs, at which gesture Sweetie Belle was at last impelled to pick up the gauntlet of conversation.

“You’re part of the clay down there, all right. It’s the dead matter we’re sitting on, and that we’ll go back to. Everywhere in Rolling Oats you see fortunes tellers and voodoo shops and shadows covering the old walled complexes. Some of those neighborhoods haven’t changed much in the last few hundred years, and neither have the residents. There was a plague there once. Ponies danced and dined in masks. Dead were piled in the streets. Even today, the entryway to the city is flanked by a cemetery. The place is a big drumhead beating the pulse of life and death.”

The guests had finished eating, and all had gone quiet, save the summer cicadas. At length, and with a long breath, Rarity made a reply.

“How charming… My love, couldn’t you have just joined the Wash-outs or something?”

“I was hoping this would help you understand Black Box Theater,” Sweetie Belle said, “which apparently you’re desperate to do. That’s how I interpret it. Rolling Oats is known as a party city. But the underworld element can’t be separated from the parades and the music. They’re two parts of the same thing, just like we are.”

Sweetie Belle’s ekphratic on living and dead matter, curious though it was for the picnickers, did no favors with regard to the effect Rarity’s own digestive processes were beginning to have on her. “Well, for my part, I need clarity in art,” she said, fidgeting a little. “That’s what raises civilization up, and I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go that far. Without clarity life is just big pile of everything that calls itself ‘unity’. Canterlot is the more fetching city in that regard. Her wending spires raise the spirit, rather than drag it down to the sticky traffic of the underworld.”

“That’s right,” Sweetie Belle replied with warmth, “the ponies of Rolling Oats have an ecstatic hoof in hell. How about that! And I wager that their lives are not less full, less creative, but more so, because of it, and certainly more than your Canterlotians.”

“Well, forgive me!” Rarity answered with equal fire. “And what is your definition of ‘hell’, little sister?”

“Oh my gosh, can we please move on to a different subject?” Rainbow Dash cried out. “Something everyone can participate in and enjoy? I’m pretty sure Spitfire would like a word in now and then. Right, Ma’am?”

“By all means and absolutely,” said Rarity, relieved to forfeit the argument with Sweetie Belle. She turned obsequiously to the Master Sergeant, and said, “How wonderful it is that you have made time to join us for Sweetie Belle’s performance tonight! I think it is only polite that we allow Miss Spitfire the choose the topic of conversation, don’t you all? We would be much obliged.”

Heads nodded around the blanket. But before Spitfire could speak, Rarity made a second announcement.

“Now, I know we set ourselves on making this an ‘outdoors’ affair, but I’m afraid I need to use the little filly’s room. And I may need a reminder where it is, it’s been so long since I’ve been in the farm house.”

“Too long, if you ask me,” said Applejack. “But unfortunately the toilet in the house ain’t working right now. Someone’s coming out to look at the septic. We’ve all been making do with the outhouse.”

A look of terror crossed Rarity’s food-stained features.

“Oh, no! You don’t mean that little box in the backyard, do you?”

“I don’t see any other ones, darlin’,” Applejack replied with some indignation. Her color darkened as a giggle circulated around the picnic blanket. “Don’t you mind it, now. I know it ain’t nothing fancy, but it’s clean, I promise you, and ain’t nothing fancy about that kind of business, anyhow.”

“Oh, look at that!” Rarity said, holding up something on her wrist. “The button to one of my cuffs has come undone—heavens, I can never get these fastened back together by myself. Sweetie Belle, would you come help me with this for a moment? …Please excuse us, ladies.”

She stood up and strolled twenty feet down the grass to a spot where she could still be seen by the party; and, noticing that Sweetie Belle lagged behind her in protest at the blanket, stamped her hoof and called her in a shrill whisper so as not to be misinterpreted in her intentions. Sweetie Belle ignored her at first, but, receiving another high-pitched command, gave into her sister’s temper, and started up to meet her on the other side of the lawn with a voluble huff. The picknickers, meanwhile, might have been more observant of the tension on display between them, were they not so distracted by Princess Twilight, who, curiously, had been brought to contagious laughter by the same scene.

“Ha! Well, that is a conundrum!” she said, rubbing away a tear. “A loose cuff! Well, well… This is why I never wear suits.”

Once the sisters had properly sequestered themselves from earshot, Rarity was the first to speak.

“There is no way I am digging through a cesspit from one-hundred and fifty years ago, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “That is certainly well beyond what I signed up for!”

“What?! You can’t back out now! You promised me a key!”

“I couldn’t reach it even if I wanted to! …Which I don’t!”

Sweetie Belle was quiet a moment. “…You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know and I’m not even going to start going down that road with you.”

“Well what, then.”

“If we leave now, I’m sure we’ll make it back to Carousel Boutique with time to spare.”

“Maybe we can find a bush…”

“A bush!?”

“I don’t think there’s any shame in that,” said Sweetie Belle.

“I don’t know what household you grew up in but leaving traces in your friend’s yard is the very definition of shame!”

Sighing, Sweetie Belle said, “Look, by the time we have our long goodbye, we get back to town, you take time to ‘freshen up’—”

“That’s another thing—I’m going to need water for this. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

Sweetie Belle nodded.

“Carousel it is. Just leave it to me, will you?”

Rarity ended the conversation the way she had started it, trotting a prideful course back to the picnic blanket as her sister waited behind. This time, however, Sweetie Belle had an idea, and was soon in tow without further prompting.

As they returned and seated themselves, Cadance remarked that Rarity’s cuff was still unbuttoned.

“Well, you know, it’s not an emergency or anything like that,” Rarity replied. “And, by the way, Applejack—I have decided that I would prefer to use my own facilities. One must have the right conditions to perform one’s best. I will wait!”

Applejack smiled. “Eh… okay.”

Rarity looked up at the sky, and shading her eyes, began, “Well! Look at how low the sun is starting to get. This really has been a fantastic event, AJ, and we are extremely grateful for all your efforts. I suppose it is about time—”

“I want to know more about the outhouse,” Sweetie Belle broke in. “For memories. I remember it from when Apple Bloom and I were fillies. How long would you say it’s been there, exactly? It must be really interesting.”

“It is a hole deep enough to last decades,” said Rarity, leering at her. “What’s there to know? Who cares when it was built?”

“You never know about a place, and I’d like to hear from an expert.”

Applejack, who had been observing them while they argued in the grass, answered sullenly, “Why are ya’ll so worried ‘bout the outhouse, now?”

Sweetie Belle sensed that the eyes of the whole group were now upon her. She felt the terror of performance seize her ribs, and recalled the acting advice her sister had given her on their arrival at the farm—now was her first performance.

She became transported from the light of a lazy sun to the exhilarating heat of the spotlight that singed her cheeks as she moved before the blackened audience. “You see, Applejack,” she started in a voice which projected over the property, “a poop pit is a sneaky time keeping device. Like an hourglass. Here we are, all of us, the sand at the top—and below, beneath the throttle of that small wooden seat under the oak, is the record of what we leave behind us, metastasizing and fermenting. It’s something we can say we’ve all shared in, this marking of life’s tempo with our bodies—and, in a certain way, it connects us. For it is through this edifice, and not the empyrean buildings of civilization, that we truly see we are subjects of the Lord of Time.”

She took a bow, and said, “Thank you.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, er… That’s very poetic, Sweetie Belle,” said Cadance. “I never thought of it that way.”

Apple Bloom sighed. “Good gravy.”

“Stop being a miscreant, you miscreant!” Sweetie Belle scoffed.

“Do you feel that, Applejack? I think there’s a breeze blowin’ through one of the willow trees. One of those tall beanpole ones. A whole lotta rustlin’ but nothing to concern yourself about. What pretty, helpless things they are, only good for sleepin’ all day and writing sad poetry.”

Applejack stood up. “All right. Any y’all still hungry? I know I’m full.”

She began to go around collecting plates as Apple Bloom laughed loud and slapped her thigh. She lingered on Sweetie Belle a moment with dark eyes, sweet like country tea.

“You’re not going to go away like that on me again, are you?”

Sweetie Belle balked. Then she mumbled, “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Sooner than you think, dear,” said Rarity. “Are you satisfied now, Sweetie Belle? Applejack is picking up. Shall we be on our way?”

“You finished?” came Applejack’s voice from behind.

“Huh? Well, it is interesting, don’t you think?” said Sweetie Belle, swinging around and meeting her gaze. “And I was serious, anyway. I’m always curious how these old, practical things work—”

Applejack stopped her. “With your dish, sugar cube.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” Sweetie Belle replied meekly. “Yes Ma’am.” The cicadas were getting loud again in the afternoon air.

“Good. Well, thank you for bringing your show to Ponyville.” She took a few more things from the blanket and disappeared back in the house.

Sweetie Belle and Rarity were about to be on their way, when Spitfire, who had been thrown into a deep recollection by the import of Sweetie Belle’s speech, broke her silence and addressed the group. “You know, that reminds me of something. All this talk about cities and shitholes… And that monologue you gave, kid. Heh. I can’t tell you about outhouses. But I can tell you that I visited one of the great Outhouses of the world.” She raised a glass of lemonade. “If you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course we will!” said Rainbow Dash. “We were just trying to get you to pick something you wanted to talk about. And whatever it is, I’m sure it’s more interesting than hearing about the backyard baño here at Sweet Apple Acres.”

“I admit,” said Twilight, “that I’ve got the bug to hear one of your stories, too! Won’t you both stay with us?”

“Oh, stay for a bit longer!” said Cadance against Rarity’s feeble protestations. “It’s good for an aspiring actress to listen to well-told stories, and I hear Miss Spitfire is a natural.”

Spitfire smirked. “Hear that, Dash? You can consider it my contribution to the conversation. Now, I wouldn’t relate all this to just anyone, but I like you, kid, and we’re in good company here…”

Rarity, hamstrung by the importunes of the princesses, and by the consequence of her own suggestion to hear out Master Sergeant Spitfire in her choice of topic, was forced to take a seat; and Sweetie Belle, who supposed her sister would have no choice in the mode of recovering the church key, anyhow, followed her; and thus Spitfire began to relate:

“It was one of my last deployments to Saddle Arabia. There was this guy, Sandstone Grizzle. I had heard about him through talk amongst the privates, but always by way of indiscretion—something tossed out by a newbie over drinks, for example. Sandstone had a reputation as a fixer for certain varieties of alcohol, which is suppressed in that region. Nothing terribly unusual. But he was also a high priest of some kind. The accounts I got of him were so different that, at first, I thought the rookies had confused him with someone they had seen in a religious painting, the likely effect of some post-duty wheedling.

“Well, one night, one of the privates stumbled into the local grog shop, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. He had been to see the Sandman—Sandstone, that is—and claimed with absolute authority that all of Saddle Arabia was a space craft which had happened to land in Equestria on our arrival. Ha! How are you supposed to convince a guy otherwise?”

“Drive him to the ocean,” said Sweetie Belle, sitting back. “Or the mountains.”

Spitfire shrugged. “Geography won’t save you. That kid was convinced he had seen how the world really works. And it concerned me that the incredulity of the other cadets would morph into enticement. I knew they would want to seek Sandstone out as entertainment or as an escape from duty or maybe life. I wanted to track this guy down. So I extracted his whereabouts from the dazzled private and went to see him on my next day off.

“I turn up at a doorstep which looks as tiny as an antique and which leads down into a small basement flat of sorts. A crimson hoof waves to me from behind a curtain. When I step past that curtain, I’m in a room filled with earthenware and elaborate iconography, and the smell makes me feel like the world behind has been flattened in a book like a dried out primrose. The stallion in front of me is as red as a sailor and is making a quick arrangement of colored bowls. Sharp features, a promontory chin, and these ridiculous, enormous arched eyebrows that waggle whenever talks about anything in earnest, which is all the time. He looks up without interrupting his work and nods at me, and I feel a bit overdressed being in uniform, like I brought something invasive. We exchange a few words. Then he asks me to lay down in a clearing he made on the floor.”

“Hard no,” said Cadance. “Hard, hard no!”

“And then you ran away and never came back,” said Rarity, “and filled out a report stating that one private’s newfound solipsism is better left their own business. Good one!”

“No, no,” Spitfire continued. “I’ve got my switchblade. And I’m curious as hell to see where all this is going. So I’m laying there in a valley of pink and green and amber bowls, thinking about this guy’s eyebrows, and he asks me to speak up if I feel sick. It’s silent for a moment. Then, in a voice which is as loud as the sun shines, he begins chanting in a rhythm which makes me forget everything. I just want to sit there and listen to this little room vibrate. No more Wonderbolts. No more royal duties. I even start to think—heck, maybe this is just a spaceship.”

Sweetie Belle’s eyes went wide. “Wow. That sounds amazing, actually. Did you forget yourself, like the rookie?”

“He never offered me a drink,” Spitfire replied in jest. “It must have gone differently for the boy. But I was beginning to have visions—as if on cue, the chanting softened, and music began to emanate from the floor beneath me.” She we the outside edge of one of the glasses on the picnic blanket, and ran her hoof in circles around the top of it, until it began to ring.

“It was the bowls,” Twilight observed. “He was playing them for you. That must have been very relaxing.”

“I was relaxed, all right,” Spitfire went on. “I felt it through my whole body. My thoughts lit up like a glass particle flying in a chromatic gamut. I saw entire cities, suspended in air, dissolve into marbles and amoeba that washed through the canyon of a thousand deserts. And just as rapidly something would reconstitute again on a blue-red horizon. I don’t know how long it lasted for.”

Sweetie Belle listened with such rapt attention that everything around her seemed to disappear; but for Rarity, the imagery of flowing marbles and amoeba once again made her body all-too-present, and she felt a lurch in her bowels that made her yelp, “Oh, dear me!”

“You okay there, Rare?” asked Rainbow Dash.

“Why, I was so absorbed in Miss Spitfire’s story that I just now realized I have overlooked the time. That’s all.”

The Master Sergeant, overhearing her, held up a hoof. “Okay, okay. I’ll get on with it. But there’s a reason I’m bringing all of this up.

“After it’s over, I sit up. I’m grateful to see daylight coming through the curtain, because I feel like I’ve been out for a month. He and I talk a little bit more—we didn’t need to say much—one thing leads to another, and the next thing I know I’ve arranged to go see some remote location in Mesoponetamia where the Royal State of Saddle Arabia is conducting an ongoing archaeological investigation. I surmise from our brief talk that the diggers don’t apprehend the site’s true significance, which is somehow connected with Sandstone’s holy order. He wants to take me. Well, how can you turn down an offer like that?

“We trek out on my next day off. It was a long, loud ride through the Saddle Arabian desert in an old jalopy, which made me feel more at ease, being that Sandstone and the other guy—a beefy stallion in a matching habit—must have at least put faith in mechanics.

“The desert became steppe land as we went north, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Sandstone’s conclave was hiding out somewhere in the recesses along the far-off ridges which we were passing through. At last, a mound appears on the horizon. At first I took it to be a natural formation, maybe some low-lying rocks. But as we approached, I noticed that it had a rising, quasi-conical shape, with some irregular patterns in the slope. These ‘terraces’ became more and more evident as we approached.”

Spitfire’s sweeping descriptions made Rarity rue the pancakes she had eaten earlier at her sister’s suggestion, and she compressed her legs against her body with sweaty determination to see to the end of the story without incident. She pictured herself situated comfortably at Carousel Boutique, and decided that it would be more profitable to her undertaking to gauge the hour until she was there, then to pay too-close attention to the conversation her illustrious friends were having.

“Oh, what a wonderful adventure!” she cried out.

Spitfire continued, “The thing was an elevated, ancient city—a little square on a massive tell. It rose four-hundred feet in the air and covered a little over ten acres, by my reckoning. It was astonishing for its density. One could make out a vast stratigraphy. On the lowest horizon there were bones, sediments, and stone walls. Then you begin to encounter idols, pottery, weaponry, and so on, and toward the top you could see the remnants of monuments to ancient times. There’s your outhouse, kid! All that stuff is the refuse of civilization, which passes through the lifecycle of pony kind like a great, magnificent dump. The color of it reminded me of a line from that old poem they taught us at the academy—'rose-red as if the blush of dawn, which first beheld it were not yet withdrawn’.”

Oh, why me? thought Rarity, squirming in her seat, unable to resist the yarn. What have I done to deserve this punishment?

“That guy,” Spitfire said, with a smile peculiar to fond recollection, “Sandstone Grizzle, I mean, was like a mad artificer who had found a way to make all these different pieces work—legal, spiritual, technological. He was not dismayed by the ‘shit’ of the world—no, instead he saw it as a kind of bridge between our needs as muddy land-walkers and the high visions which breathe from the spirit.” She took a sip from her drink. “Well, anyway, that’s the impression I took.”

The cicadas rang loud, and the sun was high enough that it lent a bright luster to the leaves of the oak above the little hut.

“I think he was just trying to have fun with you, Ma’am,” said Rainbow Dash.

“Bah! Well, I might be a little bit drowsy after eating so much,” the Master Sergeant replied, rubbing her round full belly. “My compliments to the cook! …Where did she run off to, by the way?”

Sweetie Belle recalled herself, and looked about to see if there was a sign of Applejack returning from the manor; but before she could make a thorough enough inspection, Rarity jumped up and began tugging on her.

“You are right, you are right,” Rarity said. “It makes me so nostalgic to think about outhouses and the like, which is why it was so terrific when my sister decided to keep the conversation going up to this point—but all good things, you know? The time has come for us to vamoose!”

“Vamoose?” said Sweetie Belle. “Hey, wait—Rarity, come back!”

“Pass my compliments along to Applejack!” she hollered from up the yard.

Sweetie Belle groaned and turned a glance back at her flummoxed audience.

“I’ll be… late for my rehearsal,” she explained. “She’s just trying to keep me on track. Heh, that’s showbiz for you, folks!”

And without further ceremony, they sped off down the driveway of Sweet Apple Acres, the younger trailing the older, leaving the picnickers to wonder at just how busy Sweetie Belle must have been, to depart so abruptly and intently from a gathering of luminaries which had been arranged on her behalf.

A Lady Doesn't Whine

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Rarity and Sweetie Belle raced down a pass through the meadow that ran between Sweet Apple Acres and the Everfree Forest, where, at a distant intersection, the main road would take them north to Ponyville and thus onward to Carousel Boutique. It was, at first, Rarity who maintained the lead; but Sweetie Belle soon overtook her, and noticed—only by the sound of panting gasps, growing further away—that her sister had fallen behind in their contest.

Sweetie Belle stopped and swiveled around to check on her sister; a cue which the other took to be a chance to sit and catch breath, in the fume of brush and wildflower that flocked the way as they got closer to the woods.

“What’s the matter?” Sweetie Belle called out to her.

Rarity replied with an apologetic look. She indicated that it would be better for Sweetie Belle to come closer; then as she approached, said, “I don’t think I can make it. We are still a good mile or so away from the shop.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means we have to be practical. You’ll have to go back to Applejack’s and find water while I look for a secluded place by the woods. They’ll let you borrow a bucket, I’m sure.”

The girls heaved the air of the stinking field. Something inside Sweetie Belle dreaded another encounter with Applejack, who she remembered had left the picnic without saying goodbye.

“How will I explain what I need a bucket of water for?” she said, prevaricating. “If I say it’s an emergency, everyone will want to know what’s happened to you. But what else can I tell them? We’ve been harping on my performance preparation for the last hour.”

“Maybe you can go ahead of me, then. You’ve got more energy than I do, and must certainly be feeling less cramped. How long will it take you?”

“Too long,” Sweetie Belle answered her. “And buckets of water are pretty heavy, by the way.”

“Well, and what else are we supposed to do, then?” said Rarity, getting herself up. “That’s where we are—those are the options, Sweetie Belle. And if you want to save time I suggest you make up your mind quickly, come up with some excuse or other, and get your little white bum in gear.”

“Isn’t there a place in the forest where we can get water?” asked Sweetie Belle.

A thought flickered across Rarity’s face. “As a matter of fact—no, forget I said anything.”

“What?”

“I was going to say,” Rarity continued through a laugh, “that we could find water at the cave of the Mirror Pool, but that’s obviously a silly idea.”

“I mean, it does have water, doesn’t it? And privacy.”

The smell of the flowers and the warmth of the sun beat down. Rarity sweated around her cap, and noticed droplets forming on Sweetie Belle’s brow, too.

“Huh! Well I’m glad to see you appreciate the caution one must take in dealing with enchanted places,” said Rarity. “Pinkie’s discovery of the Mirror Pool was a terror to Ponyville and deleterious to her mental health—she never did fully recover from that episode, poor dear. Once she was an amicable baker and caretaker. But now she likes to wander, bothering local authorities and hocking theories about how Ponyville is founded on the suffering of a single mosquito. But by all means, if nature calls, who am I to object.”

Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes. “I’m sure if you’re smart about it everything will be okay.”

“That’s not experience talking—”

“But it is a fresh perspective.”

“Do you even remember what that day was like?” asked Rarity.

Sweetie Belle remembered.

The Pinkies came out during a memorable recess at Ponyville Elementary, and two had kept with her, one pushing and one catching her on the swing. She was even saddened the next day to learn what became of them—the soft catching arms under her ribs revealed to have belonged to intruders. She could only half-believe that these new playmates were a problem for the adults in town, and wondered if there persisted amongst the grown-ups a too solemn attitude toward magic. In truth, even though she was now on the cusp of adulthood herself, a grain of this childlike mood still remained with her; and with regard to the present dilemma, which was a case in point, she supposed that magic could be used to advantage, and made to suit one’s needs, if only one maintained a positive spirit in all things related to it.

“You won’t make the same mistake Pinkie did,” Sweetie Belle said, wiping a hair from her sister’s forehead. “Because, we know what we’re doing there. We are not tempted by legendary incentives, like she was. We are just simple ponies in search of ordinary utility.”

Rarity faltered a reply. “Hmm… I don’t know. I’m just unsure.”

“Do you really think it’s the Mirror Pool that made Pinkie crazy?” Sweetie Belle asked.

“…I have my hunches.”

“But you’re not certain.”

“Oh… Who can know these things, Sweetie Belle?”

Sweetie Belle unfixed her sister’s ascot and draped it over the back of her neck. She began to fan her, and said, “Let me get this right. You’re basing your judgment on what you think is happening in Pinkie Pie’s head.”

Rarity took the ascot and tucked it away, but found she could not easily rebut the point.

“You got us here, as far as I’m concerned,” Sweetie Belle said. “You swallowed my key, and you didn’t want to ask Twilight for help because of your reputation with your friends. Well, now I’m worried about mine with my own, okay? It’s your turn to follow me.”

Sweetie Belle took Rarity by the hoof and started leading her toward the forest.

“Well! If I go insane, it’s all on you,” Rarity huffed.

“I’m eager to hear what you come up with, actually,” Sweetie Belle replied. “And you’ll be too insane to remember to be mad at me, anyway.”

Rarity groaned. “Tell me why I’m helping you, again?”

Sweetie Belle laughed as they approached the trees, subtle and intoxicating to Rarity as grape wine.

They took the path to the forest and soon found themselves on a more treacherous route. Rarity’s direction brought them to a muddy tract, where Sweetie Belle pounced between stones, and Rarity herself glowered at each mossy rock and log that blocked the way. Despite her instincts, though, she did not complain; she saw that Sweetie Belle had now pinned her hopes on second-hand knowledge, for which Rarity had to pretend authority, or incur further disdain.

“Do you remember what it looks like?” asked Sweetie Belle. “I feel like we would have seen it by now.”

“According to Pinkie Pie,” Rarity answered, “the entrance was a long-winding chute which runs down from a well-concealed fissure in the ground.”

Sweetie Belle broke her tempo. “That doesn’t help us much. Do you see any fissures?”

“Not one,” said Rarity, with a sigh. Then, noticing her sister’s rising agitation, she began, “Do you remember, dear, the stories Aunt Doily used to tell when we would stay at her house, just before bed?”

“Of course I do,” replied Sweetie Belle. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, did you know, also, that at least one or two of those stories involved the Mirror Pool—or, as she called it, the Pool of Reflection.”

“Uh… Not really?” said Sweetie Belle.

“Oh, it’s true!” said Rarity. “And that is why we should be confident that we will find something here, somewhere close by. I’m surprised you don’t remember, she used to sing us a little tune—

Where the thorns crowd and jostle
In shrouded abode
A rill there shall pass into mystic commode.

Now, isn’t this fun?”

Sweetie Belle fixed a gaze on her. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Rarity smiled and asked, “About what, dear?”

“About… anything!”

Rarity fell quiet and tossed her hair. Then shortly, Sweetie Belle, supposing a rebuke, preempted it by asking, “What will you do once we find the Mirror Pool? I mean, to avoid what happened to Pinkie Pie. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Rarity teased her hair a little more, and replied, “I’ve dealt with similar things. The Mirror Pool works like any magical apparatus in that it requires a payment from the user. From what I remember, the supplicant to the Mirror Pool must hold a pining wish to be separated as they look into their reflection. There they see not just their own image but the image of an actor, playing a part on the world’s stage. A tension is felt between this ideal and the doughy, hairy corpus of the living body, and poof! a duplicate rises from the surface of the water.”

“I just don’t see the appeal of hanging out with myself,” said Sweetie Belle, attempting a joke. “I’m kind of a bitch, you know?”

They started to move again.

“Watch your language,” Rarity chided her. “You’re not… that, and I will not let my sister talk about herself that way. The appeal of the duplicate,” she resumed, “is mathematical, as far as I can see. If one can make copies of oneself to meet with friends, tend to professional duties, and otherwise blaze tracks around Equestria in several directions at once, well, one has extended the scope of one’s life. No? ‘Existence is wide as the essence is deep’.”

“That sounds terrifying,” said Sweetie Belle. “How would you know who you are, in all of that? Could a duplicate be more ‘you’ than you, or what would the measuring stick be…?”

Rarity pondered a moment, then replied, “Well, the matches are never exactly so. And, as I can report to you, the duplication scheme doesn’t work out so nicely.”

“But what if it did?”

“Well, how do you know who you are, anyway?” Rarity said, teetering on a rock. “Once you notice you are obsessed with something your situation has changed—now there is something divided in you, a recursive element. There is an interstice between the observing apparatus and the observed world. What’s there?”

“The theater,” answered Sweetie Belle.

“You and your theater.”

Sweetie Belle shrugged, and helped her sister cross onto a point bar. “You think that’s what happened to Pinkie?” she asked.

“Who knows. But the difference with us is that I have no wish to split from myself. I have paid my dues, as it were, in all of the domains of happiness. And if I don’t make the required payment to the pool—well, it is nothing more than an exotic bidet, if that’s what we need it to be.”

“It wouldn’t happen to have markers, would it?”

“I don’t see why it would,” said Rarity.

Sweetie Belle pointed toward a location a few feet off the track where four small wooden posts had been driven into the ground and wrapped in red tape so as to stand out in a thicket of brambles. She cut through the brush to inspect the spot, then waved Rarity over excitedly.

“I guess someone thought that it would be a good idea to indicate the exact whereabouts of the cavern, or Pinkie has a poor sense of her surroundings.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rarity, peering into the opening, “this must be the one. If you look, you can see the glowing kudzu which I remember hearing in the description. Why, they are rather like dimmer lights opening to a private latrine!”

Sweetie Belle nudged her flank, and said, “Glad you like it! Now get going, and gimme back my key! I’ll hang out up here in case you need help getting out.”

“Fine, fine. You aren’t worried about getting attacked by timber wolves, or anything of that sort, are you?”

Sweetie Belle put her hooves up in fisticuffs. “First rule of self-defense, Rarity—the aggressor always has more reason to be afraid of you than you are of them.”

“Eh… We’ll talk about it!”

Rarity crouched and guided herself into the hole, letting herself drop with a woo! and slide down toward a break which formed after the initial steep of the entrance. She stood and felt her sinuses gently release at the scent of myrrh and pine. Of a sudden, a childhood recollection of brushing her teeth at her Aunt Doily’s filled her mind like the soft green light which hazed about the cavern; she became watery-eyed, and had to halt her in her place.

Oh, Aunt Doily! How I miss her! she thought. And I will never forget that pink toothbrush…

Without knowing why, she was impelled by a filly’s curiosity to sniff one of the polyps festooned along the walls. Carefully, she got up on her hind legs near a low-hanging vine and poised herself on a cranny. But as she came nearer to the bulb, it shriveled into the darkness like a burnt ember, and startled her backward, where she tumbled the rest of the way down the tunnel to the landing of the Mirror Pool dome.

The sound of the fall was a minor fracas, and soon she heard Sweetie Belle shout from the surface, “Everything okay down there?”

Rarity had become so disoriented in the whirlpool of her memories that the sound of her sister’s adult voice plucked her up, as though out of a dream. “Yes, yes, er—everything’s fine,” she replied as she collected herself. “We’ll be on our way in no time. Though, I have to admit, it’s very distracting down here.”

Outside in the shade of the bramble forest, Sweetie Belle watched her hooves kick along the ground as she went in circles about the entrance to the cavern. She tried her best, during this break, to refocus herself on the performance, and renew her intentions; but she found herself instead contemplating her heated exchanges with her sister, whom she held with such high respect and admiration in her heart, that she could not be happy with herself for showing any signs of ingratitude toward her.

As she thought about Rarity, she felt her tumbling hair brushing against her ears; then, deciding it would be more useful for her to practice a theater exercise, she said to herself, “I have to do something to get my head back in it. Maybe I can review some of the rehearsal notes that Miss Bon gave me. Let’s see… In on the director’s cue, check. Enter and leave without winking at the audience, check. If all else fails, don’t flee the stage—stand there and look purposeful, check. Don’t apologize for—”

“Hey, you!” came a voice from the forest.

The hair on Sweetie Belle’s neck stood up. She scanned the area to see where the excitement was taking place, then pointed to herself.

“Yes, you!” the voice came again. From the path emerged a chunky bay stallion wearing a pocketed uniform and a glistening badge which bounced with each of his hard steps. He was short and moved expertly; he trundled up to Sweetie Belle, whipped out a pencil, and looked up to address her.

“This is a restricted area,” he said. “No visitors except by special authorization. Can I see your papers?”

He waited as Sweetie Belle stood in surprise; then, becoming impatient, he puffed himself up as far as he could, and said, “There’s a sign with big letters right out here by the perimeter which prohibits any entrance to this part of the forest. Did you not see it!?”

He drew a tablet from one of the many small pouches on his shirt and began to write, making quick glances between his detainee and his pad. “Awfully far off the track out here. I have to give you a ticket for trespassing. You didn’t go down in the hole, did you?”

“Eh…”

The stallion removed his hat and ran a hoof through his peppered mane. “Name?”

“Est-ce que tu parles fancais pony?” Sweetie Belle replied in her best accent.

He looked her up and down. “Yep, should’ve known by the hygiene… Papers?” he asked, this time more loudly. “NOT ALLOWED HERE. DANGEROUS. NEED SPECIAL PAPERS. LOOK AT BOOK,” he said, waving his pocket manual in her face.

Sweetie Belle batted it away from her, and answered, “Ah, oui, oui, like ze poetry.”

He sighed at the word ‘poetry’. “Geez, this is going to be a tough one. Look, why don’t you come back to the station and we can get all of this sorted out,” he said, pointing back down the path; then, recollecting himself, adding, “Eh… French fries?”

She let out a gleeful laugh, and took him by the elbow. “Bien sûr, how you say… french fries! Et baguette, s'il vous plait.”

“C-calm down now, Ma’am.”

She tugged him in the direction of the trail perimeter as he fumbled his notebook into his breast pocket; Sweetie Belle grinned and chortled during his toil, and gave him directions to the ladies’ restroom, to which he gave a polite nod, when the pair crossed a second ranger arriving from the opposing direction.

“Ah, here you are, Moose Munch,” he said. “I thought I hear goings-on in this direction.”

“Yes, well—everything is under control, Pennywise,” the other replied, standing to attention, and nearly knocking Sweetie Belle off her balance. “I found this tourist patrolling outside the Mirror Pool. It has taken all of my wits to get her to cooperate, I tell you, but by gum we’re on our way back to the station now. We’ll get her a cart and send her back to town. It’s sad how some of these travel companies treat their customers.”

“If I were a bettin’ pony,” Pennywise said, making a sly gaze at the captive, “I’d say she’s most needed in the old district.”

Sweetie Belle was frozen, and felt her hair standing once more; for she found herself in front of the same old stallion with whom she had exchanged coquetries in a few hours earlier in Ponyville Square.

As she depended now on the stranger’s mercy, rather than his inclinations, and having in this situation no better model, she reverted to the politic behavior of her older sister, and said (as she wiped the mud from her shins), “And that’s exactly why I need to be out here, far away from the stage and all the worries that go with it.”

Moose Munch turned eyes on her. “So you can talk. Trying to avoid getting a ticket, then?”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Sweetie Belle replied to him with indignation. “I’m an actress. Pennywise will tell you. I like to go on long, lonesome walks. I need space for the art of experiencing to ferment and transform the role. It’s method acting, darling.”

“Method acting?” replied Pennywise. “As I understood it, Miss Bon Temps has always rejected that approach, in favor of the one taught by Miss En Scene.”

“Ah, so you have heard of her…”

Pennywise smiled. “I’m an old stallion, Miss. Remember? I may have picked up a thing or two in my time on this earth.”

Sweetie Belle laughed nervously, and said, “Yes, of course. Well, you learn it so that you can discard it. The worst thing is for a theater pony to be accidentally method acting. Depth and release, Miss Bon calls it. Always great to meet a fellow fan.”

“Indeed it is,” replied Pennywise. He turned to Moose Munch, and explained, “She and I ran into each other in town this morning, when the young mare was coming from a rehearsal. I think all we have here is an overzealous theater pony, Munch—an ‘ecstatic’, as they say. Minds like theirs go in weird ways. Let’s get her back to the station so we can fill out her papers and get her on her way.”

Sweetie Belle approved highly of this scheme; and though Moose Munch sneered at her, she took confidence in the alliance with Pennywise, and began to walk by his side. She was thinking she was in the clear, when a cry was heard echoing from the crevice of the Mirror Pool.

“Sweetie Belle, I have recovered the artifact!” it said.

Munch turned. “What was that?”

“Probably just some leaves rustling,” said Sweetie Belle.

“Wait,” said Pennywise, “I heard a voice.”

“Yeah! It said ‘Sweetie Belle, I have maintained something something’,” Moose Munch added. “Is that you?”

“Gentlemen, please!” she rebuked them. “Don’t you know that this is a howling cavern?”

Munch took off his hat again. “What’s a howling cavern? Who?”

“This tunnel, I mean. An echo is just a mirror of sound. And the echoes of this cavern reverberate for many years after a speech has been made.

“You don’t say.”

“Mhm, I do!” she replied. “When you go down into the Mirror Pool there’s a ghastly tinnitus of voices ringing in the caves. And anyone who hears it will go mad, or otherwise prove they are worthy of approaching the pool by enduring the peals of the chatter of long-departed ponies. Wouldn’t it be best if we went back to the ranger station?” she suggested to them, rather loudly.

“Of course,” replied Moose Munch. “And worthy advice, I might add, from someone who didn’t even recognize what she was looking at until just a few minutes ago.”

“It was… my Aunt Doily,” Sweetie Belle explained, itching her nose. “She was an expert on magical places, and even used to write songs about it. She would sing to me before she would tuck me in at night.”

“You don’t mean Dapper Doily, do you?” asked Pennywise. When he received a nod, his face lit up. “Ah, yes! The last time we saw her was when she was delivering the newsletter for the square dance hall, a few years back. I didn’t know she was such a mystic! We were all real sad when she passed—now no one knows what’s going on at the hall, heh. You must be her little niece, then. I reckon you must be out of secondary school, by now.”

“Yep, almost. Small world, huh?”

“And it’s gonna get smaller soon,” said Moose Munch, “when we meet your parents.”

“Wait, what?” cried Sweetie Belle as he led the party into a walk. “I can tell them myself—I’ll come right back tomorrow—”

“Sorry, kid,” said Munch, “can’t have a minor snooping around restricted areas, you know. We’ll get your documents ready, call your folks, and if we can’t reach them, either Pennywise or myself would be happy to escort you home at the end of our shift. You’ll be in good hooves with us.”

She looked up at Pennywise, who, being embarrassed to have led his new friend into a pit, kept a forward gaze; and likewise searching without success for an answer in the mud rocks, Sweetie Belle turned back to her oppressor, and said, “With all due respect, Ranger Munch, I think you’re giving me a hard time on purpose.”

This time, Moose Munch laughed. “With all due respect! I tell you what. If you are well-behaved, I will even get you a baguette to take home.”

The dome of the Mirror Pool housed an ancient, subterranean forest. Its trees rose some sixty feet, and formed a dark canopy which shrouded the vault of the cavern. Along the wall were small crags overrun by vine flowers and ferns, whose long furls suggested a long and undisturbed tranquility. In the center was the pool itself, rimmed with flagstone, the water dark and still. It was fed by a stream which dripped through a passage of stalagmites, receding through the forest to an unknown source. Most strikingly, a shaft of light hazed over the pool, as though reflecting the sun’s radiance from a skylight. But the pool was dim; and as Rarity approached, and searched for an opening, she found that the light, like everything else in the cavern, terminated in a gnarled thicket of foliage.

“It’s some kind of mirage,” Rarity wondered quietly to herself.

She began, once more, to be overpowered by her sense of smell. Her thoughts became foggy; and, thinking of the last voice she had heard, she remarked in jesting tones, “Isn’t it ironic, my dear Sweetie Belle, that I would ask for improved conditions for the fulfillment of my obligation to you, and should be brought here? For where shall I go, where I shall not be exposed to the examining presence of this tepid forest? What hideaway shall I find here, which will mute the echo of that sordid work? In what manner will the foul evidence of its perpetration be concealed, and not go lingering, in this sacred, fragrant temple?”

She looked back up to the entrance of the cave, but saw no sign of her sister eavesdropping.

“No use putzing about, I suppose.”

Scanning the cave, she noticed bunches of coconut fruit dangling near the understory of the forest, each about the size of a small buck ball. She spotted one that dangled just a few feet over the brush, just low enough for her to access. She grabbed it and felt along its surface—it was old, and just a little bit soft.

She found a stone large enough to crack the casing and split it open with a few hard blows. In one half of the shell was an aromatic pink juice, which she retained, and set down next to the cleft of a tree root. A branch with tiny, crystalline flowers draped over the spot, making for an elegant veil.

“Ah, perfect!” Rarity said aloud, in appreciation of her serendipity. “Now this is an insurance policy I can handle. Only one thing is missing…”

She went back out to the atrium of the Mirror Pool with the empty half of the coconut shell and creeped up to the little pond. She averted herself, as though holding her nose at the presence of a foul odor, and dipped the shell into the water. It was cool, but warmed around her hoof like a living body, greeting her, as she scooped into it—she cringed and retracted her arm quickly, then scanned the room for a new sister. She was still by herself; and the water looked as unmoved as though it were on the ocean floor.

She returned to her boudoir and set the filled coconut cup in an accessible location near the tree, and, regarding the space afforded by her arrangement, perched herself to advantage over a patch of velvet moss.

“My, how lovely it is down here!” she thought, trusting her senses again, and allowing herself to relax. She gazed from her roost up at the mysterious shimmer of the pool. “Everywhere you look a little lifeform is shining, scuttling, flowering. Something about it seems so familiar…”

The dome was quiet; but the sound of Sweetie Belle’s voice, asking if she was all right, began to sound in her ears again.

“I wonder how long she has left in this old town,” Rarity pondered. “Not more than two years, I reckon. Well, good for her. She is eager to go. She almost bit my head off back there—what a set of teeth she has, now. Must be careful. Not so Sweetie Belle, having to spend all of this time with me!”

Her face sank a little. She reached over and pulled the water coconut closer to check her appearance—she could make herself out against the shine of the column of light. Her jacket was filthy, and her hair had become unkempt. She noticed that she had applied too much makeup to her features during the train ride, which showed, rather than concealed, the tug of age around her cheeks.

“She must be so disappointed in you,” she observed, sadly, to herself. “You’re supposed to be the success. And all you’ve proved is how irrelevant you are to her.”

Having concluded her business, she turned around and set to work, damping her hooves in the water of the coconut, and humming like a seamstress to distract herself from the toil. She recalled her beloved Aunt Doily, again, and the wash-up song they used to sing together, which she found herself reciting out loud:

And into her own complexion she stared
With rinse and rag and gumption prepared
So goblins of grime may gnash and may swear
At a filly whose hygiene can’t be compared.

“Sweetie Belle, I have recovered the artifact!” she hollered out in triumph, clutching the key like a sought jewel. She began to dream of making her way out into the open air again, and onward to the church, whose yellowing chamber awaited her with its splendid evening and mysterious performance, and her sister, behind its big metal door.

She found an easy way up the ramp which would take her back to the surface, and began to make her way, when she heard Sweetie Belle’s voice, again, saying, “Wouldn’t it be best if we went back to the ranger station?”

Whereupon, she had the heavy sensation that she might still be doomed to toss in bed.

Once she was sure the patrol had left the vicinity of the Mirror Pool entry, Rarity crawled out the fissure in her mussed hair and sullied jacket, and made her way back along the muddy track toward the meadow trail. Though she was tired and disoriented from her time in the cave, she managed, with some expediency, to arrive at the split which led a short way down to the ranger station. It was a squat building, made of brick with a tiny tar roof, with a few storage compartments in the yard. Rarity sidled onto the property and peered through a fenestration before making an entrance—and there, indeed, sat her sister, craning her neck in an uncomfortable plastic chair, her frizzled hair falling over her shoulders in every which way.

“Oh, look what’s happened!” Rarity declaimed at the sight. She knew for what reason her sister had been interred; but could not, herself, think of an explanation to give the officials without incriminating herself in the offense. She then noticed a gummous-looking officer making notes at a desk, and from there hatched a plan.

“It’s time for me to take a page from your book, little sister,” she thought, “and exercise a bit of my natural persuasion—otherwise, we may be here all night. So be it! You’ll see, Sweetie Belle, that you’re not the only crafty lass in this family.”

Like a soldier preparing for combat, she fixed her hair and patted her cheeks for color; then, with great bombast, burst through the door of the station and cried, “Ah, there you are! I was so worried you were eaten by a bear, or maimed by killer bees, or—who knows what! That I despaired of ever seeing you again!”

She hustled over to Sweetie Belle and kissed her twice on the forehead. “Shame on you,” continued she, “wandering off, when we had all of the huckleberry bushes we needed for Aunt Doily’s pie right in the field—and for disrupting the work of these handsome officers, who have much more important affairs to attend to in the service of our venerable princess, than to have to worry about fool-hearty young ponies like you. Why, I would slap you instead of kiss you, if I weren’t so glad to see you alive.”

She paused and made lingering eyes with Moose Munch at the desk; then, she turned and gave Sweetie Belle a tap! against the cheek.

“Wow,” she said. “Rarity can we—”

“And you, sir!” Rarity went on, addressing the ranger, “you brave forester of these savage fronts, who learns and abides by nature’s rules—to you, I cannot but offer a chorus of plaudits, like an ingrate, who, stealing a loaf of bread, pays back by contrition those powdered hooves which rise with the sun to give her this day her daily, and defend her from privation in stern silent duty.”

Munch frowned at her performance as though he had received worrisome news.

“Oh, come off it, now!” laughed his lady, cutting him off from reply. “There is absolutely no reason for you to be modest here,” she said, strolling over to the desk. “I certainly have no qualms about modesty. Do you?”

She sat her hip on his desk and wiped the dust from the top of his name plaque, making several passes as they locked eyes.

“Please don’t sit on the desk, Ma’am,” he said. “We provide a variety of chairs for our visitors to choose from.”

Rarity stood up and began a strut around the desk. “It’s such a relief to me—to have her here safe and sound, you know. She’s still just a young thing. A silly filly.”

“Silly? We are well aware,” said Moose Munch.

“Guess what?” Rarity interrupted him.

“Hmm, what?”

She grabbed the writing utensil he was using and let it flop onto the desk. “I’m a silly filly, too!”

Moose Munch eyed her sidelong and reached for the pencil. “Ma’am, I’m sure you don’t want to hear—”

She took the pencil again and let it fall on the floor, with a high, tittering laugh. “Oh, Munchy, you devil! Now who will pick this up?”

“Psst! Hey!” hissed Sweetie Belle, turned around and glaring. She made sharp motions for Rarity to desist and come over to talk; but the latter, sensing a rush in her cheeks, felt the pressure of execution, and supposed her sister might be offering the criticism of a more tutored practitioner.

Rarity concealed her aggravation with a tee hee! and backed away as Moose Munch fetched his pencil. “Tell me what happened.”

“I found this one loitering in a restricted area. No one is allowed near the Mirror Pool. It’s a dangerous place for a bystander to be, as I’m sure you know.”

“Oh, indeed, indeed!”

“And I’m sorry to say,” he continued in a brass voice, “that it doesn’t end there. When I asked for her identification she attempted to defraud an Officer of the Guard—an Officer of the Guard, Ma’am—by pretending to be an out-of-towner. That’s the kind of monkey business that undermines the whole legal order, I’m afraid.”

“Surely you can’t be serious,” said Rarity, tossing her hair. “Though I’m afraid matters like that are a little hard for me to understand.”

Munch nodded. “Well, I wish I could tell you I wasn’t serious, Ma’am. There’s a reason we follow up on these kinds of incidents. If this young lady is willing to lie to a pony of my rank, well…” He broke off, and looked sententiously down on his papers. “I hope you understand that I don’t wish to denigrate her character.”

Rarity made a long sigh. “Oh, I suppose I am to blame for it. I must set a better example for her of how deal with an officer of the law. You have so much territory here to look after,” she said, eyeing a framed map of the forest on the wall.

“Thirteen-hundred acres,” he said.

“That sounds like an awful lot to manage. Tell you what. Leave her to me, okay? You’ve no time for fillies, clearly.” She went over to where he was sitting, put a hoof on his shoulder, and whispered, “I’m sure you’d much prefer the company of a mare…”

Thereupon, she tossed herself into the officer’s lap, nearly throwing both of them out of the seat. She turned his head toward her, and cried, “Take me, Munchy! Make me one of your little wood elves! Chase me through the reeds and over the backwater pools of our lust! Do with my character as you please! Only, give a me a chance to go and apply some deodorant, and I will meet you out here…”

At that moment, being drawn to the sound of commotion, Pennywise entered the room; Moose Munch stood up in a fright, letting his admirer fall to the floor.

“Her—I—“ stammered munch, who was certain of an imminent review with the horse resource bureau. “I assure you, Pennywise, I’ve followed all of the ordinances! It’s the mother! We were talking about the forest, and she pounced on me!”

“Mother!?” Rarity cried. “You nincompoop! I’m not—”

“Geez, Mom, cut it out!” said Sweetie Belle, intervening. She hurried over and helped Rarity up by the shoulders, explaining, “She’s been like this since the divorce. Can’t keep her hooves off a stallion in uniform. I apologize, it’s really embarrassing.”

“I’m sure she’s just excited to see her little girl,” said Pennywise, giving Rarity a wink. “What she would want to do with a scoundrel like you, Munch, is anyone’s guess.”

Moose Munch was so chagrined to be at the end of another of Pennywise’s jokes, so shortly after his humiliation at the Mirror Pool, that tears nearly stood in his eyes; he now despised the sight of Rarity and Sweetie Belle standing in his office. “We asked for a parent, and we got one. Let’s not waste any more time on this.”

“Well, it’s your case,” said Pennywise. “Would you do the honors?”

“I’m familiar with what my duties are, thank you!” he snapped; then, turning to Rarity, he said, “Ma’am, please see to it that your daughter knows and observes that pertinent zoning and property laws promulgated by the Royal Office of Public Services. We will let her go this time. But in the future, any truant or transgressive behavior will be punished by fines or imprisonment, based on whatever is deemed appropriate by the National Court of Equestria, firth circuit, with possibility for appeal.”

He pulled out his ticket book one more time, scribbled on it, then tore the sheet and gave it to her. He then leered at Sweetie Belle, and said, “Was that so hard?”

Rarity stared at the ticket, then at Pennywise, then Sweetie Belle, who enjoyed a smug grin at the conclusion of Munch’s concession. “Er… Well, thank you, Mr. Munch. I apologize if I came on a little bit strong. Things have been very hard for us since the accident.”

“That’s what she calls the relationship with Dad,” Sweetie Belle added quickly. “It’s depth psychology stuff. She’s a bit of an oddball, and believes in the transmigration of the soul and all of that—”

“Just get out!” hollered Moose Munch, who was beside himself as he searched his shirt pockets for a package of tissues to dry his eyes. Sweetie Belle and Rarity made a line for the door; and before they were out of ear shot, they heard Pennywise call out, “And break a leg!”

“Let me be one of your little wood elves?“

Rarity sighed. “He was overweight, I thought he might have been into fantasy games.”

“Well he wasn’t a patron of the arts, that’s for sure.”

“Let’s not ruin the night, please.”

Rarity and Sweetie Belle kept up a light trot on the road going back to Ponyville. As they rounded a bend, they saw the skyline of town rise up on the horizon, slightly silhouetted under the shimmer of the sun. Rarity pulled ahead in her dirty clothes, thinking of the Mirror Pool; and lagging behind her, Sweetie Belle was fretting over the duty of theater ponies, and her feeling of authenticity, which the picnic and her encounter with the officers had tampered with. She made jabs at her sister’s performance at the station to cover up her own anxiousness.

“Thank you, Rarity,” said the former, following several such remarks. “It was very generous of you, indeed, to go to such peculiar lengths to make sure my colleagues don’t think of me as an irresponsible pony. I swear, you are so hard to deal with, sometimes.”

Sweetie Belle fell silent for a moment. “I’m just kidding.”

Rarity looked back at her as they crossed a bridge beneath some bald oaks on the outskirts of town.

“Me too,” she said.

=======Volume Two: The Lilies of The Field

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Toast!

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Two things were bothering Hondo Flanks as he ate breakfast with his family in the squat kitchen of his old house.

First, there was the matter of the contract he had taken with the town beautification committee. It had been someone’s idea (the identity of whom was now lost to the fog of iterative meetings) to install stained glass in the old fenestrations of the converted warehouse, to reflect the diversity of outlook in Ponyville, represented by the presence of Gravitationists. Hondo had accepted the project with all pangs of generosity. He believed that the shining of the sun through a stained window would remind the local elder population of the soul’s illumination; and he had, after all, recently made and installed a glazing in his own front door. But there was a pony on the committee, named Raff Wrench, whom he suspected never really liked him, and privately envied his family life; and who suggested that the windows should reflect the doctrines of the Gravitationists, and not just the committee’s charity towards them. The decorative traceries, the fellow had argued, ought to be replaced with more detailed iconography.

“Ellipses in ellipses in ellipses—Hmph!” Hondo grumbled over his morning waffle. “How are you supposed to put something like that in a square window, anyhow?”

Hondo had no use for philosophy. He had assured his wife, Cookie Crumbles, that he was perfectly able to draw the plans, and preferred not to let Raff damper his reputation as an experienced carpenter. But weeks had gone by, and the windows at the warehouse still remained in a prepared state; meanwhile his basement had become of workshop of glass dust and oblong colored shards, resembling to him a pop-up Pondinsky painting.

He had less use for abstraction. And now Sweetie Belle was missing. He could not divide these things, and became deeply irritated by her truancy to the breakfast table. This was his second problem, that there was something about the theater director, Miss Bon, that he had not liked the previous night at his daughter’s show.

The whole thing had been a kickback to her as the only outcome of his frustrated dealings with the beautification committee. It had at least been an opportunity for him to show off the scope of his work to Cookie, with whom he often felt desirous of vindicating himself. That night, as townsfolk and luminaries were gathered together in concentric pews, Cookie and Hondo found themselves on the outermost ring, facing near a wall; for Cookie had felt too uncomfortable in the inner circle, where pillows had been scattered on the floor for desiring audience members. She felt much better, indeed, turned toward a vacant space, than to the chaos in the hall.

Shortly before the lights dimmed, Hondo grabbed her around the shoulder, and made an upward motion toward some window frames covered in plastic.

“Now here, Pet, wouldn’t you say that these frames are quite different than what you would see in the ceremonial halls of Canterlot? Can you spot the difference?”

Cookie fetched a tissue from her purse and began dabbing her forehead. “I never really paid attention,” she said.

“Those windows,” Hondo went on, “have sides which converge at a tip, like a spade. They show that our lives—however humble they may be, down here in muddy Equestria—bend toward some purpose. An ideal setting for stained glass.”

Hondo twirled his moustache and awaited a reply.

“It’s been so long—” Cookie replied at last—“but I’m sure you’re right. My Sunday teacher would have a fit with me for having forgot that.”

“We have to remember as well,” he continued, “that somebody had to build those frames. Get them from paper onto the wall.”

“Oh, naturally.”

“Can you imagine using the same method, the same tools—I’m trying to paint a picture for you, Pet! Imagine being one of those brave craft ponies of bygone days. Setting hoof on one of the great slabs of their foundries, breathing the smell of their soot, as it were. Why, it raises my heart just to think about.”

“Do you have the tickets, Hondo?” Cookie asked. “What time do they say the show it supposed to begin?”

“Eight o’ clock,” Hondo replied.

“And did Sweetie Belle tell us what part she is going to be playing?”

Hondo withdrew his arm. “She’s a clever girl. I’m sure she’ll find us, whatever way she comes out.”

They fell quiet and began to fidget and play with their hooves as the sound of the audience grew to a crescendo. Hondo, however, being still determined to impress his wife by grand gestures of thought, if not the particular fruits of his effort, said in her ear, “If I might add something—picking up our conversation on architecture, that is—in the old days, ponies did not have recreation like we do now. A proper church might have taken years, maybe decades, to be constructed. The only satisfaction of those builder ponies was the longevity of their work, see. There’s something heroic in that, isn’t there, Cookie?”

“Goodness, they weren’t slaves, dear,” she whispered loudly. “My grandfather on my mother’s side was a mason. They had dancing and bars just like we do.”

“They didn’t pray in warehouses, that’s certain. These were ponies of purpose, like I said. Just look at this place.” He directed her to a corner where a tarnished executive writing desk had been placed. “Furniture, probably grabbed from one of the old offices. Empty buckets, just lying around. Pink ponies gamboling on the walls. It’s all very creative, I’ll grant you, but it’s not educational. None of it will stand the test of time. That requires vision.”

“I think you’re being a little harsh, Hondo,” said Cookie.

He went on twirling his large moustache. “With the old builders—as it is with us—nothing was assured of continuation. All that remained from their lives was what was made durable by them—no spooky bric-a-brac. I’m just saying, maybe those ponies knew something about living. Stay with me, Cook. When I go into the workshop I can put my hooves on the same materials as my forbearers. It is as though they reached through the mists of time and said, ‘Here are the tools, Hondo, old boy! All they need is a capable hoof.’ They left these things for us.”

Cookie picked a stray hair off one of his ears. “Thankfully nowadays it’s much easier to pay someone to do it.”

Hondo leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll shut my trap, now,” he said, smiling. “I can tell when you’ve had enough. Let’s you and I grab some ice cream after this thing’s over, eh?”

“Criminy, dear, don’t talk about it that way.”

“Why not?” he japed. “I have nothing but praise when it comes to my little moon pie. She can come with us, if she wants—don’t laugh. It’s all these other mooks I’m not so sure about. I’ll build her a brand new writing desk, if that’s all it takes to get her to go along with us—where does the stage begin, anyway? Have they forgotten us in the waiting room…”

Hondo played it over in his mind at breakfast as he waited for Sweetie Belle, making cuts in his waffle, and setting his mango slices and whipped cream to the side, which he always saved to the end as his favorite part of the meal.

“Well, what didn’t you understand about it?” Rarity was asking her mother on the other side of the kitchen table. “I think it was all perfectly intelligible. Perhaps I can explain. It’s really all straightforward.”

Cookie hesitated first, and then replied in a soft voice, “Don’t you think it was an odd place for a theater production? Don’t forget, that’s a place where ponies worship. We were sitting in pews.”

“It’s not so uncommon,” Rarity replied. “Religious groups often provide spaces for community events. It’s practically their raison d'être. But what did you think of the performance?”

“Believe me, dear,” Cookie went on, “I was part of a dance troupe when I was young, and I know first-hoof that the budget for these kinds of affairs can be tight. But the town convention hall is not that pricey, and it has a stage. You know, where you can see all the actors. It was so confusing having all those young ponies going to and fro through the audience.”

“But Mother,” Rarity stopped her, “wasn’t it refreshing not to have that sense of separation between player and audient which one experiences when one is looking up to a platform?”

“Well… Yes, of course,” said Cookie. “On the other hoof, I sent my daughter away so she could have a chance to perform with experienced ponies. I paid for that—there is already separation between us, as far as I’m concerned! And she only did one thing during the whole show. Not one line, not one note of singing.”

Rarity shrugged. “The performance wasn’t about Sweetie Belle—"

“Now that we can agree on!” Hondo interjected.

“Now, I wish you two would be a little gentler in your critiques,” Rarity said, leering at both of them. “It was an interesting and innovative presentation—more of an installation than a ‘show’, I would conjecture. Something like that requires our active engagement. And besides,” she added, “Sweetie Belle is very proud to have been part of the company of Miss Bon Temps, who may not be famous here—”

“Oh, cruel world!” Hondo cried out in mock plaintiveness.

“Hondo! Stop interrupting her,” said Cookie. She turned and asked, “That’s all fine, dear. But wouldn’t it have been better if Sweetie Belle had sung a nice song under the stage lights? Just one? She has such a lovely voice. Her teachers have always said that. I don’t understand why they didn’t let her sing. Instead, I felt like they wanted to trap me and take my jewelry. It was very odd, Rarity.”

Hondo sighed, and added, “I tried, Cupcake. You know I did. I’m just a guy from Ponyville, after all. I just don’t get all that jazzy stuff.”

“You’re a carpenter,” Rarity replied. “Carpentry is about form, and jazz is about form. You could appreciate that. The form is a reference point, which implies all the times it has been adopted in the past, and suggests the possible developments of the future. A performance like Sweetie Belle’s brings us deep into form.”

Hondo scratched his head. “True. But you need bricks to build with. That’s different. We ponies are made of flesh, too, not just brains. Take it from me, your lowly carpenter. Ponies need something to put their hooves on, to smell, to use for defense. That stuff’s important.”

“I never said I had a problem with carpentry,” said Rarity. “I’m saying that the performance is better when we think about it differently. Think of how the use of the room spoke to the relationship that is encoded between the audience and the players. Or the choice to forego any speaking whatsoever, to reflect the audiences own silence back at itself. We are reminded of the tremendous amount of communication which takes place without words. We went in, looking for entertainment—but all night, all we had were stares, stares, stares! What a statement.”

“I think,” Hondo rejoined, “you and your sister have loose ideas about ‘art’.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rarity said. “Art is about seeing things fresh.”

“That depends very much on who you’re looking at, Cupcake.”

Hondo and Cookie laughed, and this time Rarity could not resist enjoying her father’s familiar sense of humor.

A breeze wafted in through the screen door, carrying the scents of mud and goldenrod from the river down the hill. As talk in the kitchen lulled, Sweetie Belle emerged from the narrow hallway and ambled up to the breakfast table, stonily, wearing patches of bright red and yellow face paint from the previous night. She was sporting an especially uncombed and unruly mane. She sat down without looking up and gazed at her fruit waffles like she was contemplating a cold morning dip.

“Keep your wits about you, dear,” snarked Hondo, reclining his seat. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say this was part of the show.”

“What time did you get in last night?” asked Rarity.

“Two in the morning, maybe. We all went out to have dinner after the performance, but the troupe was leaving for Rolling Oats this morning, so I had to stay to help them restore the church. When I got home it was hard to sleep, and I kept up listening to records.”

“Silent records?” asked Hondo.

Sweetie Belle stuck her tongue out at him. “Not before I’ve had my coffee, Daddy.”

“Then let’s get you some, right away!” Rarity announced, getting up. “We have so much to talk about.”

She went over to the counter as Cookie said, “I can’t believe how much coffee you drink. Look at the bags under her eyes, Rare. She looked like she was mugged. Twice. Doesn’t she?”

“Don’t be silly!” Rarity replied over her shoulder. “Hers is a face which glows like the sunrise over the dales of Rainbow Falls.” She arrived back at the table with a steaming mug of dark liquid. “There you are, dear. Now you are ready to face the world!”

“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle. She took a sip, and said, “Well, let’s talk!”

There was a brief silence, which was concluded by Cookie, saying, “I liked it. I thought it was very… intellectual.”

Sweetie Belle folded her legs under her chair, and began to ponder. “Oh yes, the intellect. Obviously. Well, I have to clarify something with you, Mom. A lot of thought does go into Black Box, but it’s not meant to be ‘intellectual’ overall.”

“Oh… I see.”

Sweetie Belle continued, “The ‘intellect’ is a kind of quarantine where you have to tell one thing from another in a very dark place. Black Box is about those mundane things which shine in the sun, like a cairn of snails.”

“Jeez Louise, Cook,” quipped Hondo.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, dear,” Cookie replied, now flustered. “I thought it was very creative, is all I was trying to say. By the way, have you told your theater director that you can sing? I think that if she were aware of your talent she would consider it a wonderful addition to the show.”

“She knows. I think,” Sweetie Belle said. “It’s come up a few times when I talked to the other players.”

“And?”

Sweetie Belle started to play with her food. “And what?”

“Well, have you shown her? Miss Bon, I mean. Don’t undersell yourself—darling, I don’t know why you act like that. I bet they would love you in Rolling Oats. It’s a music city, remember. I think you should go right up to her and say, ‘I know you’re busy, Miss Bon, but just give me three minutes of your time’.” She turned to Hondo and asked, “What do you think, dear?”

“I think that I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said.

“It’s not necessary, they don’t need a singer,” Sweetie Belle replied with a bit of temper. There was another break in the conversation—this time no one was eating.

Sweetie Belle took a slow slip from her coffee and said, “Princess Cadance enjoyed it. We talked for a half an hour at the juice bar after the show! She said the performance made her ‘go inside’.”

“Into a hole?” Hondo said, making another quip. He shot a glance at Cookie.

“Hondo! That’s enough out of you,” she said. “Next time you get a waffle in your eye, I promise!”

“Just kiddin’ around,” he said, nudging Sweetie Belle with an elbow. “You know that. Right, Moon Pie?”

She did not answer at first. She looked up and noticed the sun shining through the small kitchen window into the sink filled with dirty plates. She felt eyes on her, from everyone, and answered, “Yeah, yeah. I get it—Black Box is going to be challenging for some ponies. But I’m happy you guys came out and at least made the effort. Especially you,” she said, lobbing a mango slice at Hondo. “I mean, we don’t even tell you when to clap.”

“That’s the line they give you, eh? Ah—I can feel your mother giving me the evil eye, but you’ve had your coffee now. There’s no excuse. Well, I’ll tell you what I really think. I think you’ve got business sense like your sister, here, who has business sense like me. And business requires a strategic outlook. Why, this window project I’m doing for the town, for example. There are some who might look at me and say, ‘What a fool that Hondo is, getting caught up in all that work for so little profit.”

“What a fool you are,” Sweetie Belle parroted him, “getting caught up in all that work for so little profit.”

“Question, Moon Pie,” he asked.

“Answer, Daddy.”

“How do you go from building small windows to building big ones?”

She shrugged.

“By building big windows.”

“I know exactly where this is going,” said Cookie. “Just ignore him, dear. This is all about some petty game he’s playing with that Raff Wrench.”

“Raff Wrench?” said Rarity. “You mean your old roofing partner? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve seen him since Carousel was being built.”

Hondo cleared his throat. “Now, ladies, there are certain names which I humbly request not be mentioned in this household—at least not in my presence—and his happens to be one of them. Wrench is a scoundrel of a pony, a thief, and a deceiver. That I’ll maintain until I’m old and crusty, or until I’m older and crustier than I already am.” He smiled and started twirled his moustache. “In this case, though, he makes a useful analogy for what I’m getting at with you, Moon Pie. This ‘Miss Bon’, to be direct with you—and I know you’ll forgive me—seems to me to be a witch who has had a little white pearl roll into her shop of potions.”

“Miss Bon is hard to get to know,” Sweetie Belle replied. “She’s actually been super kind and supportive to me. And I’m no pearl.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” said Hondo. “This witch has got you so under her hocus pocus that she’s got you thinking you’re lucky to gig with her. Well, I’ve known you for long enough and I’m here to say she should be happy to get you.”

Cookie jumped in. “You must get some kind of school credit is Miss Bon is so well-known.”

“There might be, maybe,” said Sweetie Belle, sighing, as it were, like a wind that diffracts the crisp leaves of autumn.

Cookie said, “Well, goodness! You should ask her, or somebody! Two princesses were at your performance? And one of them loved it? All this opportunity around you, darling! One of my girlfriends was telling me about an exciting charter school in Crystal Empire City—Crystal Clear, it’s called—small classroom sizes, fast-track programs, one of the top-rated boarding schools in Equestria. They have a motto, One is not born a mare—one becomes a mare.”

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Well, of course it does!” Cookie replied. “My friend who was telling me about it has a daughter that went there and she’s been able to get lots of individual attention. I can picture you being there, myself. And it’s not a coincidence you bumped into Princess Cadance. I’m sure she could write you a wonderful letter of recommendation.”

“Look,” Hondo broke in, “you liked getting out of Ponyville, right? Well, here you are, Moon Pie. It’s the next step for you. If you were shrewd enough to get two princesses on your side—to stir up a little publicity, if you know what I mean—why not capitalize on it?”

“It’s true, dear, it’s so true,” said Cookie. “Do you think that she would be where she is, if she was willing to pass up the chance to improve her prospects?”

They all turned to Rarity, who, upon being mentioned, felt her mouth go dry. She hadn’t had the chance to explain, in tones that suited her, the secondary purpose of her visit—the long afternoon with Sweetie Belle had been too chaotic.

She therefore, caviling, pushed out her chair a little, and cleared her throat, before answering, “I think we should remember that Sweetie Belle has been feeling a little depressed lately. I was very disturbed to see her that way last time I visited. Now, I admit that experimental theater seems like a strange remedy to all this, and indeed, not quite on-base regarding some of there practical matters you two are bringing up—of which we should of course keep ourselves mindful. However, on your part, you must admit that theater has been much more effective than conventional therapy. I daresay that Sweetie Belle has got her legs under her again! And let’s not forget, it was her initiative to bring Miss Bon’s troupe down to Ponyville to share with us in the first place, and that in my mind is ad valuable a logistical exercise as any.”

Sweetie Belle was fretting her napkin. “I just want it to be clear,” she said, “to all of you, that Princess Cadance did not have an ulterior motive to talk to me. I didn’t invite the princesses to the performance because I wanted to ‘stir up publicity’. They’re friends of ours, just like the Apples.”

“Okay, okay. And do you think that ‘Miss Bon’ would have wanted to go through the hassle of shifting operations to the hometown on an understudy, if there were no promise of tiaras filling the seats?” Hondo said.

“Dad!” Rarity hissed at him.

He grinned behind his moustache at the frowning ladies around his table. “You’re smarter than me, Moon Pie,” he said, “and I’m smarter than that. That’s all I’m saying, here.”

Sweetie Belle had gone back to eating and was looking down at her plate, and another silence passed over the room. “Did you have fun, dear?” asked Cookie.

“Oh—yes, it was a blast!” said Sweetie Belle somewhat uncomfortably. “Would totally do it again, if I had the chance.” She proffered a puffy smile which was reciprocated by all present.

Hondo pushed himself away from the table with a thunderous scrape! and said, “Time’s a-wasting. Moon Pie, maybe you can help me with a little project I’ve got going on. I need someone to draw me some new patterns—you’re an artist, right?—real simple. I’ll even give you the measurements. Since you’ve ‘got legs’ and all.”

Cookie got up to gather plates. “What time do you have to leave, dear?”

“Pretty soon,” Rarity answered. “I’m mostly packed, so it shouldn’t be too much of a headache.”

A triple knock on the front door cut through the commotion of moving plates and chairs.

“Wonder who it could be,” said Hondo, scratching his belly. “I bet it’s wrench, come to apologize to me.”

“You’ve broken your own rule, dear!” Cookie called out as he went to answer it. “You have no right to be upset if one of us makes the same mistake!”

Rarity and Sweetie Belle caught each other’s gaze once they were alone at the table. Rarity inspected the other a moment, to see if she could read something in her face; at which gesture Sweetie Belle replied by sticking out her tongue, who was promptly rejoined in kind by the older, before Hondo returned to the kitchen to break up the scrap.

“Rare, it’s for you,” he said. “What’s her name?”

“Well, I don’t know, Father!” she said. “I have to go see. But who could be calling for me, here?”

She went out and laughed to see Starlight Glimmer waiting in the foyer. She was standing with the thoughtful poise of a runner on the mark, and altogether seemed a little displeased, which Rarity ascribed to the inconvenience of not having known her whereabouts.

“Why, hello there, Starlight!” she said, buoying over. “You’ve found my parents’ house again, you goldilocks. Alas! Who knows what troubles you have endured to find something more to your liking, only to wind up here?”

“I hope this doesn’t come off as an intrusion,” said Starlight. “I know you will only be in town a short while, and I’m sure you’d much rather spend it with them than me.”

Rarity leveled her tone. “Skip it, dear. Would you like to sit down? How do you know about my plans, anyway?”

Starlight peered over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Hmm… Let’s keep this private.”

“Okay. What’s the matter?”

“What exactly went down when you and Sweetie Belle had lunch at Sweet Apple Acres, yesterday?” asked Starlight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rarity.

“Word has it that you and Sweetie Belle have a pretty good repertoire of outhouse jokes.”

“Jokes—why—what!?” cried Rarity. “Can we step back for a moment?”

“I bumped into Rainbow Dash this morning at the farmer’s market,” Starlight said. “It was unusual to see her there without Applejack. When we chatted, she said that you made a to-do that you needed to use the bathroom after lunch, then very publicly made clear that an outhouse was beneath your likes.”

“That’s just not true!” Rarity protested. “There was a long repartee in which, among other things, my… erm, lavatory preferences, were discussed in a light-hearted manner. There seemed to be no harm done.”

“You’re aware that’s a perfectly normal arrangement for them, right?”

Rarity blushed at how feeble her excuse now appeared before her interlocutor; yet the real reason for her behavior at the picnic, in her eyes, was still more ridiculous, and not more believable, than the mistruth.

“Look,” she said, “I have a little time before I have to leave. I think this whole thing can be smoothed over. I’ll go to her and apologize and we can all be back on good terms, peaches and cream. I really didn’t mean for things to go like this.”

“It’s not just you,” Starlight said. “Afterward, I heard, Sweetie Belle decided to give a speech of her own. Then, last night, AJ went to bed early because she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, no!” gasped Rarity.

“Yeah. And I guess Rainbow and AJ are at odds about this, too.”

“And?” asked Rarity, now in the full throw of agitation. “Why are they fighting, now?”

“My instinct is that she thinks Applejack was trying to ‘act out’ in front of one of her superior officers. She’s very strong-willed, you know, and I’ve suspected for a long time that she resents being ‘held to rank’ in the military circles Rainbow frequents.”

Rarity began a pace. “Acting out? What does that have to do with anything? We were all acting out! Life is a teacup meant to be drank from—then used to hold biscuits—then arranged into a pretty play with the little dishes and silverware—then.. worn on one’s head!” she said, tugging hard at one of her tresses. She turned to Starlight Glimmer again. “Well, what am I to do, then? You’re the expert, and you’ve come here to see me, obviously. How do I make this right?”

“Simple,” she replied. “You and Sweetie Belle need to go and apologize to her, and describe what you learned in the process of your mistake.”

“Oh… yes…” said Rarity, reflecting. “Well, I haven’t done that in years, but it does seem to have a way of fixing things, doesn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Starlight. “I trust you can handle that yourself, Rarity. Sweetie Belle… I might need to talk to her. Her grades at the School of Friendship were not very impressive last year.”

“I understand,” said Rarity. “Well, thank you for the telegraph, I suppose. I can go get her if you like—”

“Wait. I also wanted to come to you in person, not because I thought this wouldn’t reach you, and not because Twilight put me up to it or anything of that sort.” Starlight corralled her posture, and said, “Rather, I have come to petition you.”

Rarity scratched her head. “Petition me? Do you need my congressional vote, or what?”

“When one of the students is dealing with a ‘latent issue’”—she put this term in air quotation marks—“I will often initiate a petition to help bring the problem into a state of cognizance. This involves gentle, non-coercive reminders from myself and other ponies that the patient’s—er, student’s—caring circle that an important intra- and inter-personal obstacle is not being addressed, and that it is within the troubled student’s power to correct. The idea is not only to bring the issue to light but also to impart said student with a sense of what I call capacity to act.”

“I see,” said Rarity. “And upon what theme have you come to empower me?”

Starlight pondered the question. “Have you ever kept bees?” she asked.

“Well that’s an odd thing to ask,” said Rarity. “As in, a hive of bees, out in my backyard, with a large protective suit? I can’t recall that I have.”

Starlight nodded. “You’re missing out. It’s a very interesting trade.”

“Is that so.”

“Oh yes. Once you get the hang of it, you can produce all kinds of things in the comfort of your own home. Honey, wax, royal jelly…”

“Royal jelly? I’ve never heard of that,” said Rarity.

“That’s too bad. It’s what the workers feed to feed the queen. If she goes into a slump, the whole hive spirals into a collapse. It’s a totally testable thing.”

“Tragic.”

“Rarity,” Starlight said, giving her a look, “you understand the importance of feeding the queen, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure when and why you became such an expert on beekeeping,” Rarity said, “but who am I to judge. Are you recommending I pick up a new hobby?”

“Hmm, let’s try something different,” Starlight replied. “I want you to close your eyes for a moment.”

“Um… All right,” Rarity said, closing them.”

“I’m going to close mine, too. This is to show that I’m not trying to overpower you. Would you like to open your eyes and check?”

“I trust you with my foals, dear.”

Starlight smiled. “Good, good. I’m glad to hear it. Now, it’s very important that if at any time you feel like you need protection from me, you say so.”

“Got it.”

Starlight let out a long, aspirated breath. “Sometimes, when I’m thinking about a problem—trying to work something out—I find it useful to let the diaphragm relax. Just a gentle release around the ribs and belly. I like to imagine I am painting a little red clown nose on a child’s face.”

Rarity pictured the nose and let her thoughts begin to drift. In the quiet of the foyer, she began to notice noises coming from around the house: she heard the flow of how water and silverware from where her mother and her sister were working; she gelt the creaking of the floorboards in her father’s dusty house, and became sensible to herself and Starlight balancing creakily on top of them.

“We mares,” Starlight continued after letting the silence pass, “tend to be self-conscious about our bellies. But in other cultures the belly is a symbol of wisdom, a sign of our communion with nature and everything that proceeds in us without our knowing. Let’s be in our bellies a moment.”

“Starlight, I—”

Starlight shushed her. “Are you okay, Rarity? Do you need a hug?”

“No, I do not need a hug.”

“Just let me know. Now that we’re relaxed, let’s talk about you. This is your time to sink into yourself and find a way to open, to let loose anything that is stopping you up.”

“Er… How would you like me to do that?” asked Rarity.

“Let’s imagine that you and I, just us, are at opposite ends of a large pond—let’s say, one perhaps four-hundred feet in diameter. The surface of the water is still. It is so still, in fact, that we can see ourselves very clearly, and can look at almost nothing else but our own reflections, until we lift our heads and—lo!—we see each other on opposite shores. Rarity, is that you?” she called out in a low voice.

“Um… H-hello, Starlight?” answered Rarity. “Yes, it’s me! I see you’ve found my favorite pond!”

“Oh, no! The weather is changing!” said Starlight in mock panic. “A cool front is moving in and mist is beginning to settle over the water! I think I can hear you, still, but your image is fading away… Where did you go? Speak to me, Rarity!”

“Oh! Shall I just… walk over and join you?”

“What was that?”

“Do you want me to walk over to you, dear,” Rarity said like she was talking over a din. “It doesn’t seem so very far.”

“No!” cried Starlight. “This is no ordinary mist. I’ve encountered this before, at other ponies’ ponds and at my own pond, too. Do you taste that? It has an acidic flavor… It must be a Haze of Held Resentment! Any step you take toward me could you into a marsh, and tangle you in a fruitless struggle for months or even years.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that!” said Rarity. “Forgive me, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We’ll have to cut through this fog using the candidness of our words and our unperturbed feelings of mutual friendship.”

“There could be no other way!”

“It’s a frightening place to be,” said Starlight. “I’ve spent my own time in the Haze of Held Resentment. Strange to say, I grew to almost enjoy the feeling of alienation that came with it. It’s a kind of paradox—after all, it is a way of relating to other ponies, excising them for how one perceives one has been betrayed. It was a while before someone came along and held out a hoof through the fog, and helped me to let go and make sense of my confusion… Take my hoof, Rarity.”

“Oh, my! But aren’t we four-hundred feet apart?”

“I mean actually take my hoof,” Starlight said.

“Oh, okay.”

All the while they had been talking, Rarity and Starlight had their eyes closed as part of their imaginative exercise. Rarity groped the air in front of her until her hoof was caught by Starlight, who took her tightly.

“Ah, there you are!” Rarity said with a laugh. “You know, this is kind of fun.”

“Heh, great! I want you to be in a peak emotional state.”

Starlight took a deep breath before she continued.

“I have it on good authority that some interval has passed since you last enjoyed an intimate companionship.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” said Rarity. “I have plenty of friends.”

Starlight scratched her chin. “A long time, I mean, since you enjoyed their pleasure.”

“Of laughter? Conversation? Why. I’d be foolish not to. Why not have wine and music to go with dinner, after all—"

Starlight held up a hoof to stop her. “Rarity, Rarity… I’m talking about the last time you saw someone.”

“Saw them…?”

“Saw them.”

“Oh… Oooh. Oh… that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah. Look, we’re all different. I’ve got gray hair coming in. One just has to be humbled sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I know it can be a little embarrassing, at our age, and especially frustrating when you find yourself surrounded by the joys of marriage—”

“Starlight, may I interrupt you?” Rarity said, opening her eyes.

“What’s up?”

“On the ‘awkward’ scale, this conversation has reached a solid seven.”

“Hey, no judgment here,” Starlight replied hastily, “Maybe you’re a little shy, I don’t know. You’re the oldest, so maybe you didn’t have a model you could use when you were growing up—”

“Starlight.”

She put a hoof on Rarity’s shoulder. “I just want to help you avoid those bitter scenes like the one you let yourself fall into yesterday. As a friend.”

Just then a floorboard creaked nearby, and they turned and spotted Sweetie Belle tiptoeing at the edge of the foyer with a dampened mane that matted against her forehead like a peacock’s gray tailfeathers.

“Ah, there’s the pony I wanted to see!” Starlight said, throwing out a hoof in salutation.

Sweetie Belle offered a meager smile. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me! Your favorite guidance counselor. Actually… I think I’m your only guidance counselor… Unless you’re seeing someone else behind my back,” she added with mock severity.

“Heh, never gets old,” said Sweetie Belle.

“Helping Mom in the kitchen?”

“Beats playing outside.”

Starlight laughed like a songbird. “Oh, Sweetie Belle, you’re so funny. I’ve always thought that a sharp sense of humor is a sign of great intelligence. What about you?”

She shrugged.

“Hey, your sister and I were just rapping a bit. I’m afraid I have some bad news. You know that picnic that Applejack and Rainbow Dash put together for you, yesterday afternoon? It looks like you might have said a few things which hurt their feelings. I bet you noticed that Applejack wasn’t at your show, last night.”

“Yeah, I did. Is that why?”

Cookie waddled in behind Sweetie Belle as she said, ‘I’m sorry’, to which Starlight replied, “Well, you don’t have to apologize to me, though an apology is absolutely in order. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

All gazes were fixed on Sweetie Belle. “I was trying to be entertaining and got a little carried away,” she answered quietly. “That’s all. I was excited and thinking about the show. I’ll make sure I go see her today.”

Starlight exchanged a glance with Cookie, and, receiving tacit approval, came in closer. “Sweetie Belle, I need to tell you something, but I don’t think you’re going to like it. I want to let you know in advance that the point of my ‘petition’ is not to threaten you or to make you feel embarrassed. I’m glad Mom is here, too. She can support you if I start to make you feel unsafe. Are you ready?”

Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes and made a presidential salute.

“I think you have a hard time being cooperative when it comes to communicating your emotions,” Starlight said. “Maybe that’s why you’ve come to rely on theater tactics. We all want to help you, but we can’t keep waiting for you to come around.”

“Can we not go into this today, right now?” Sweetie Belle pleaded. “We’re talking about cooperation, right? Now, I think your criticism is very fair, Miss Starlight, but I don’t want to focus on the negative. My sister’s here, and I just got through an exhausting performance… I’d like to enjoy the moment, if I can.”

“Oh, for sure, for sure. I’m down with that. By the way—totally stoked that you brought Black Box Theater to Ponyville. Miss On Scene, right? I had a boyfriend back in my hometown who was totally into her. That was more years ago than I care to count!”

She let out another sing-song, far-away laugh.

“But you know, this can be the kind of moment where it is most important to evaluate your emotional landscape. A performance, metaphorically speaking, is where everything significant comes out. Right? It’s what all those awful rehearsals are for. In my field we call it a crucial juncture. I have a game we could play to make this easier. Would you like to hear about it?”

“I don’t think it will help me,” said Sweetie Belle.

Starlight gave her an elbow to cajole her. “Oh, I think it will be fun! Listen. I call it ‘Feelings Tic-tac-toe’. You begin with a nine-square grid just like in ordinary tic-tac-toe, except when you put down an ‘O’ or an ‘X’ you have to include a genuine feeling you have about someone else, a situation, or yourself. However, the rule is—when you make a statement, you must always begin with ‘I think that’ or ‘It is my feeling that’ to be clear that you are talking about what you perceive, and are not trying to ascribe something to someone else. Of course, you can always say something positive!”

“Ooh, what happens if you get three in a row?” asked Cookie.

“You get to ask your opponent for a judgment-free compliment! Normally we don’t give ourselves permission to ask for praise, but it can be very satisfying for both parties. It could be something as simple as, ‘Tell me about something that makes me beautiful’, or, ‘Tell me the most fun memory you have of me’, or whatever seems relevant to your state of mind.”

“That does sound fun!” said Cookie, giving Sweetie Belle another elbow. “Let’s play!”

“Let me rephrase what I said,” Sweetie Belle replied lugubriously. “This sounds really dumb.”

Rarity listened with growing agitation to this discourse, which she believed presaged the difficulty of coaxing a form of apology from Sweetie Belle in the matter of the debacle at Sweet Apple Acres. It was from an appreciation of her sister’s delicate frame of mind that she exercised any reservation in her speech; however, as the hope of the complex and difficult being rendered simple faded with each cutting response made by her, she at last stepped over decorum, and snapped, “Honestly, Sweetie Belle, you’re making this far more miserable than it needs to be. And I agree with Mom and Starlight that you need to learn a little tact. Your depression is no excuse. We are only trying to help you.”

Sweetie Belle, hearing this, laughed for the first time since she had come out of her bedroom for breakfast. “You think I need to learn tact? No offense, sis, but you’re the most over-dramatic pony I know.”

“A fine observation coming from a teenager,” Rarity replied, now incensed. “And by the way, I’ll thank you to leave notes about my personal life out of your little couch sessions. I’m busy, you know. I don’t have all day to spend moping around, like some of us.”

“Great, awesome, this is really fun,” said Sweetie Belle, turning red-faced and averting gazes with Rarity. She squared herself with Starlight, and said, “You know what? Let’s play.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to…” Starlight said.

“Put up the board,” Sweetie Belle fired back at her. “Nine squares. You go.”

“Me? Okay…” Starlight made four strokes in the air between them, and contemplated for a moment. Then she made another figure, and said, “’X’—I think you’re unhappy at the School of Friendship.”

Sweetie Belle made her own mark on the board. “’O’—I think you’re trying to corner me.”

Starlight made another cross. “’X’—I think that your family is worried about you.”

“’O’—I think they are just fine.”

“’X’—It is my feeling that you are a good daughter to them.”

“’O’—I think they want me to be more like Rarity.”

“’X’—I think that you are confused.”

“’O’—I’m a fuck up.”

Cooke gasped. “Sweetie Belle! Watch your mouth, for goodness’ sake. And what you said about Rarity is not true at all—”

Starlight stopped her. “Let’s give it a little air, Mrs. Flank-Crumbles. Sweetie, honey—I know we’re tapping into strong emotions here, but let’s try and remember the most important rule of Feelings Tic-tac-toe.”

Sweetie Belle groaned like a bowed door hinge. “It is my feeling that I am a fuck up.”

“That’s better,” Starlight said. “Now, that gives me the last move. ‘X’—I’m glad that we can be friends. Well, it looks like I win! As per our rules, I am allowed to ask you for a judgment free compliment. Let’s see… What would you miss about me if I went away on a six-month mountain climbing expedition?”

“Your breath,” Sweetie Belle answered with ease. “You always have fruity bubblegum breath which reminds me of my time in counseling. I might always wish to be somewhere else, but I can always count on your excellent taste in gum.”

“I see. Well… Thank you, Sweetie Belle. I acknowledge and accept your compliment.”

“You’ve had your say, Miss Starlight,” Cookie interceded, “and now I’d like to have mine. Darling, sometimes we have to give in to each other to make good relationships. I do it with your father all the time. And we’ve gone through all of the trouble of helping you get to Rolling Oats. It is not always pleasant, but it is something you simply need to learn to do, if you’re going to get the success you want.”

“Just look at Rarity,” Starlight said, attempting to make eye contact with her. “Even when she thinks a client is boorish or underserving she still has to entertain a negotiation of price and service with them, because she knows it will be of long-term benefit to her enterprise. And like Mom says, it’s true with friends and family, too.”

“Oh, yes, it’s so true!” said Cookie. “I always consider it a point to make holiday appearances at Winsome Weathervane’s get-togethers, even though I don’t know most of her friends and never really enjoy myself, to be frank. But I can’t complain about Winsome. She’s quiet and is always willing to lend us her tools when we need them.”

Quiet crept in and the four mares stood breathing and looking at the floor and past one another into the corners of the old river house.

“I’m going to go take a nap,” said Sweetie Belle. “Look, just ignore me. I’m tired still. It was a long night—a long day. Thanks for coming to see me, Miss Starlight. It was really considerate of you to go out of your way to make sure that I’m okay. I promise I’ll talk to Applejack. We’ll have to continue this at another time—”

“Oh, anytime!” roared Starlight. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

She turned to go. Then Cookie called after her, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your sister? She’s going to be leaving soon, too.” Sweetie Belle said goodbye from down the hallway, and they heard her bedroom door click shut.

“I hope I was of use today,” said Starlight.

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Cookie. “You are always welcome here. Did you want to get Hondo in on this?”

“Oh, no, no. Maybe some other time. I’ve got to get going—we’ve all got places to be, I’m sure. Just one more thing, though.”

She waved for Cookie and Rarity to come near. They took a few steps and were girdled into an embrace by Starlight, who declared, in a minty voice, “I love you guys!” Whereupon, she made a shallow courtesy, and departed.

“You’ve met before, right?” Rarity asked.

“Oh, sure, two or three times, I think.”

Rarity glanced in the direction of the hall. “Mother, I’m going to go check on Sweetie Belle before I go.”

“She’s probably sleeping,” Cookie replied. “She did look exhausted this morning, didn’t she? Are you sure you want to poke that bee’s nest?”

Rarity nodded. “If she’s asleep, I shall quietly tiptoe away, I promise.”

The door was not locked. When Rarity peeked inside, she found that Sweetie Belle was not in bed but was rather seated at a rickety turquoise vanity making brushstrokes through her mussed hair. The brush would not go through easily, and gave out a harsh rip! with each attempt, always attended with the soft imprecations of its owner.

Rarity did not announce herself but entered quietly. She recognized a few of her old belongings which had stayed with the bedroom: the old queen bed by the window, with its tall posts and elaborate purfling; a few old trunks and a small wooden bookshelf; and her old armario, which had gone into disuse. Sweetie Belle, for her part, had added a phonograph, and the oddly colored vanity. On the bookshelf display was Rarity’s childhood collection of button-sewn stuffed dolls, which presided in a gladdened slump over dappled school textbooks and a slosh of earmarked volumes of poetry and a few slim philosophy readers on the shelves below. Among the poetry, the most careworn books were Amethyst Remembrance by Feathered Thing and The Belle Jar by Silver Platter, the latter a library book tagged many months past due.

Everything seemed sparse from the way she remembered it. The room had become a lake of swollen floorboards with nothing by a throw rug and a few jettisoned accessories to cover it. Rarity sidled in and took a bed, as her sister continued to toil with her hair.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said. “And to say goodbye. Back there… The context was a little strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sweetie Belle went to speak, but stopped herself. She set down the brush and watched herself in the mirror.

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” asked Rarity.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Can I talk to you, then? You won’t have to say a word.”

Sweetie Belle was silent again.

“I had another reason for coming to Ponyville,” Rarity began, “something I needed to talk about with the family, though it looks like I won’t get that chance to do that before I go. So I want to tell you, because I trust you most of all, anyway, and it’s something you should hear from me. I’m going to be leaving Manehattan. I’m going to sell the boutique, there. I had a nervous breakdown, Sweetie Belle. A client came in, screaming at me because his daughter hated the dress that I made for her debut—something took hold of me in that moment, it all built up, and I locked myself in the back and pulled my hair. I still pull my hair—you see? I hate it, the idea of establishing myself in Canterlot, up the hill, of disappointing you and Mom and Dad who imagine how far I am going, but that’s what I am doing. And I feel utterly loathsome for how much pressure that put on you. I feel inferior. Hoh! Sorry, sorry. I am being dramatic again.”

She paused to let herself catch a breath. Sweetie Belle, who, with respect to her emotional life, was something like a rough inmate, equally was as affectionate as a child when pressed—just the reverse of her older sister. So that, when the latter had finished her confession, the former was already rubbing tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Rarity,” she said. “I’m sorry that’s how it is for you.”

“Oh… Sweetie Belle, you know I’ll be okay. I didn’t mean to concern you. It’s just drama, like you said. There’s nothing behind it.”

She waited for Sweetie Belle to speak; but she only sniffled and gazed in the vanity mirror without reply. They sat together as the sound of boots and old floorboards attacked the silence.

“I’m sorry for how it is for you, too,” said Rarity.

“The worst I have to deal with is a clueless guidance counselor. She said I use ‘theater tactics’ because I have trouble communicating. What an idiot! And then she pretends that she’s excited about Black Box Theater, like she knows what that is.”

“I rather agree with her, dear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Rarity explained, “that you do have trouble communicating. It is so hard to communicate. And that’s precisely why we need the theater. Only, not all of us have the same sensitivity to recognize this need. Not everyone appreciates the house they live in, the whole miracle of it, until they are without one. To go deep, to face the complexities of your vessel and your personality and your soul, then to represent that difficult solitude with the utmost generosity toward your fellow pony, that they may benefit and share in the experience, is the essence of your art.”

Sweetie Belle picked up the brush again. “Hey, Rarity… Do you mind…?”

“Of course,” she said, hopping up and getting over to her sister’s seat. She gathered a swath of Sweetie Belle’s hair in one hoof and grabbed some hair pins with the other. “Are you angry that everyone is pressuring you to go to Crystal Clear?” Rarity asked as she began tugging and pulling.

“I don’t know,” Sweetie Belle said, bobbing. “I’m not happy at the School of Friendship, I guess. I like the ponies there—even Miss Starlight, when she’s not so wound up—but I feel like maybe I don’t belong there anymore, and it scares me a little.”

“How do you know you don’t belong there?” asked Rarity.

“You heard what Mom was saying earlier. Ponies are disappointed that I don’t like to sing as much as I used to. And when they talk like that it feels like the earth is going out from under my hooves.”

“Oh, to have a coat like this again!” Rarity said, brushing off her sister’s forehead. She put the clips in the side of her mouth and went to work like a bivouac surgeon. “Well, don’t you?” she mumbled. “Enjoy singing, still, I mean.”

Sweetie Belle was pensive; Rarity hummed a low melody to herself as she became absorbed in the weight and contour of flowing, fuzzy hair. Then her sister continued, “When I first started singing for other ponies, it made me happy that I could do something that I loved to do and show love to the community at the same time. Things seemed simpler. The more I nurtured myself, the more others seemed to be nurtured by me.”

“Mhm.”

“Then one winter I got bad streptococcus. You remember that. I was bed-ridden for days, and my voice still really isn’t the same. I was surprised to find myself getting jealous of other fillies getting parts that I couldn’t. Singing just made me depressed. All the ‘self-improvement’ stuff which I believed in just seemed like bullshit—excuse my language. If I’m still mean on the inside, then the whole thing is a lie, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Rarity said as she preened the hairline by Sweetie Belle’s ears. “I think I understand what you are asking—but that is something which you have to decide for yourself. Though it sounds to me as though you are not entirely sure, yourself.”

“Well, I stopped ‘nurturing’ myself, in any case.”

“That’s terrible.”

Sweetie Belle was quiet again. “I want to sing—to go back to that old, simple feeling. There’s something about theater that I feel I can pour myself into, in the same way. I knew that if I just got to Rolling Oats that things would be better, and I would find some kind of direction away from feeling stuck. I still feel it might be true, but now…”

“Now, what?” asked Rarity, stopping her work.

“Nothing. It’s dumb.”

Rarity harrumphed as she teased out the top of Sweetie Belle’s mane. “It’s not dumb—whatever it is—and I don’t think you’re dumb, and I’m here to support you, because that’s what sisters are for.”

Sweetie Belle sighed. “Look, in order to change, you have to give something up. And as much I feel pulled toward Rolling Oats, I feel like I have to turn my back on Ponyville. You see how Miss Starlight comes up with little games to try and make us closer. Ponyville has become a game to me, like that. That’s what it’s come to. It just makes me feel far away. And if I told Miss Starlight or anyone what I’m really feeling, it would be like stabbing them. Same with Mom and Dad.”

Rarity nodded. “Are you sure they would feel that way if you told them about it?”

“I’m afraid to test it,” Sweetie Belle replied.

“I understand. That is a very hard place to be…” Then: “And what about us? Do I make you feel ‘far away’?”

The sound of hoof steps invaded the room again.

“I’m sorry for being snippy out there with Starlight and Mom,” Sweetie Belle said. “The past few days have been a lot to take in. What time do you have to go, again? I don’t want to make you miss the train, on top of everything else.”

“I’ll catch the next one. Be honest with me.”

Sweetie Belle squirmed like a butterfly under a needle. “If you really insist… Yes, you do.”

The humming and breathing behind her stopped, but Sweetie Belle could feel her sister still working. She had transformed into firm touches in the stillness now between them, caressing with her long strokes, bone on bone through the medium of frizzy locks being ever coaxed toward presentability. Sweetie Belle looked up and saw in the mirror what her sister had done while they were talking: her long hair had been combed into locks and woven into a bun plait held by an indigo barrette. The shape of the resulting coiffure was a simple, centered figure, with bangs that kept out of the eyes and cheeks. The pink and amethyst parts of her mane were evenly partitioned to bring out an attractive dualism.

“I look like a damn intellectual!” Sweetie Belle cried out in surprise. She and Rarity burst into giggles.

“You look so comely!” Rarity said between her laughter. “It’s very practical, you see… Well, I was going for ‘young artist’, but that will do!”

A smile overcame Sweetie Belle as they calmed down. “I love it. You’re a genius. In the perfect business.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I mean it, though” she said, trembling and turning to face Rarity. “When you left it was like there was a vacuum in my life. I was used to having someone who I could share everything with, and who I could go to with anything that I needed to talk about. But things have changed. You’ve been away and I want to leave. There’s a part of me that’s overwhelmed by Rolling Oats and its musk and promises and the prospect of throwing all this way, every last fruit waffle and picnic, because I miss you terribly, not just because you live somewhere else but because I have to go on without you. And there’s another part of me that wants to scream that you don’t have to ‘network’ with me, that I’m right here and we’re all caught up playing some imaginary, silly game.”

A glow of afternoon sunlight came in and made a spot on the floor between Rarity and Sweetie Belle and the bed which faced the window and the pine tree line outside. In the silence Rarity found herself wondering once more about what was beyond those trees, as she had done from an early age, looking up through the square window as she waited to get out of bed on a lazy day; it seemed to her then, as now, that the dark trees towered over the world, and was the only feature of the room which hadn’t lapsed with time.

Sweetie Belle curled into her sister and pressed her face into the crevice of her neck. Rarity held her tightly for a while, without speaking; then she said, “Listen, Sweetie Belle. Go out into the world. Chase those musky promises. Fall in love. Make a fool of yourself. Make big mistakes—you hear me? Live your life and everything that goes with it. Break hearts. Get your own heart broken. Live on a dime, if you have to. That’s all I have to impart—I just love you, okay?”

They let go. Sweetie Belle let out a laugh in a wave of relief and exhaustion. She went to say something but stopped and allowed the silence to come in again, but a different kind of silence. Even the hoof steps and the chattering birds out the window did not disturb it; rather, their song seemed to coalesce around it, the way beads of sweat form on a hot glass pitcher filled with fresh, cold water.

Into Her Own Reflection She Stared

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Having now missed the afternoon train, Rarity heaped herself onto her old large bed with an exhalation. She dismissed all of the morning affair by a little melody that she hummed with her hooves folded over her belly. Returning to Manehattan would be stress to come; at present, however, she enjoyed the oasis of having unknown whereabouts to the world which would soon impose on her. Sweetie Belle, observing, joined her close to her side, and would have made amends for the sleep she had missed the previous night, had not their mother, Cookie, announced her appearance with an unpleasant knock on the door frame.

“Oh, Rare! What are you still doing here?” she cried, toddling over to where the girls were laying. “I was sure you had already left!”

“No, Mother,” Rarity replied without opening her eyes, “Sweetie Belle and I were just talking. Did you think that I would leave without saying goodbye to you?”

“I was sure you did, darling,” said Cookie, “because I was just speaking with Winsome Weathervane outside, and she swears that she spotted you rushing through Ponyville Square. I didn’t have an answer for that. I assumed that you had gone to catch the line.”

“Oh…” grumbled Rarity, “You knew that couldn’t be true, and now Winsome thinks that I have the habit of snubbing my parents.”

“Now, it’s no big whoop. Winsome knows you’re a good girl.”

Cookie took a seat between her and Sweetie Belle on the bed; the mattress bent slightly to her weight, forcing her daughters to prop themselves up.

“And so do I, by the way,” she went on. “But, I have to tell you, I was so confused after our therapy session with Miss Starlight that you could have gone out in a kick line and I wouldn’t have noticed—ooh, love, love, love the hair.”

“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle.

“Did your sister do that for you?”

Sweetie Belle itched her ear and answered casually, “No, I did it myself. Rarity threw rocks at me, the traitor. Lucky I don’t bruise easily.”

“Now’s not the time for that kind of talk,” Cookie replied. “I came to see you to give you a warning about going into town. You too, Rarity.” She motioned for both of them to come closer. “Winsome just came in from her late night shift. She says that there was a police squad at Sugar Cube Corner this morning… Ponies are nervous to go outside their shops and houses, and you can understand why!”

“Oh, my! How scary,” said Rarity. “Everything seems so different, here.”

“What happened?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“You know the old saying, that you should never argue cannoli with cakes,” said Cookie, retrieving a kerchief from her pocket and patting the line of her forehead. “It sounds like there was some kind of violent dispute in the store—not a candy cane left uncrooked, nor a gingerbread house left standing, according to Winsome. A young staffer was found unconscious in the storage closet!”

“Heavens! And all of this happened this morning, you say?” asked Rarity.

“In broad daylight! A customer walked in to a ransacked bakery. And I’ll tell you what I think. It’s very curious that the boy staffer was left by himself to begin with. Isn’t it, Sweetie Belle? Did they ever give you the keys when you worked there?”

“Mr. Cake wouldn’t trust me with a frosting bag by myself,” she averred. “Maybe this will teach him a lesson about favoring colts over fillies, hmm.”

“So you’re the mastermind,” Rarity joked. “No need to worry, Mother. Detective Rarity has cracked the case.”

Cookie gave her a side glance. “Don’t be so dismissive, for once. The word is the Cakes have been having a little trouble in paradise.”

“Oh, It can’t be!” said Rarity. “Of what sort?”

“Well, I imagine that with the twins going off they’ve been under stress about how to pay for university. And there are rumors that Mrs. Cake has started becoming a bit too friendly with the ‘help’…”

Rarity gasped. “No way!”

Sweetie Belle groaned. “Hoh, boy… Celesita, save us all.” She slid off the bed and plunked herself in front of the vanity. “I’ll be here when you’re finished,” she said, plucking and posing with her coiffure.

“Who would have thought Mrs. Cake would be filled with such cunning,” Rarity continued.

“Well,” said Cookie, “I’ve heard—"

“Heard what?”

“Well, between you and I, I’ve seen Mr. Cake, making more than a warranted share of ‘business trips’ to Sybarite Sweet’s Meringue Mill.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“So my thinking,” Cookie went on, “is that the whole fiasco this morning must have been planned by one of the two of them. Either Carrot, getting revenge on his wife, or Chiffon, getting it on her husband. It is sad to see a good marriages go this way, isn’t it?”

The words ‘good marriages’ made Rarity uneasy.

“But how else,” Cookie asked her, “would it have happened so smoothly, at that time of day, with no suspects?”

“Why, I have no idea what it could be about, if you’re looking for an answer from me. Mother, may I…?” Rarity said, taking the kerchief to dab her own forehead.

“What’s the matter, darling? Are you hot?”

“No, no,” Rarity answered through a bit of nervous laughter. “I get the sweats sometimes, that’s all.”

“Like mother, like daughter. I know a good specialist, if you need one—"

“Ugh, write down their address for me,” Rarity said distractedly. “It’s getting to be a little embarrassing…”

Cookie turned to Sweetie Belle. “But I wanted to tell you, especially, Sweetie Belle—sorry, I wanted to advise you, that I think you should avoid going into town until this whole thing blows over.”

Sweetie Belle frowned. “Why? Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Cake want revenge on me, too?”

“Don’t give that look. If Sugar Cube Corner can be burgled, you can be burgled, too. I think it’s just better this way—who knows what could be going on.”

Cookie paused, allowing the gravity of her command to be felt. Sweetie Belle looked like a glowering portrait, face to face with itself in the vanity mirror reflection; upon observing which, Rarity, with a chill of recollection, thought of the Mirror Pool cave—the way the water had touched her, and even the sound of droplets pocking the smooth stone of its natural lanai.

Lanai.

Then there was the natural boudoir. But was it natural? She had made it herself, projected herself onto it, as Sweetie Belle projected herself onto the little mirror in the bedroom. Rarity tried, without success, to remember whether she had used the coconut water to correct her appearance. If she had—would that have activated the cloning magic?

“That’s all well and good, Mother,” Rarity said, stirring dizzily to her hooves, “but we have one errand which we absolutely must fulfill—you remember. We must be get back to Sweet Apple Acres, and see to it that we make peace with the Apples.”

Cookie puckered her lips at the suggestion. “Young mares travelling the post roads at night? On this night? For goodness’ sake, Miss Starlight didn’t say she had to talk to them today. There could be highway ponies out there! I’m sure she would agree that it would be just as effective to write a letter of apology, instead.”

Sweetie Belle scratched her head. “Well, maybe—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Rarity strolled over to where her sister was sitting and placed a hoof on her shoulder opposite Cookie. “What if we took Yona with us on our trip? You’d have nothing to worry about with three strong ladies looking out for each other. I think that sounds like splendid idea.”

“I thought you were intent on traveling back to Manehattan,” said Cookie. “Don’t you have plans? What time is your train?”

“Trains can wait,” Rarity replied, “and besides, the store will be fine without me for another day. If Starlight considers that it is best for Sweetie Belle’s mental health to maintain her friendship with Applejack, and Sweetie Belle herself is feeling pangs within her very soul to adhere to that prescription, then why shouldn’t we do all we can to facilitate such rare therapeutic serendipity? Do you know, Mother, that half the difficulty of a transformation is simply for one level of understanding to be able to communicate to a lower one? The fulfillment of this interaction may be the very key to my dear sister’s psychological self-sufficiency, her rite of passage into adulthood, and I for one am willing to stay around to see that it happens.”

Cookie dithered a bit, as uncertain as a housecat adrift on a hazy lake. “I suppose I can’t say ‘no’ to that. Hmm. Maybe she can get some kind of credit from the local community council for this.”

“We’ll look into it,” said Rarity, pressing down on Sweetie Belle’s shoulder.

Cookie got up, letting the bed rebound to its original state. “That poor boy. Can you imagine? Why, just the thought of that happening to one of you makes my stomach churn. Just be careful, okay?”

She took Rarity by the cheek and gave her a wet, smothering kiss, then another of the same to Sweetie Belle. “Just look out for each other, is all that I ask.”

“Will do, Mother!” said Rarity, making a royal’s wave. “No worries!”

Cookie closed the door behind her as she left. At the first moment Sweetie Belle had a chance to speak, she shot her a glare, and said “What the heck? What’s gotten into you, all of a sudden?”

“Do you remember,” Rarity began, “out in the meadow, when I tried to warn you about the dangers of traipsing through enchanted places, and how we convinced ourselves that I was deaf to the melodies of legend in order to safely repossess ourselves of that old warehouse key?”

“You mean when you went to poop in the Mirror Pool cave?” asked Sweetie Belle.

Rarity winced. “Yes, that. All my heroic confidence turned out to be earthly bravado, Sweetie Belle. Being in the glow of that place altered my senses. My memories seemed to take on their own life, and I was absorbed. I felt as though I belonged to an ancient sort—but yet, at the same time, I found myself chanting rhymes with a carefree ease I have not known since I was a filly.

“In short, I fear at several points that I may have gotten too close to the water.” She began to pace. “You heard what Mom just said. Winsome has spotted me in town. And now, Mr. and Mrs. Cake are in marital troubles, just like Applejack and Rainbow Dash. Oh, I knew this was a bad idea…”

Sweetie Belle felt her throat go dry as she watched the churn of her sister’s dark intuitions. She did not ascribe them to the course of real events; but rather, to her admission of the difficulty she was having in Manehattan, which had reached her heart—her impending return there, and, perhaps, a missed train ride.

“Let’s slow down,” she said. “I think you’re getting carried away. You remember that there was an invasion of Pinkies—right? If you had really activated the Mirror Pool, don’t you think we’d see an army of… er, you? Wouldn’t that be hard to miss?”

“I suppose so.” She stopped moving and fell into thought.

“Then,” Sweetie Belle went on, “how long was it exactly before the duplicates appeared after Pinkie returned to Ponyville? Was she able to tell you where she had been before they showed up?”

“No,” said Rarity. She let out a sigh. “They followed her home. They came in like a squall. None of us had any preparation for it.”

“Nobody followed us home, Rare.”

“That’s true.”

“You still sound uncertain.”

“I don’t know, Sweetie Belle,” said Rarity, working up a nerve. “I was so carried away in thought when I was down by the pool. I may as well have been on the moon.”

“But you’re not crazy. Like Pinkie.”

Rarity let out another long sigh.

“And what about the pining wish?” asked Sweetie Belle. “You said to me that magic has a price. Something that burns inside you. If you weren’t wishing anything when you were around that water, then you have nothing to worry about.”

She yawned and let herself fall back on the bed.

“It sounds to me like you had a grand old time,” she continued, “just singing songs and being one of the trees.”

I look up to her, too, thought Rarity, watching her sister lounge on the sheets. She dismissed the thought and gently took a seat on the vanity stool. Something that burns inside you. I need something from her. Unconditioned.

“Don’t worry about being too cavalier, Sweetie Belle,” she said.

Sweetie Belle turned her head to look at her. “I do feel bad about Applejack. I overheard you and Starlight talking while I was in the kitchen. Not everything. But it sounds like things really got messed up.”

Rarity waved it away. “Not your fault. What are you guilty of? Your only offense is youthful overzealousness, and they will love you more for it. You’ll see.”

“Black Box Theater comes from the heart, Rarity,” Sweetie Belle replied. “I think it could resonate with a pony like Applejack. It spoils everything for me if I made someone feel split-off by it, instead, like she and Rainbow seem to be. Even if a hundred princesses turned out.”

“All is not lost. We can talk to her and make things right, of course.” Rarity turned to the vanity mirror and began to preen herself with quick, precise motions.

“Of course…?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“Yes, everything in due time,” said Rarity. “We are mature mares, Applejack and I, understanding of each other’s imperfections and sensible to the vagaries of life. Our simpatico for one another has been refined through cooperative struggle, like cosmo-agents who have traveled outer space, who share a bond which no one who walks on this planet could comprehend. A mere incident or indiscretion will not crack the foundation of our trust, and maudlin exchanges will not suit us. No, rather, our friendship will run deeper, will be richer for us having crossed such boundaries in good faith, like gold traces discovered in a sieve.”

“Are you sure?” said Sweetie Belle. “You seemed pretty eager to go see her a few minutes ago.”

Rarity set down the comb. “Quite sure, yes. Oh, we’re not going to see the Apples, darling. We’re going to see Twilight, who is the only pony I know who has experience in eradicating doppelgangers and who, luckily for us, happens to be staying in town this weekend.”

Sweetie Belle rolled in bed for a moment, then replied to the ceiling, “So we’re going to lie. We’re going to lie to Mom, and lie to Applejack.”

“You know how Mother is,” Rarity said. “I’m doing you a favor by getting you out of the house. And as far as Applejack is concerned… Look, Sweetie Belle, there is a reason we go about these sorts things in a certain way. Applejack may have hurt feelings—for now—but we have learned something from our mistake. The best thing for us to do is to clean up our mess, the best we can, and things will sort themselves out of their own accord.”

“All this talk about ‘duplicates’ and whatnot is just anxiety about your reputation, Rare,” Sweetie Belle said, capitulating, and turning up at her again. “And I mean that lovingly. You were just talking about it. I say the right thing to do is to give Applejack a full, honest account of what was going on with us yesterday. Why not?”

“Why not? Because—Applejack neither wants nor is prepared to receive such an account, with all its messy details. And why should we want to suffer through giving one? Don’t think me dishonest—it is better off this way. So much interest has gone into your theatrical debut in Ponyville amongst our friends that to import such scandal involving… accidentally eaten things and planned egress… into the memory of it, would be a stain upon your efforts, if you will forgive such an unfortunate metaphor. A conventional apology will best serve all concerned, rather than something hysterical.”

“The word you’re looking for is confessional,” Sweetie Belle replied, smoothing the bedsheets underneath her. “Confession is important for psychic trauma. Seemingly small trespasses can have long-lasting, even permanent impact. That’s not a character defect—it’s just how it is with us ponies.”

“And you think that it is our responsibility to go digging through other ponies’ inner workings?” said Rarity.

“It’s part of accepting others as they are, and treating them in kind. Angst takes the form of small things. Little receptacles, like the clinking sound of a spoon against a ceramic bowl your mom makes when she mixes her oats every morning. That’s why relationships seem illogical when you’re outside of them. Everything needs to be acknowledged in the right way. Besides, I think Applejack will see the poetry of our predicament.”

“Poetry?” Rarity chafed like a bank manager confronted with a bullish loan request. “The mind must be quickened by poetry, Sweetie Belle. It should be the tall sunlight which fills the old maid’s chamber anon the drapes are cast down. You are just like the old folk from that church—you believe that the quest for truth is easy and universal, that anything will do. And when you encounter privation, you say it must be pony nature. Hmph! You would venerate a hag, rather than draw her curtain somewhat to let in the sun, and you expect others to do the same. If we are going to reach Applejack, I say, we will do better to lift her up in the old spirit, with distilled experience, rather than to feed her the cobwebbed apples of W.B. Wheats.”

Sweetie Belle propped herself up on her elbows. “Why do you assume that even if such ‘sun’ did exist, that you’d be able to recognize it, and make use of it? I’d like to buy your salve, Rarity. Give me a whole pallet. What a flimflam—‘herein is the light, shining’, and, ‘herein are your moldy apples’. You’re totally, painfully ignorant of your own belief, that the devil is the Great Deceiver.”

A hush came over the room as Rarity went back and inspected her work in the mirror, and Sweetie Belle lay poised and thoughtful on the bed. The toy lights of the small vanity began to shine brighter as the afternoon glow faded, casting a yellowed aura over Rarity’s delicate, round face.

“So much for being be-YOU-tiful,” Sweetie Belle continued in her diatribe. “You know—‘evil’ being such as it is, makes it quite rational that the more bright the luster of the ‘light’, the more likely it is that a cosmic joke has been played on you. So you can either reject life altogether—get depressed, in other words—or you can find a ‘light’ in the darkness, united with the stuff of ordinary life, which you mistake for depression. It’s the same when it comes to Applejack. The truth must be brought out, however unpleasant it might seem to you—no—because it is unpleasant.” She pushed herself all the way up and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, with the swift calculation of a move on a chessboard.

Rarity, despite her poor position in the argument, was still convinced that the whole difficulty she and Sweetie Belle were in was magically-sourced, and therefore required an expert in magic to intervene. She considered what her sister had said for several moments, looking for an answer in the mirror; then, having found one, replied, “Cogent thinking. But does it not imply an exact greater dualistic trap than the one you are trying to eschew?”

“Do tell,” replied Sweetie Belle.

“You say that evil is deception—something that I am painfully ignorant of—and that if I have found some stepping stone toward happiness then it most portend the most insidious of all deceptions. Is that not correct?”

“That’s fair, I would say.”

“And do you doubt your own capacity to grasp the truth of what you say?”

“It’d be silly if I did.”

Rarity turned from her reflection to face Sweetie Belle. “Suppose, then, that you are taking a walk through town one day, and you encounter a very special cheese for sale—purple and pearly and pungent. It captivates you. Then you learn from the merchant that this special cheese has an additional charm with insects. You therefore decide to purchase a quantity to spread in your garden along the ledges of its many raised flower beds. This you do, and the next morning you discover that, thanks to its effect, just as the merchant alluded, a parade of ladybugs has rallied into a procession of gold, red, and green hues. It is a parade with rhythm and dancing and stridulating music, and you are so dazzled by It that you cannot tell one thing from another. And as you watch, Celestia herself lands beside you and shades you with her high pinions as she decrees in the voice of the Old Majesty, ‘Yes, Child, it is so!’.”

Rarity snatched a brush off the vanity and pointed it heavenward. “But at this very pronouncement, you have to excuse yourself for the bad weather you heard about, and go back inside and forget about the cheese and the ladybugs and the goddess, and put an egg on to boil. It was all for naught, for you have not begun to question your own mind—you have not said to yourself, ‘this too, I doubt—cogito ergo sum!’—but, on the contrary, you have waged your own ‘rational’ powers against those of the Deceptive Goddess. And now the paradox of omnipotence is no longer hers but yours—for how can you, the sensing subject and owner of your reasoning power, create for yourself the conditions of objectivity? Yet, as with the roiling of the egg, the will to possess that object accrues in you, to the very extent which you recuse yourself to the old-fixtured room of your egoism.

“What, indeed,” she queried her sister, “is the meaning of our being reasonable? Does not reasonability draw its own limits? What form shall the boundary take? This is of the essence of ‘mind’ as much as rationalism. What comes to us, in these moments of redress, is the jewel of commonality and convention, of lessons and letters, so suited to ‘pony nature’ as any confession into the void.”

“It’s getting dark,” said Sweetie Belle. The floorboards creaked. She and Rarity glanced at one another in the dim hum of the vanity lights.

“We ought to get going soon, then,” said Rarity.

Sweetie Belle shrugged. “Maybe Yona will be able to settle our dispute.”

The girls were quiet again.

“I see how it is,” said Rarity. “Well, then. Perhaps we should go our separate ways? I’ll go see Twilight, and if you want to get into the weeds with Applejack, I can’t stop you.”

“Hmm.”

Rarity put her hair behind her ears. “Where is she hiding, these days? Yona, that is?”

“I haven’t been there,” Sweetie Belle replied, “but I’ve sent her a few letters. She lives in a tiny duplex on the west end with a religious widow. Yona can stay there, free of rent, because she’s good at keeping moles out of the old lady’s carrot garden. At night they discuss theology, cramped by the hearth, and Yona indulges her with the patience of a saint. She’s got such a big heart.”

“Hmm, yes, not to mention the poor girl is probably quite used to encounters with other creatures’ faiths, having grown up in a place like Anadoelia,” Rarity said.

“You know, something you said reminded me of a poem by Feathered Thing,” Sweetie Belle said, bringing the conversation back. “One of the ones about time. She refers to an ancient king whose access to the greatest vaults of knowledge and power in world history caused him to doubt the sense of earthly pursuits. He built great temples, beautiful hanging gardens, brooked courtyards, all to ‘rival paradise’. He wanted to conquer time—you know, what time represents. In the end, he came to resent the lives of the slaves on whose backs his cities were built.”

“No wonder you get bad grades. Hopefully things will work out better for us than for him,” Rarity joked as she switched off the vanity light. Once she had gone, Sweetie Belle sighed to herself, rolled out of bed, and followed behind her sister.

A batch of autumn crocus, early bloomed, turned up its dozen faces toward a dangling and lit filament light bulb; it was heavy atop a shelved centerpiece of glass where it now rested in Roseluck’s little flower shop, and it had become a puzzle to her.

“Things change…” she reflected, searching for elaboration somewhere in the colors that filled her showroom floor. “A pensive note! It hangs over this solstice party like a sliver moon! Wine, music, swinging benches lilting you into the night air—but!—here is a reminder that all of it is on borrowed time, a chaser tasteless as old tonic water…”

Another thought came to her, along with a sigh.

“Tonight, though—just tonight—a lover might reach up and pick a rose from the lattice… To give to their nearest.”

She frowned. The crocus’s premature appearance seemed to warrant display; but she still couldn’t help feeling that it might be out of place amidst the zinnias of summer.

“Would they understand something like that? Maybe it should go on the front counter, instead. I could sell it faster that way. You can even use saffron in a recipe. Ponies are bound to be interested in something homey. Something that can stay indoors. Those caterpillars have eaten up everything this year. …But how often do you get to see a real flower arrangement in Ponyville, something which makes a statement about the passing of time? …Phooey.”

She fetched a brush for cleaning the front desk, where there was a cash register and a row of impulse goods. She ran one of her hooves along the divots of its lacquered surface, then folded an invisible paper tent in front of her, set it down, and imagined in chalky wording: ‘Get Autumn Cozy with Whispers of Saffron’.

Something was gnawing at her.

“Back on the high shelf, then? …Wait!”

There was a porcelain music box which she now remembered, sitting in an old hutch in the far corner. She grabbed it from its former landing place and dusted it off—it had an ornate golden latch and was decorated with faded impressions of ponies picnicking by wooded lakes. It was small and perfect to her, and she transferred it up to the second high shelf of the glass centerpiece, right below the crocus, which now resumed its former stature in her exhibition.

She smiled to herself—imagining that she was as gifted as a unicorn in the ways of magic, just looking at it. Of a sudden, she found that she had much to talk about with her clients.

“There’s something beautiful about the fall, too,” she said, making a disquisition in her mind with a solicitous purchaser. “The sun is different. The rain is different, too, the way the smell of wet leaves perfumes the air. Even the ground changes, how it crunches under your hooves when you walk. If you can’t appreciate the charms of autumn, friend, I’m afraid you’ll never appreciate what it means when the blossoms come out in the spring...”

She left it there. But then, another imaginary customer came in, who obliged her to continue:

“Do you remember reading Concord Grapes in school? He said—I forget where, now, but I remember the quote clearly—he said, ‘a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds’. He meant that every day is different, and we are different every day, too. The ‘cutie mark’ is a far-off heaven which imprisons and blinds us to the here-and-now, where life is. What are you in such a hurry for, anyway…”

Then, spotting amidst the décor a tinseled casement of antique grammar books, she was outside on a snowy night, delivering a speech to a gathering of town officials:

“Which of you doesn’t remember being lulled to a night’s sleep with the help of a music box that belonged to some long-lost aunt of yours? Do you ever notice how the melody comes back to you, often when you are settling unrelated business, like the springing of a tea kettle in a nearby room? Does it still bring a tear to your eye?

“That box, you see, and that melody, to your child’s reasoning, was a beautiful object which appeared from nowhere. It had no origin, no direction in time forward or backward. It symbolizes absolute consistency for you—a thing not broken into parts, or phrases, or intentions, or movements.

“But something intrudes on all of that…”

She stepped back in the snow. Behind her a curtain fell, and her crocus display shimmered in the town lights, standing twenty feet high and garlanded in gold and silver tinsel.

“Ecce flos! Behold the flower, with all of its changes of mood, its delicate pleasures, its naked life and death on display—don’t you see, friends, that in this little juxtaposition I have made, you can find the essence of all religions? Your memory of permanence on one hoof, and the inexorable turns of time on the other—that, my dear ones, is the art of gardening.

“Incidentally, I can part with this crocus for a rather fair price of thirty-five-hundred bits…”

She came back to herself. There was another matter to be resolved: the music box was locked, and missing its key.

“Maybe somewhere in the back room,” she thought, making her way.

Rose’s shop, the Plumerium, was in a modest space which she rented near one of the corners of Ponyville Square. She had recently moved her business indoors, off the streets, where she had spent years as a runner and stand-owner. The new store was a sign of her success—but whether it was success in the art of sales, or the art of gardening, she couldn’t ever be sure.

Her parents had been noodle cooks from Dodge Junction, a railroad town in the long desert between Appalousa and Shyenne. As a filly, Rose liked to collect pamphlets from the literature racks at the train station, and it was there that she first learned about the Running of the Leaves. She pictured her friends playing on the hills and having adventures under the sunsets of lush autumn evenings. The time there, in Ponyville—unlike the long afternoon-time of desert life—blew away like gossamer, and showed the benevolent qualities of the turns of nature.

When she was still young, her family moved to Ponyville to live near a sick relative. Little Rose’s fancies regarding town life—and her modest means for profiting from them—combined to make it difficult for her to find her fall-weather friends. It would have been, ultimately, disheartening for her, were it not for the generosity of certain grown-up ponies around her neighborhood, with whom she always got along better than her young peers. She loved especially Mrs. Gables, the owner of Shoreham Accents. She was a tall mare who used to pretend to find conch shells for her in her bee hive mane, as a gift each time Rose would make a perspicacious remark.

“No, no, Mrs. Gables,” Rose had corrected her once, on a day when the sun was reflecting off the rubbery leaves of the magnolia trees outside Shoreham Accents. “Mom says you should never water plants in the afternoon. You’ll scorch them. It would be much more thoughtful of you if you came out to do it at night.”

“And will I see you out here?” the mare replied. “Will you be keeping me company, as I water by the moonlight, or will I look like a looney?”

Little Rose made an exaggerated groan. “If they say you’re a looney, just say that loonies are supposed to come out under the moonlight! It’s their job, and there’s nothing wrong with doing your job.”

Mrs. Gables concealed her laughter at being so instructed by her young friend. “You’ve made me so much smarter, Rosey, I think I feel something rattling around this big empty head of mine! Let me go check my mirror…” And she returned, as she did on many other occasions, with a bright, reticulated shell.

Roseluck kept these gifts on a shelf above her bed in her small room. They made her think of Silver Shoals, which she had never been to, but which she had heard about from some of the ladies who talked around Mrs. Gables in the market plaza. The shells themselves, like Rose’s daydreams, had different shapes and origins. They ranged from sand dollars, which she read were like little jewels found just under the surface near some lapping water, to large conches, galaxies to be sounded, with orange and pink nebulae drawn in all directions. Rose herself added a jar of lake sand to the display, to feel closer to the beach.

As she became older, she acquired a taste for working independently; she even forgot that her collection of shells had come from Mrs. Gables. She took a job with Running Bond, a patio recreation vendor with more vision than talent in his work. Rose’s first occupation had been to deliver singing telegrams for anniversaries and, just a commonly, singing apologies for “romance in arrears”; and, though she was not a trained vocalist, the earnest with which she attempted to mend a dispute between lovers turned out, in most cases, to be a suitable remedy for the grievance between them. She made a reputation for herself rushing through town with roses, on her way to another couple in peril.

Rose received her last shell one day when an order led her back to the rubber leaves of Shoreham Accents. She went in with a bouquet of carnations and found Mrs. Gables by herself, absorbed in cleaning out a window casing. Young Rose, however, was not the least intimidated in the fulfillment of her duty, and indeed, could hardly keep from smiling at the reunion, which had obviously been brought about at her old mentor’s intention.

She got down on a knee, and sang:

Happy Mother’s Day~
Happy Mother’s Day~
May your ankle joints cease stinging,
Happy Mother’s Day, to you~

She passed the carnations to Mrs. Gables, who, inspecting them, smiled, and said, “I really can’t live without the smell, but gosh if they aren’t expensive, Rosey. What a bargain it was to get you to bring them in, today! Of course, I had to order the telegram for myself.”

Rose was busy lingering on her old haunt, and agreed on the high price of flowers.

“I have a good friend who lives on the coast,” Mrs. Gables continued, “and he tells me that whenever he walks into a fragrant store he thinks of Shoreham Accents—can you believe it? It just goes to show you the power of the nose.” She dropped the carnations into a vase and started to look for something to snip the twine.

“How is Heath Cropper?” Rose asked, addressing the absent son.

Mrs. Gables levelled at her. “Hmph! You need to talk to him—you’ve got a good way of talking, Rosey. Ask him—who goes backpacking right out of secondary school? I told him that he can save those sorts of escapades for later, once he has better predilections about the world, but… You can never explain that sort of thing to a young pony. He says it will be for a year, but I’m worried he’s going to meet some girl. Ugh. You know how that goes.”

Rose, though an interloper in the romance of others, was not personally acquainted with matters of amour, and interpreted Mrs. Gables request as a spat of ironic humor—she returned a schmoozing smile.

Mrs. Gables found her scissors, and said, “These are the thanks one gets for years of making sacrifices, Rosey.” She cut the twine. The carnations rolled forward, bursting a scent in the window where she had been working. She invited her young companion’s professional opinion on the display.

“It looks good,” Rose said. “I like it a lot. Smells make me think of Shoreham Accents, too. Well, smells and shapes.”

She and Mrs. Gables were quiet for a while. The sound of the street billowed in through the open door. Then, with a melodramatic sigh, Mrs. Gables said, “Do yourself a favor—never have children. They make everything more difficult. Don’t think I’m serious? They will take everything you’ve ever worked for and blow it away like a kite. And then we’re supposed to be happy for you—well, I am happy for you, see?”

She smiled a schmoozing smile of her own, then let her face sink into a grimace.

Rose laughed. “Heh, well I’m not very sure about it, myself, to be honest with you.”

Mrs. Gables went back to working on the arrangement. “You’ve always been very smart, Roseluck,” she said.

Roseluck. Rose felt bolder.

“Thanks. You know, eventually, I’d like to open my own shop here in Ponyville. Maybe a few of them, actually. I’ve got some experience doing things for Mr. Running Bond and I think I could make it work—once I have the capital, of course.”

Her words flew out, quickly and softly as fireflies in the gloaming.

“So you’re looking for an investor,” Mrs. Gables asked dolorously.

“Well, I—”

“But why so many shops in Ponyville? This town is not so big a place.”

“Yes, yes—” Rose replied, sensing her heart quicken, “but listen. What makes Ponyville so different from Dodge Junction, or somewhere high up like Canterlot, is these wonderful, expressive seasons. Think about it—summers that swoon, unlike those in the desert—autumns more regal than an ancestral castle. I’d like to build on that, with the ponies who live it year after year—”

“And then what,” interrupted Mrs. Gables.

“Well, and then,” Rose answered with a stutter, “I would move that to the city, maybe Manehattan or Fillydelphia. The experience I gain here would help me there, and I think I could help make a name for Ponyville in different parts of Equestria. What do you think?”

Mrs. Gables glowered. “So you’re going to take what’s been given to you here and try to sell it abroad?”

Rose didn’t offer an answer. She listened to the hoof steps outside, and knew that she wanted to be far away from Shoreham Accents.

“It’s unnecessary,” Mrs. Gables said, after a break. “I understand, of course, that my opinion isn’t important in all of this, but I will give it to you anyway. Ponyville is a place for ponies to come and raise their families—and that’s the end of the opera. That’s why your parents came here. It is not a place for you to crowbar your ambitions. I’m glad you enjoy the seasons. But you’re mixing things up. Ponies who want to grow a business get away from Ponyville.”

“I guess you’re saying I’ll have to let it go,” Rose said gloomily.

“I doubt you’ll do that. There’s much more to operating a business than you know. And I think that once you see the sacrifice involved, and just what it is you’ll be letting go, that you will sit and stay. I know you don’t think that way now, Rosey. But I see it in you. I hear it in your voice in all your nice talk about the seasons. It’s why you’re here. That’s your rose. Your heart is set on finding a home, not an enterprise.”

Rose fetched the invoice for the singing delivery. “It will be seventeen-hundred bits, please.”

Mrs. Gables paid for the carnations as though nothing had passed between them. She told Roseluck to wait before leaving; soon, she returned from the back room, beaming like a child, and carrying a large blue and green scallop shell.

“I bought it from a peddler at the flea market in Silver Shoals,” she said. “I’m looking at time-shares there—just looking. You can’t imagine how beautiful it is there. Just look at the colors on this shell… I love it. I thought of you right away, and bought this so you could have it.

“Whatever you do,” she added, “think of me, will you? You’d be doing more for me than my lousy son,” she laughed.

“Thanks. I’ll see you.”

Rose stepped out through the magnolia trees into the odorless afternoon air. She was impelled to examine Mrs. Gable’s gift more closely: it was large for its kind, measuring six inches tip-to-tip, and light in the hoof. The striations along the ridge were clean, and the dark colors of its interior side reminded her of the sunsets she used to imagine when she read about the Frozen Sea at the Dodge Station literature rack, the kind that would last days and weeks; it reminded her, indeed, of Shoreham Accents. Had it inspired some passerby, on a remote shore, to pick it up as an uncommon discovery?

She sniffed it—it had no smell, other than the overpowering floral aroma of the shop from which it had just been excised.

“A fake.”

She recoiled, as though she had discovered on her own rump a hideous pimple. Had her own Mrs. Gables been guilty of such cheapness of taste? The shells of her childhood room had been redolent of salt and brine. Had she done it to her on purpose, as a test? For her crustiness, her facetiousness, her incorrigibility, the core of Mrs. Gables resided in her discretion. How then could she be so pleased with a bargain, so much so to expect Rose to be pleased with it, too, as a token of her patient guidance?

Then, an even more terrifying thought came to her: was Mrs. Gables not aware, for all her hopes and planning, that Silver Shoals might not be so beautiful, after all?

The scallop, with its clean lines and soft, rouged surface, became loathsome to her in an instant. It was not until she got home in the evening that she was able to toss it out without guilt, for all the anguish and doubt it had put her through during the remainder of her errands that day.

“Existence is conflict,” Rose pontificated to the oohs and ahs of an imagined eight-year-old colt, as she was still searching the storage room for the missing music box key. “Philosophy has been misled by the in-itself. To exist is to be entwined with the clash of energetic forces where each and all of our activities form part of a total struggle against annihilation. And we can never extirpate ourselves from this total action. For that, the flower-in-bloom is the most elegant symbol. Such a figure appears to us withdrawn from strife—it seems, in fact, to be the very picture of simplicity itself—lithe and full of delicacy, come up to crane toward the light in the full magnitude of its soul’s hidden color. But the flower, in its yearning, cracks the earth—it abolishes the memory of the winter and of the generation which came before it. And soon enough, the brilliant godhead of its climbing bulb will be eaten by the doe, and its stem will become food for worms. The flower is a warrior, more brazen than you or me, and its striving gives a glimpse into the long process of evolution and spiritual realization, or perhaps instead—what’s not for us to decide—the thought-token of a cosmic demiurge, whose inconscient dream forms for us the mechanical scrap of reality.”

The little colt rubbed his nose. “That sounds pretty.”

“I think you’re right,” said Roseluck. “It is pretty. I heard it from a griffon, and griffons have a pretty way of talking. Think so?”

He smiled; there was a little bruise on the top of his cheek.

Rose sighed and stepped back from the old desk she was rummaging through. “Damn, I can’t see,” she said aloud to herself. The street lamps were being lit outside; they cast an orange glow against the outlines of the furniture of the store room.

“It’s getting dark,” she observed.

She glazed over the shadowed debris that surrounded her. She felt a heave of exhaustion pass through her, thinking of the unknown whereabouts of the tiny music box key, when she spotted something casting a silhouette under the light of the centerpiece in the showroom. It had the profile of a pony with a fantastically elaborate mane, like a folded quilt, but with a body even smaller than a foal’s. It held a plucked flower to its snout and inhaled, relishing the fragrance with a hum.

Rose squinted into the light to better make out what she was seeing, and rubbed her eyes; whatever it was had disappeared when she reoriented her sight. The showroom was empty.

She decided that the vision must have been the side effect of a long day, and began to think of bubble baths and reveries of autumn afternoons which awaited her at her apartment. She wandered back to the sales floor and began to switch off lights—except for the hanging lamp above the centerpiece—and located a ring behind the counter, on which were beaded the assorted keys of the store; they made a welcome rattle as she snatched them up and felt them in her hoof as she readied herself to go.

As she slunk out into the moonlight, though, something tugged at her; then, resisting, she was yanked forcefully back inside the Plumerium. It was the key ring, opposing her—first requiring one, then two hooves to keep fast. She cursed through her breath that she might be the accidental owner of a magnetized or enchanted object, until she heard hooves scratching the floor—she gave a shriek and let go, spilling backwards onto her hind.

The fiend leaped from the shadows, into the halo of the single bobbing display light.

“Fashion!” squeaked the little creature.

“For goodness’ sake!” Rose cried out, “what are you now?”

It was a potato white, magnificently styled gremlin with azure eyes that twinkled back at the shop owner like two points in the town sky at night. With a squeal of delight, it snapped the ring and lobbed one of its keys into the air, which flickered as it descended back down to the devilish guest; there, in its jowls, the item was swallowed with terrible, sucking pleasure, and savored with a belch.

“I take it you’re one of the ‘locals’,” grumbled Roseluck.

“Fashion,” the visitor replied, smacking its lips with self-satisfaction.

Rose climbed to her hooves. “Wait here.”

She vanished behind the office door. The intruder, meanwhile, continued to toy with the ring under the dangling lamplight. It hummed to itself as it tried to paw another key for its appetite, as voluble as a bumblebee on a snapdragon, making wispy, playful crescendos. The key ring was nearly half the size of its body; the creature lolled onto its back to employ its legs in delightful conquest. With each kick, the keys flipped up and bounced off its pouch belly with a clinking sound that raised its rapture to a higher and higher pitch, and likewise its noteless singing to louder refrains.

“I don’t know how you got here, or why you’re here,” said Rose, re-entering above the racket of the creature’s exhibition, “but take this.”

She held a large black cone over where the creature was lounging and gave it a blast from a fire extinguisher, sending the fiend tumbling across the room with a noise resembling a tire with air being let out. It spun backward, leaving a foggy trail, until it knocked its noggin against the opposing wall.

“I’ll take these,” Rose said, snatching up the keys. “And now I’ll have to call a plumber, a ventilation specialist… who knows, to deal with your likes.” She remembered having availed herself of a service pony, sometime, at some late hour, and in similarly prodigious circumstances, and concluded that the name must have been listed in her contact cards.

She flipped through the pile of names she had collected under her desk in less than a year of operation—passing over weather proofers, carpenters, gutter dealers, sidewalk washers, and electricians; cards with red circles and earmarked corners, figures scribbled and spiraled in permanent marker, duplicates with rewritten names, and salvaged scraps—none of which recalled a face or a name she was trying to think of.

Then, as she was trying to jog her memory, certain that she had dealt with goblins in the past, she felt something breathing behind her.

Rose spun around and met the creature standing in front of her on the desk: its wafting purple mane was slopped over, and sagged on the counter like a soggy bathrobe. The fiend wailed at the sight of itself, then turned an acid glance up at Rose—a sneer curled its offended lips—the twinkling eyes became pointed. Its miserable appearance, for a moment, almost made the shop owner pity what she had done to her little visitor—but before she could say anything, it beat “Fashion!” in a tiny voice, and leapt upon her, wrapping its limbs around the back of Rose’s head, and seizing one of her graying locks in its maw.

Rose flailed about in a panic as the creature pulled her hair—she tried to throw it off before it tore what it had grabbed out by the roots. Her eyes watered; she could feel some of the fibers ripping—old bristles being torn from an old brush.

She swung around and pounded her head into the hard wood of the facing wall, giving the fiend enough of a blow to make it wheeze and let go.

For a moment she laid on the floor, listening quietly to the moans of her assailant a short distance away. In her periphery she spotted a heavy indoor decoration, a tall statue of an oriole poised to pick a branch berry. Rose got up and lumbered over to it, hoisting the statue over her shoulder, which tottered her stance with its weight before she found her hind hooves.

She sloshed over to where the creature was splayed on the ground. With a great windup, she heaved bird like a sledgehammer over her target—who, unfortunately for her, had gained enough time to appreciate Rose’s intentions, and thus jumped away to evade the attack. Rose missed her mark and, instead, drove her weapon between two floorboards.

The oriole was stuck; its berry-hunting beak was hewn into the wood where it had landed. Rose didn’t know what to do to free the statue, or what she would do with it once it was liberated from its entrapment in the planks of the Plumerium. But she kept at the effort of freeing it, as though nothing else mattered. Her mid-back had become sore. In her focus, she nearly forgot that an invader was terrorizing her shop and sticking its tongue out in indignation for how it had been received by her. Instead, she imagined Mrs. Gables, watching at the counter and smiling at her predicament, contemplating the scene with aloof interest as she made small adjustments to the counter display.

Suddenly, her grip slipped—she rebounded into the centerpiece, where the creature had been mocking her. She knocked the crocus pot off its perch, which broke the glass shelf below it.

“Fashion,” said the visitor, congratulating her on her determination.

Rose lost all restraint, and made a swing at the creature; but this time when she missed, she entirely lost her balance. She wove through the showroom and fell head-first into a pallet of flowers, spewing a cloud of white petals in the air, and slipping the prized key ring out onto the floor, where it was gleefully seized by her enemy; it broke for the door and left the shop with the jingle of the bell that hung over the entryway, as Roseluck reposed herself in a bed of lilies.

The Horror

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The lamplights of Ponyville Square burned brown and cast an oily sheen on her cobbled streets, by whose illumination Roseluck observed herself in the cross-lattice of the Plumerium’s front window. Behind her in the store, the bulb over the cracked centerpiece still shone, blurring the visual in the glass. Everything in front of her existed in a multitude of fragmented likenesses, including her own face—she could see a single green eye looking back at her from under a mess of whiting hair, torn expertly by the marauder that had escaped with her store keys, and which faded partway into the view of an empty walkway. The night air seemed one-hundred miles away, separated from her by the weight of her thoughts.

On the one hand, she made rapid calculations about where and how long she would sleep before the sun rose again, when she would be able to hire a service pony to change the lock on her front door.

Besides this, however, she battled fears of a more encroaching sort. Whether it was her age that made her feel like she had become trapped in Ponyville—a fate she had long since been condemned to by Mrs. Gables—or her internment that made her feel differently aged, she could not, without pangs of apprehension, determine. In any case, gazing into the vacant plaza, she blamed everyone in town who she could think of, for allowing such cretins as the one which had ruined her store to roam the streets so lazily opposed; some, she even imagined, might have believed that it was a valuable lesson to her, as a check against her desire for success. To this extent she supposed that Princess Twilight was against her, too, making notes on her from the throne of Canterlot.

In the reflection she looked as white as a dandelion—oh, the white! Why hadn’t she noticed it before, feathered into her old burgundy? She felt ready to be blown, scattered, and to wither at the stalk.

“Hellooo…?” came a voice at the door.

“W-we’re closed,” Rose answered, wiping away tears. “And unfortunately I don’t know when we’re going to be open again. For now you’ll just have to… find somewhere else to satisfy your floral needs!”

“Aw… Really?” said the muffled voice—it was Pinkie Pie, Rose now recognized—“Well, it’s not really a floral need—maybe, ‘floral-adjacent’.”

“Rose, dear—” came a different voice—“we don’t want you to feel like we’re putting pressure on you, or anything. But I truly believe that you’re one of the last ponies who can help us—and, well, you know what it’s like to need a little help, every once in a while, don’t you?—if you can find it in your heart.”

“Yeah, open up, will ya?!”

Although Roseluck was in need, foremost, of a decent locksmith, she was second-most—and presently just as desirous of—a thirsty ear; that is to say, a sympathizer (or two), who might appreciate the peculiar loneliness with which she was embattled. She therefore unlatched the door and gave entrance to her late-arrived guests. Whereupon, Pinkie Pie frolicked in, and took a place in the center of the store, tsking.

“Get a look at this place,” she said, as Fluttershy moseyed in behind her. “What’s going on in here, Rosey Rose? Love the hair, by the way.”

Rose grimaced at her remark.

“I’m doing renovations. I decided I want to change things around. That’s all.”

Pinkie Pie paused to take in the disheveled room. “I like it! The broken glass under the warm yellow light bulb says, ‘inviting, but not too inviting’.”

“Accommodation is nice, I suppose, you don’t want customers thinking they… own the place,” added Fluttershy. “…Right?”

“Right… What do you guys want?” asked Rose. “You said I could help you with something.”

“Oh, yes! We’re looking to see if you have any adult coloring books,” said Pinkie. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find them in this part of Equestria.”

“Coloring books? What for?”

“Hmm… Even heroes need to relax sometimes,” said Fluttershy. “And today, Pinkie and I have been heroes. I take it you heard the news that Mr. Cake went missing this morning, yes?”

“Yes, I heard,” said Rose, with some eagerness for gossip, “but I’ve been cooped up in here. Were you involved? Is he okay?”

Fluttershy cowed a little. “I’m afraid… We’ll need those books, before we can tell you.”

“For heaven’s sake!”

Pinke Pie threw an arm over the shopkeeper’s shoulder. “Come on, Rosey Rose. Don’t hold out on us. This is a flower shop. You’ve gotta have one somewhere.”

“You two have a problem,” said Rose, pushing Pinkie off and making her way to the back. “Don’t tell anyone. Ponies like them for their bistros, so I keep a small supply. I myself have never indulged…”

“Aha! I knew it,” cried Pinkie. She made a sly smile. “What a pal you are, Rosey Rose…”

Roseluck shortly returned with two stacks of coloring books. With regard to these—‘What better way,’ the former mayor had said with stars shining in her eyes, upon being convicted on embezzlement charges some moons ago, ‘to while away the time, than to lay by the fire—just you and your favorite box of colored pencils… And the open road of your imagination…’ The depressive effect of coloring books on ponies had, of course, long been recognized prior to the scandal of Mayor Mare; but it was her example that set into place restrictions upon that practice, which were now reserved for medical recovery and as a treatment for delirium.

“I have Visions of Lhasa Apso and Mandalas from Outer Space,” Rose announced, letting the pile thwap onto the front desk. “Take whatever you like. Now, tell me more about what happened at Sugar Cube Corner—I want all of the details.”

Fluttershy snatched one of the books off the stack and flipped through its pages—her eyes went wide. “Oh, yes… This will do. You’re a life saver, Rose… dear…”

Pinkie Pie had meanwhile begun preparations of her own. She had fetched a long-handled tobacco pipe from a bag she was carrying, and proceeded to rummage through it further as the piece she had found dangled from her mouth.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“I have a thing about scents,” Rose replied, uneasily.

“’Pineapple Resort’,” said Pinkie, holding up the little yellow container she had been looking for. “Still worried about scents?”

“Why dish soap?” asked Rose.

“I have my own way of relaxing.”

Pinkie lit a match and tossed it into the chamber of the pipe, where it gave off a warm, undulating glow. She closed her eyes and took a drag, then puffed out a large oleaginous bubble which hung in the air over their heads.

“Care for a blow?” she asked.

Rose shook her head ‘no’. “Let’s hear it then. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Heard? I was there! Well… for most of it, anyway.

“As you probably know, Mr. and Mrs. Cake have an anniversary coming up. Yippee!

“…Only thing is, Mrs. Cake has been feeling a little down as of late. See, she’s always taken pride in her big, razzle berry mane. But she has been dying it for a few years now, and the effort is just becoming a reminder that she is not as young as she once was. So she’s letting it go gray.”

Rose touched the top of her own head. She had hoped that the Cakes’ troubles would, for a moment, help her to forget her own, rather than rouse and agitate them; but being so disappointed, she yet remained silent, for fear of giving away the secret of what had transpired with her earlier that evening.

“Normally,” Pinkie continued, “Mr. Cake would make a quality of life improvement to the bakery, since he and the missus are there so often. But lately, everyone has started to notice a drop in Mrs. Cake’s spirits. So this year, Carrot decided he was going to take up… painting! That’s right! He wanted to make a portrait of his wife in her colorful prime, as a way of showing how she will always look to him and to the long-standing clientele of Sugar Cube Corner. He signed up for classes at the Lofty Feather, and has been going there for weeks, undercover.”

Despite being unwed, Roseluck was sensible to Carrot Cake’s impulse to consummate the image of his wife, in part by analog to the career she herself had enjoyed—one that had taken her from a stand in the little plaza outside into one of the old storefronts which comprised its bulwarks, the same towering facades she had known as a filly. Indeed, even as she stewed on other topics, she seized the idea, and began to consider whether she might get a painting done of the Plumerium; and if so, whether in oil or acrylic, and where it might be displayed to best taste in the store.

Pinkie Pie proceeded, “Some might find it unlikely that a pony as busy as Mr. Cake could find any time for art lessons. He had a plan. Every other morning he’d sneak out and leave the keys of the store with a trusted subordinate, one of the older teens named Spit Shine. He’s great at keeping the store organized, and most important of all, super loyal to Mr. Cake—the perfect candidate to help him in his covert operation. Mr. Cake would then arrive back at the bakery in time to turn it over or Mrs. Cake in the afternoon.

“Anyway, it was all going well until just this morning, when one of their regulars—a certain pony named Wall Fly, who is a stenographer at the town courthouse—arrived to pick up his usual order of apricot nectar puffs, when he found the place unstaffed and in a state of disorder. After poking around a moment he heard someone pound on a door, and discovered that the janitor’s closet had been barred by a mop. Poor Spit Shine came out, looking pale as a coconut macaroon.”

“Though, to be fair,” said Fluttershy, “his natural color is coconut.”

“He must have felt so judged. But I guess we all have our bad days,” Rose said thoughtfully. “So, how’d get in there?”

“Everything in due time, Rosey Rose. Stay with me. Now, Spit Shine must have been acquainted with Wall Fly’s reputation for not quite keeping things to himself. It was the boy’s top priority to protect Mr. Cake’s anniversary secret—so he came up with something on the fly. Get it? …I’m sorry, this is no laughing matter.”

“Perhaps… it is good to laugh at the circumstances we find ourselves in, sometimes,” observed Fluttershy.

“Easy for you to say,” said Rose.

Fluttershy looked up from the coloring book she was working on and smiled. “Oh, thank you!”

“The Ponyville Mafia,” said Pinkie.

Rose turned. “W-where?”

“It’s not a thing, silly. It was Spite Shine’s explanation for why Mr. Cake was gone. The old guy had too much debt from checkers losses, and they took him away. Or at least, that was the story. But it wasn’t long before he regretted what he said. He begged Wall Fly not to get the police involved. He even tried to persuade him that he would go and pay the debts himself, and have Mr. Cake back in one piece—if only he were willing to wait. But no one—and especially not a pony like Wall Fly—could take that kind of offer seriously, in light of the danger that Mr. Cake appeared to be in.

“And, soon enough, there was a search party going around town—one which included yours truly.”

“And, er, yours truly,” said Fluttershy.

“Wow. I didn’t know there was a search party,” said Rose.

“Oh yes,” said Fluttershy, “the both of us, and the Cake family, and many others, fearing for the wellbeing of dear Carrot!”

Rose wrinkled her nose. “Nobody knocked on my door.”

“It only lasted seventeen minutes,” Pinkie said. “But what a seventeen minutes they were! Pumpkin—smashed. Pound—flattened. I’d never seen him so distraught. He just kept putting around like a ship pony stranded on the sand, throwing dirty looks at Spit Shine.” She broke off as though something sour had flown into her mouth. “Boy, I tell you… I just hate to see that kind of attitude, especially from someone close.”

“What kind of attitude?” asked Rose.

“Pound thought that Spit Shine was in cahoots with the Ponyville Mafia, that they had all worked together to abduct his father.”

She shrugged. “I don’t blame him. It could have happened.”

“Rosey Rose, you didn’t even know there was a Ponyville Mafia until a few minutes ago!”

The storekeeper felt her anger rise at this accusation.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that there were hordes of caterpillars living in the trees, either! And yet here we are, overrun.”

“True,” said Fluttershy, nose-down in her patchwork of colors. “But even if those caterpillars are a big problem for you, it wouldn’t be fair to say that they are in partnership with the municipal board, and that the whole town is against you because of it.”

Pinkie Pie nodded and took another drag from her soap pipe. Roseluck glared at her tranced interlocutors, having no argument to rebut them, but sensing a coldness pass through her. She began to suspect that these representatives of the Friendship Council knew more about her predicament than they were letting on; but she kept that thought—and whatever others—to herself.

“Luckily,” Pinkie resumed after another short pause, “Mr. Cake is not what you would call a master of disguise, and there were many ponies who had recognized him painting at the Lofty Feather since he started going. If he seemed to be missing, they guessed that he might be there, and it wasn’t long before we caught him en flagrante, hunched over a canvas at the Feather, toiling at a likeness of his wife.”

Fluttershy giggled. “Well… not quite a likeness.”

“It was a spackled Chiffon Swirl, minus the swirl—completely bald! Apparently, it’s what the master had instructed him to do.”

“The mane was supposed to go on, like… how did he put it?” said Fluttershy, trying to recollect. Color-catching clouds over a beach landscape… Very romantic.”

“And containing a symbolic transience, don’t forget that,” said Pinkie.

“Yes. And, the clouds always go on the canvas last.”

Roseluck patted her hair again and was by now convinced that she was, at least in part, being given a parable; one that had been spun by the minds in the Friendship Council for her benefit. “Are they trying to tell me to retire?” she wondered.

“Mr. Cake was surprised by our appearance, to say the least,” Pinkie went on. “And the art students and the master were surprised to be interrogated regarding their knowledge of a so-called ‘checkers mafia’. And Mrs. Cake was surprised, too, to learn that the whole fiasco had come about thanks entirely to her decision to let her hair color change. She was touched by the effort, and I think it tickled the pride she had lost, a bit, seeing her husband wrapped up in an art smock stained in her tones. She broke all the commotion in the room with a small town pony’s guffaw, and kissed him. Mission accomplished, Mr. Cake!”

“It was so sweet,” Fluttershy said, getting watery-eyed. “It was like both of them had lost twenty years.”

“And what was it that happened at Sugar Cube Corner, while ‘the boy’ was on shift?” Rose asked. “You left that part out.”

Pinkie Pie tapped the handle of the soap bubble pipe against her pressed lips. “According to Spit Shine’s report, he had been sweeping around one of the display cases when something the size of a cat tripped him and got him trapped in the janitor’s closet. Only, it seemed to have been after something. From Spite Shine’s deposition the police worked backwards, beginning with the denouement in the art shop between Mr. and Mrs. Cake, then the sneaking out every other day, then the dulliversay doldrums. Their conclusion was that a goblin had attacked the bakery.”

“A goblin?!” cried Rose. “Really, a goblin?”

“That’s what they said. The Cakes were in a rut—” Pinkie sighed—“and, as we all know, a goblin is a type of creature that is drawn specifically to ponies who are only interested in their own problems. When Mr. Cake tried to change things up, it resisted him.”

Rose had hoped for a more candid interview with her distinguished visitors, but was now beyond doubt that she had lied to no purpose in order to win that intimacy; indeed, she was the one who had been fooled by their simple ruses. For she believed they had known all along what had happened to her that night, and had come not to help, but to correct her disposition, which had prevented her from being as successful in expanding beyond Ponyville as they had been.

She roared out at them with a barrage of spittle, “Puh-lease! I’ll tell you what I think, Pinkamena. I think the police’s conclusions are your conclusions, and you’ve twisted a story to try and impart to me on behalf of that awful Friendship Society!”

Pinkie fell back. “W-what are you talking about, Rosey Rose?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about! And I may as well be blunt with you that your ‘Friendship Council’ does little for friendship and everything to make it a nightmare to try and manage this town in a rational way. Water and sewage, I can wrap my head around. But what am I supposed to do about goblins or ice beavers in my plumbing or ‘pocket’ wendigos or… whatever!”

She butted her head like an angry Billy goat against the flanks of her guests, corralling them toward the door. And though the visitors were two, and Rose only one, Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy were so unaccustomed to being handled roughly that they were put in a panic—Fluttershy rolled up one of the coloring books, and batted Rose on the head like a badly-behaved pup, while Pinkie clung fast to the rampaging mare’s side to escape pummels and make excuses. The struggle was voluble enough that, were they embroiled outside, it would have attracted a scene; but eventually Rose, catching her reflection once more, and being already tuckered from her fight with the creature-hairstyler, collapsed onto the ground, taking her brawling opponents down with her.

The three of them laid on the floor, heaving, until Fluttershy managed to say, “Rose, dear! You know that we are good friends! Everything we told you today, is true! If you wanted us to leave, you could have just asked.”

This reprimand, coming from a spirit as demure as that which Fluttershy possessed, qualified as severe chastisement. It became impressed on Rose that she had betrayed herself and put her own emotional instability on display, and she was on the verge of tears again, in a sudden sweep of contrition; when Pinkie Pie tapped her on the shoulder, bearing the soap pipe.

“Here.”

She held it out, handle pointed. The dark wood glinted under the naked bulb that dangled above the centerpiece, winking at Rose, and making a stronger case with her than it had earlier. She shook her head ‘no’—weakly—but at another prompting from Pinkie closed her eyes, and felt its tip press down on her bottom lip. She took it in her mouth and inhaled, sensing a sweet aroma tickle the back of her throat.

Pinkie watched her carefully. “See? More relaxed, right?”

Rose held the fume in her chest, letting it roil, and fighting the instinct to cough.

Then there was a sudden, pleasant release in her sinuses—she exhaled with an mmm! and launched a warbling yellow soap bubble into flight with a burp. Pinkie chuckled at it, and Rose gave into a long and relieved belly breath.

“I’m sorry, guys,” she said. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. I would have told you eventually, but sometimes when you’re hurt you just need to be in your own headspace for a while. It happened an hour or so ago. A little white thing, about the size of a buckball. I lost my head and started chasing it around. I know it’s my fault and if you’ve been taking notes, just know that. The goblin, everything. I know it’s my fault. Okay?”

Pinkie Pie waved off the apology. “No need for all of that, Rosey Rose. The truth is that I admire your passion.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes, certainly…” She began to speak softly. “Because, you know—as long as we’re being honest with each other—I don’t share the police’s opinion about what happened at Sugar Cube Corner today. No sir. Nor that of the Friendship Council, when it comes to most things.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head. “Let me ask you something. Say you have a banana cream pie, and five friends to share it with. How would you divide it up?”

“Into sixths,” said Rose.

“So each member in a group of six is entitled to a sixth, there being six.”

“Right.”

Pinkie Pie watched her again. “Hooh, boy! I am sooo relaxed right now… I don’t know about you.”

Rose shrugged. “A little more, thanks to you.”

Pinkie laughed. “Aw, don’t mention it, Rosey Rose! But getting back on subject, this whole ‘Friendship Council’ thing… I’ve thought for a long time that their approach to all the things which happen here in Ponyville is a bit too… personal.”

“What do you mean ‘personal’?” asked Rose.

“Let’s just admit that we have ‘ice beavers’ for a sec,” Pinkie replied, tracing the air with the soap pipe. “Now, does that make me a bad pony? Does it make you a bad pony? Maybe that we’re neglecting somebody, somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” said Rose. “That’s a good point. I guess that’s where my anger came from just now. Actually… We’re being honest, right?” She leaned in closer. “That little ‘thing’ stole my keys. I’m stuck here. And I don’t know what to make of that. I just see my reflection getting whiter, everywhere I look. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“I sure do,” said Pinkie. “What you need is a scientific explanation for what just happened to you. Call it a ‘Pinkie Sense’. Now, what does science have to say?”

She got up to her hooves and struck a pace, puffing away on the soap pipe so that the Plumerium started filling with bubbles. “Let’s step back and look at the contradiction, here. How does a place like Ponyville carry on in the evergreen spirit of Equestria, even though it seems to be constantly menaced by monsters, maladapts, and mis-equines?”

“Hmm… I always thought there was something wrong with me for noticing it,” said Rose.

Pinkie spun around. “Aha! Now there are two of us. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that a burgled bakery should turn out to be the key to marital happiness? Seems awfully fishy… But I have an idea what’s going on.”

Rose stared at the bubbles as they hovered over and out of the dark rafters of her store.

Those huge beams. You can’t see past them beyond the lights in this flattened room. The high-pitched, shadowy loft of this town—a dark ocean, reverse vertigo looking into it from the jetsam of this rented seabed. To think that it might float my ark.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” she said.

“I heard somewhere that there’s a legendary invention, designed and built not long after the founding of Ponyville, called the Interferometer. It’s a gigantic apparatus positioned in the four corners of Equestria, used to establish the unity of time that we are all familiar with here.”

“Oh, yes… I remember you speaking about that,” said Fluttershy, joining the talk. “Can you explain how it works, for me as well as for Rose, one more time, dear friend?”

“Certainly.”

Pinkie indicated with a look for Fluttershy to turn over a sheet of mandalas from one of the coloring books she was working in and a few of her colored pencils; she flattened the page on the floor and began to draw. She made an equilateral cross with small pictures at each terminal, the one at the leftmost point with a sketch of the Plumerium.

“There are four legs,” she explained, “pointing in all the cardinal directions. At the end of each leg is a piece of the apparatus, and here on the southern point, as you see, is a massive party cannon, the biggest one in the world, which emits a good vibration of a constant, measurable intensity. Following so far?”

“Clear as a spring chicken,” said Fluttershy.

“Neat. Now… I think what the architects were trying to do was to get a calculation for how the pace of life in Equestria changes as the planet turns—that is, as the seasons change. That’s why we have a leg that travels north-south, and one that goes east-west—you’d think there would be a difference in the relative speed of the good vibration, depending on its direction in relation to the position of Equestria throughout the year.”

“You would move faster,” said Fluttershy, by way of simplification, “walking on a treadmill going in the same direction as you, than one moving perpendicular to you. Makes sense. And what you’re saying is that the treadmill is turning.”

“Well, we’re turning on it,” Pinkie corrected her, “that is to say, on the luminiferous nostalgia that is the medium for good vibrations in Equestria. But how quickly? That’s what the builders wanted to know. If we could precisely measure the amount of ‘drag’ relative to this far-sickness upon which everything, in principle, moves, then we could make artificial improvements to our lives which would preserve a true rest, or what we on the rock farm refer to as ‘home’.”

Fluttershy scratched her noggin. “That sounds wonderful. But… well… How do you measure how much a good vibration changes its speed, exactly? It must move very quickly.”

“Hmm…” Pinkie Pie pondered the ceiling for inspiration. A soap bubble descended from the darkness and landed on her nose, spritzing her face. “Ah, that’s it! Think of the way a ray of light passes through a soap bubble. It has to go through multiple layers of soapy film. The original light beam is broken up at different points along that path—part on the outermost layer, another part on the next inner layer, and so on. The original beam and its new counterparts have different lengths, and certain colors get cancelled out when they intersect. That’s why you see yellow, and cyan, and pink, come out in the oil, instead of celestial white.

“A good vibration works the same way. It passes from the party cannon through several points. It goes through a silvered cataract, represented by this bubble thingy,” she said, pointing to a round mark in the center of the diagram, “which half of it goes through and whose other half is reflected that way,” she said, pointing east. “Then the same beam is redirected again from this flugelhorn, and this adjustable trombone.”

Fluttershy took up the sheet and examined it more closely. “How brilliant! And what design choices! It’s almost like the architects were good friends of yours, Pinkie.”

“That trombone,” she resumed, raising her voice to match her pride, “can be used to modify how much out of chord the beam is with itself when it arrives in Ponyville, and therefore to detect the luminiferous nostalgia. It’s the reason we get the changing interference you see all year round, especially during holidays, special events, and weddings. That is—I dare say!—why we have them, to offset the Interferometer’s effects. And it’s the reason we have friendship councils and friendship academies—or the reason we ought to—just to provide oversight to this type of thing.”

She glanced over at Rose.

“Instead of making you feel guilty, that is.”

On a different occasion, perhaps, Pinkie’s speech might have shot through out of her hoof like lightning, and electrified the heart of Roseluck to heightened degrees of action and epiphany; but in truth, she hadn’t understood a word of any of it, and so sat like a lump, though a grateful lump, absorbing her friends’ sympathy and encouragement.

“Problem,” said Fluttershy.

“What’s that?”

“There is a giant machine making our dear friend Rose miserable. It seems not everyone comes out… ‘un-interfered-with’, as the architects planned.”

“Yes indeed…” Pinkie fondled her jaw and held Roseluck in a sidelong gaze. “And yet… we don’t want to alter the physics of Equestria wily-nilly… Huh. Quite a conundrum…”

“I wouldn’t want that. Not on my account,” said Roseluck.

The three mares scratched about as soap bubbles stopped falling from the loft. They were lost in a dejected silence for several moments, until Fluttershy said, “Well, why don’t we just point the Interferometer on a different spot?”

“Oh yeah…!” said Pinkie. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Perfect.”

“But wait—we’re going to need more than three ponies to move something that big.”

Fluttershy nodded. “Twilight’s in town. Maybe we can ask her about it?”

Pinkie sighed. She folded up the paper with the diagram she had made. “Eh. She never listens to what I have to say. You bring up sneezing powder at the Saddle Arabian embassy one time and she never takes you seriously again.”

“Oh… What a direction that night took,” said Fluttershy.

Rose, who had been following the ping-pong of their conversation, now felt an impulse to volunteer herself to their cause.

“I could say something on your behalf. We do have two cases bearing on the facts, and I’d like to get to the bottom of them, myself. It’s the least I could to repay you for helping me—”

Before she could finish, Pinkie took her by the elbow. “What a pal you are, Rosey Rose! Twilight is bound to give a fair hearing to one of her old neighbors…”

And so, though she had resented the Princess a short while before as a spectral presence in her misfortunes, now, on the horizon of that same mare’s simpatico—and with certain chemical assistance—the shopkeeper’s relation to Her Majesty had completely flipped; it turned out that Twilight had all the appearance of a warm friend and was, moreover, an authority higher than that of the incomparably dour Mrs. Gables, who was the real source of her psychological bondage. Whatever Pinkie’s premonitions regarding physics might have been, she was therefore enlivened to assist them, and, given the volume of honest exchanges that night, had the full expectation that a new chapter in her life was soon to commence.

“We would have to go soon, though,” Fluttershy said. “I think she is planning on leaving in the morning. Do you think it will be too risky to leave the store open, Rose?”

“I’ll lock it, and figure it out in the morning. Grab me one of those coloring books, will you?”

Gal Pals

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It was after the sun had set by the time Rarity and Sweetie Belle arrived in Ponyville Square, traveling from their parents’ house in a doleful standoff. They had been subjected to the over-care of their mother, Cookie Crumbles, and were each re-filled with dark suspicions regarding the other, as a result of their distinct and inveterate relations with that mare; and had thereby become party to a debate on the meaning of apologies, which now threatened a parting of ways between them.

Sweetie Belle, thanks to the excuse Rarity had invented to facilitate a night talk with Twilight, felt as though she had been ejected, by trickery, onto spooky streets—and hoped that her sister would apprehend the physical danger they were now in the presence of, and thus want to eschew any sort of separation; in other words, that they would go to Applejack’s, as they had promised, for the sake of the well-being of all concerned.

Rarity, for her part, hoped that Sweetie Belle would appreciate her own extenuating psychological frailty, with respect to a clone which now claimed her identity, and which was causing a not inconsiderable portion of havoc in her name—and, so, follow her to see Princess Twilight.

Both were to be disappointed.

And so, in silence they went, avoiding addressing each other with either looks or glances, until they found themselves at the azimuth of the benighted plaza, where they were thus committed to act out their prerogatives.

Sweetie Belle may have been more tempted to adopt the lie of her sister, which she had so detested during their bedroom dispute, had the other been more prepared to carry it out; but as they both soon realized, there were several inns where the Princess of Magic might be staying—who, perhaps because she was gifted in wisdom, preferred to travel discretely. And not just the one that had been mentioned, but all the good hostels and idyllic bed & baths scattered through Ponyville, flashed in Rarity’s mind as she tried to determine in which direction to lead.

“Oh, huff! Let’s see… There’s the Whistling Thistle—the view from the upper suites is absolutely enchanting… And of course always the Palfrey Inn, oh! to die for, the elegance of the mid-millennial woodwork, those dark and wintry tones… No, she would expect ponies to find her in those kinds of accommodations. No, no… perhaps the Autumn Leaf, the charming little hideaway on the lake… That’s where she must be. Nothing spells ‘solitude’ like quiet wind-blown rushes and the tepid eye of still water. Hmm, ‘spells’… Oh! the Manticore’s Den, of course! What ambiance, what untampered appeal to ancestral memory. A perfect place for meditations on royalty… Now, what do you think, Sweetie Belle? Where shall we begin, hmm?”

“You sound like an addict,” Sweetie Belle replied.

Rarity turned a sharp look on her. “An addict? An addict to what, exactly? Happy feelings? The sense that my stomach isn’t going to cramp every time I hear bad news from Ponyville? Yes, Sweetie Belle, you’re right. I am addicted to those things, the same way you love coffee and Dad loves windows. I live for them.”

She hopped up on the ledge of the plaza fountain and made circles in the water with her hoof. The moon was out and made the divots glisten. The stone felt cold underneath her.

Sweetie Belle looked on, and said, “It’s not just for the benefit of Applejack, all that stuff about trauma and confession. If I might say so…”

“Say what? You think you know everything.”

“Rare, you look like you’re fighting something. It’s gotta come out. Not every problem can be wrapped up and put on a shelf to be sold.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Rarity said, slumping forward. “It’s a good thing we decided to split up, then, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll both get what we’re after.”

Sweetie Belle sighed and took a seat next to her on the ledge. The water settled and the moon made a spot on the fountain between them. The silhouettes of trees could be made out in the distant, shadowed line on the horizon; they surrounded the town like a pike gate.

There ensued an unhappy caesura in their conversation. Sweetie Belle had no intention of abetting her sister’s neurotic frame of mind by indulging her in unsatisfied wandering, but a compromise did not seem near. She was impelled to turn to a model for handling intractable psychological tension—viz., she thought of Starlight Glimmer, and all the word games from her lavender office that were designed to overcome emotional blockages. And being so often the target of them herself, and with such varying degrees of success, Sweetie Belle supposed herself an expert in emotional blockages, too; and so she decided to try an exercise with her grumpy sister.

“Fine. I can’t go back to the house, anyway. Maybe Yona and I will have fun.”

Rarity made her a wry smirk. “I am filled with good ideas, you see.”

“The best. But I have one condition, otherwise I go back and tell Mom and Winsome everything, and then you’ll be hung out to dry.”

Rarity turned to her, but didn’t say anything.

“I want you to do something for me—let’s get this out. I know this whole trip has added to your stress level. And I doubt whether you really care about Black Box Theater. You and Mom and Dad have all been very polite—wait, wait. Here’s where I’m going with this. You’ve had a rough weekend, thanks to me. It’s true, right? Let’s not deny it—just think about that for a moment. Now, I want you, with perfect sincerity, to look me in the eye and tell me to fuck off.”

Rarity gave her a dirty look; her eyes flashed in the moonlight.

“I don’t have time for this, Sweetie Belle, and neither do you.”

Sweetie Belle stooped over. “I’m dead serious. That’s what I want you to do. I’m not letting this slip. Say it.”

“I will not!” said Rarity.

“Think about all the trouble. When I snapped at you this morning. How I’ve embarrassed you in front of ‘prestigious company’. The stupid poetry, the moping, the useless difficulty. Put it all together, look at me, and tell me to fuck off, and we’ll both be on our way.”

“Why are you doing this to me!?” Rarity cried at her. Her cheeks were flooding with tears; she clutched her chest. Unlike her sister, she sobbed for ponies to see—a warrior’s death. She hadn’t been thinking about bad poetry, as Sweetie Belle had intended, but of used lipsticks found at her old vanity; not of trouble, but of late nights, staying up with boxes of grape juice, in the company of her baby sister’s charmed imagination; not of ‘useless difficulty’, but of the same filly she had known, blindfolded, waving her arms about in a warehouse or a meadow or the city, searching for something, searching for herself. Everything swelled up in the imprecation ‘fuck off’ and crushed her, and she wept quietly and unashamedly under the glow of the moon.

Sweetie Belle, who had no idea how precarious Rarity’s feelings about her were—which had not been admitted, like Sweetie Belle’s had while her hair was being dressed—froze in surprise. She perceived that she had only stoked her sister’s anxiety, and quickly moved her seat, crossing the moonlight. She got near and pulled Rarity in close, and pecked her ear with a kiss.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” Rarity said, pushing her away. “No, you won’t, Sweetie. You need to go. I want to be by myself for this. Go find Yona. Do what you need to do. We will meet each other back at the old house.”

Sweetie Belle let her vision hover on the shadowed street.

“It will be better this way,” Rarity said. She spoke in a low, even manner that Sweetie Belle hadn’t heard before. She had called her ‘Sweetie’.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Sweetie Belle said diffidently, after her. “Do you know how late you will be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, me neither. I guess we’ll see each other later, Rarity. Be careful, okay?”

“You too, of course.”

She left.

Sweetie Belle knew Yona’s address by memory. They had formed a friendship after Rarity had gone to live in Manehattan. They corresponded through letters—not because they were far apart, but because it was Sweetie Belle’s favorite medium.

When they started talking, Sweetie Belle was going through her first depressive bouts and youthful intellectual upheavals. She found that she hated the pressure of being a ‘mare’—her sister’s ken—but yet, rejected the credulous appetition which stallion-hood represented to her. She also began to think less of her parents for caring more about personal property than art—and these things, she had reasoned, were not disconnected. Likewise, she had expressed disdain for the Cutie Mark Crusaders before an assembly; Scootaloo had accused her of conceit.

In spite of all her new mental armaments, however, Sweetie Belle was still at bottom a Ponyvillian. Her heart was too large, and her affection for the ponies in her life too tender, to sustain making critical attacks against them, as well as to endure being called ‘conceited’ without bites of conscience, confusion, self-immolating desires, and fearful loneliness.

She kept everything to herself. She continued to assist the talent workshops that the Cutie Mark Crusaders hosted in the Friendship Academy gymnasium on Friday afternoons. As the program became more well-known, there were many ponies besides the dilettantish, and those blessed with four left rear hooves, who would congregate there; they were singers, actors, mathletes, and buck ball prodigies, sometimes, it seemed, all rolled into one. Sweetie Belle hated them most of all. There was one, a certain Belles Lettres, who could recite poetry from memory, and who had already composed a volume of her own.

“Oh, you have?” Sweetie Belle had said, during their only conversation.

“Yes, well—call it that if you like,” replied Belles Lettres, “though it is just a little concession I had to make. See, I despise the gallop of the iamb with which Ponish is obsessed. If you want something that sings, you might as well turn to the Pony French Alexandrine—but that is hard to use in Ponish, and I wound up rewriting everything in French—but then my editor, he was quite short with me, and insisted that I go back to Ponish, which I could not do based on artistic principle alone—so I re-cast the whole thing, some thirty or so lyrical poems, in Ponish, using the Alexandrine meter—with some poetic license, of course. Just between us, though, I can get you a copy of the original, if you are satisfied to contend with a little chicken scratch, which nonetheless will, I hope, offer you moments of transport to the ancien régime.”

Before Sweetie Belle could answer, Apple Bloom broke in and said, “Well, if you’re looking for a little constructive criticism, Miss Let, you’ve come to the right pony. Sweetie Belle here is all about poetry.” She gave her an elbow. “Hey, didn’t you say you were studying Pony French?”

“Um… Yeah. I can say a few things. I mean, I can order something at a restaurant…”

She trailed off into a dun silence, but Belles Lettres picked up the thread.

“Oh, well! Let’s say my poems will transport you to Bayard’s Café, instead, shall we?”

She laughed, and Apple Bloom joined her, bobbing her head in good cheer—though the joke was not lost upon the one whose expense it had been made.

“Maybe I should start going by Sweetie Bête from now on, eh?” Sweetie Belle said with a stung smile. At that moment, she observed Yona working by herself in the corner. She liked to come to the meetings with stacks of large paper sheets, and hardly spoke to anyone. She’ll never even have a cutie mark, Sweetie Belle thought. She’s so out-of-place, dipping her toes in paint, all big and fat. And here I am feeling sorry for myself… Poor Yona!

“Keep practicing, and you’ll get it,” Belles Lettres reassured her, making Sweetie Belle a little forget-me-not smile. “Let’s see if we can come up with one now… How about, Foreign phrases beset / The list of Sweetie Bête / Who thinking of Boar-doe / An extra horn, did grow!…?”

Sweetie Belle nodded with the others who had gathered around to listen.

“Nice.”

One day she and Scootaloo had another fight. Sweetie Belle left before the meeting was over, with a lump in her throat; she intended never to return; and, in the ensuing weeks, considered leaving Friendship Academy altogether. She thought about what life was like before her sister had stopped living with her. On one desperate occasion she had averted jumping into a pond—and thereafter decided she would have to stay in school, for her mental health. And it was there Yona had found her, lingering by herself in the hall before classes were about to begin.

“Yona no see Punk Pony at workshops, too much time,” Yona said.

“I didn’t know you paid attention.”

“Mhm, mhm. Good for young ponies, Punk Pony be there. Yona’s expert opinion.”

“It’s better off this way,” Sweetie Belle said, turning to leave.

Yona stopped her. “For you, take.”

She unfolded one of the sheets she was carrying and turned it over. Paint on parchment—pink, blue, purple, and yellow, formed into faint swirls with and a few brusque, deliberate strokes; Sweetie Belle could see the marks of the hooves that produced them embedded in the composition. They were her colors. Yona did not explain anything; and Sweetie Belle was too overwhelmed by the warmth and artistic accuracy of the interpretation to ask any questions about it. She saw herself mixed in the hard lines and soft colors. That was enough—the work spoke for itself.

“Ah! Sun comes out,” said Yona, remarking on the weather, and, simultaneously, observing her. “Yona reminded of wise saying of Venerable Grand Poobah—Be careful! When clouds form on Anadoelian steppes, one may drown from a flood of one inch.”

Later that afternoon, for the first time, Sweetie Belle went to talk to Starlight Glimmer.

The flickering streets imbued Sweetie Belle with conviction as she tormented herself over the exchange which had just passed between her and Rarity. Every seedy alley and muffled shout she passed by turned up minor evidence that her mother’s intuition had been correct—that some violent crook, waiting in the shadows, was behind the robbery at Sugar Cube Corner; and that the Mirror Pool gremlin was just her sister’s Will o’ the Wisp. She was therefore justified, even if Rarity had gotten a little upset, in insisting on applying her own home-grown wisdom in the resolution of the affair; perhaps, she even respected it.

Sweetie.

She spotted something on the corner of Cuirass Street and Tack, and crossed Bayard’s Café in pursuit. Outside was a low-hanging lantern which projected her shadow against the timbered buildings across the street, her ghoulish long legs tessellating under boarded windows.

Ponies can be dangerous, too.

She strode up to the stand and clacked a bit down on its aluminum counter.

“One hotdish, please.”

“Yes Ma’am,” replied the vendor, facing a smoking outdoor oven.

The waft of slow-cooked hay padded her senses. ‘Hotdish’ was Rarity’s favorite—though, at some point when they were young, for some reason, she had begun to refer to it as ‘spiced hay-cake’. But tonight—she decided—it would be hotdish again.

Sweetie Belle continued observing the dancing shadows of the jay hooks and wagon posts that cleaved the lamp light on Cuirass Street, when another two, moving and more voluminous, appeared beside her, belonging to a couple which either did not notice her or care to make short pleasantries.

“Order up!” cried the vendor. His voice echoed a friendly note into the black abyss. The tray he brought out carried two fuming plates.

“That didn’t take too long, I suppose,” said his patron, a frumpy stallion looking past Sweetie Belle. “Usually the wife and I are ready to eat the napkins.”

“A pile of napkins would be better for you anyway, Spruce,” said a bespectacled mare.

“Whatever.” He looked up at the vendor. “Probably would taste about the same, anyway, eh Pewter?”

“I bet you’ve gained three pounds in the last two weeks,” his wife persisted.

Their voices pocked the air; the couple ate their hotdish with plastic utensils that scraped softly on imitation ceramic bowls, their rhythm mingling with the shadows.

Spruce looked up from his dish again. “Well, have you heard the news?”

“Nothing to do with the bakery, I hope.”

Spruce let out a dry laugh. “Well, you know hopes are like complaints. You can tell ‘em to folks, like anyone might, but it won’t do you much good.”

“You bet,” said the vendor.

The mare jumped in before Spruce could continue. “It was bad. We’ve been hearing news of the police report. Apparently a goblin got in the store.”

“No use trying to hide things from a small-town mare,” said Spruce.

“No use, and no good. Heaven knows what you knuckleheads would come up with if we left you to your own wits.”

“Well, what else did it say?” asked Spruce.

“For one, the Cakes have been ordered by the municipal authority to take up tennis."

“That’s different. Now what does tennis have to do with goblins?”

“It makes perfect sense to me," said his wife. "They dwell in ruts, you know. Get them out of the house.”

“Uffda! And what are you supposed to do if you already play tennis and you’re in a rut, hun?”

“I have a sister in Whinnypeg who likes coloring books,” said the vendor.

“Now Pewt,” said Spruce, with the authority that comes from turning on a favored subject, “you know it’s that kind of mentality that makes it impossible to deal with thugs in this town. Now, when we were kids, everyone in Ponyville kept their doors unlocked. The worst you had to worry about was some colt tracking muck in the kitchen, but these days, bigger things are waiting to surprise you than a little mud.”

“Oh Spruce, calm down,” said his wife. “There have always been goblins in Ponyville. Just let the police handle it.”

“Listen to me, darling. Here’s what we do. Do you remember Warm Snow, Crystal and Tyvek? Bad actors from the next town over, probably. They were caught drawin’ pictures of a stallion’s hoo-haw all over the walls of the school, and got into a fight with the superintendent. They turned them into stone ornaments and we haven’t seen anything like that, since. Call me crazy, but I don’t see what’s so wrong with makin’ stone out of a creature for a while. That’s the kind of criminal reform we need.”

Sweetie Belle felt her heart leap inside of her chest. She pictured Rarity turned to stone, as Cozy Glow, Chrysalis, and Tirek had been, some few short years ago—suspended, perhaps, above the colorful, busily-occupied plaza of Ponyville; the expression of horror she would cast down on the townsfolk, taken from the moment of the realization of the imminent and total imprisonment of her thoughts and senses, for even one hour; her rigid form teetering at the mercy of that heedless throng, the wretched, bumbling burghers of a tucked-away town.

Then—she let it all disperse with a breath. The High Council in Canterlot would have no grounds for such prosecution, if in fact such a case were to come to a head.

But what if it did?

They would need to prove that the offense warranted such severe punishment. Rarity knew that the Mirror Pool was forbidden—but maybe, Sweetie Belle hadn’t. And since it had been her idea to bring a theater troupe to town, anyway, why wouldn’t she also be the type to compel her sister to spend a while prinking in a magical hollow?

It needed work. But then she remembered, with the relief of starting out of a half-dream, that there was no clone to begin with. She made a quick review of the evidence, and concluded once more that the whole thing was her sister’s burdensome projection.

She started tapping the counter.

“Hello, um… Can I get this to-go, please?”

The others glanced up.

“We’re outdoors, Ma’am,” said the vendor. “You may have noticed there are no ceilings. Everything’s to-go. We won’t tackle you, I promise.”

“You got that right,” chuckled Spruce.

Sweetie Belle smiled back. “Oh. Yes, of course… I think I’ve got to be on my way, now, is all.”

“You just got here,” said Pewter. “It’ll be another few minutes on that hotdish. Stick around.”

“I can’t.”

Sweetie Belle put another bit on the counter.

“Keep it. For your trouble.”

“For my trouble… Are you sure?”

She hastened around the corner onto Tack Street, where, stepping under a balcony, she was stopped as she overheard another conversation.

“I don’t usually go out,” a pearl-colored old mare was saying to a counterpart, “you know, not after that ursa major found its way into town. I still remember it. I was putting my silverware away like I do every day and all of a sudden my forks began to rattle with a roar coming from the center of town. Now, do you think I’m going to go outside to see what made my house shake? No siree!”

Sweetie Belle remembered hearing the ursa major, too, though she had almost completely forgotten about it until present.

It was an ursa minor that scared you last night, Sweetie Belle. Twilight said so and she knows about these sorts of things.

Sweetie.

The pearly mare wiped her hooves clean of the matter. “I said to myself, ‘That’s it! I’ve heard enough! Pearl is staying home from now on!’ And I’ve been just fine since, thank you. I have everything I need right here.”

Sweetie Belle went up Martingale Lane and passed the Toothing Cockatrice. Twilight could be in there, she thought, waiting for us in an old bedroom—completely turned to stone. The cockatrice spread its wings for her in the glare of old paint as she nearly bumped her head gaping at the rusty strap hinges of the inn’s front door.

It had surprised her in the woods that day.

And yet, Twilight’s error had merely been one of ignorance and misdirection, just getting lost—after so many years an older pony would have no excuse.

Sweetie.

There were no lamps on Brass Halter Road. The shadows were gone, too. The moon cast a pale sheet on the ground, where she could make out the edging on tiny front yards. Little yellow windows glowed from apartment kitchens and bedrooms, through which plants and picture frames and cookware could be discerned. All the houses seemed to contain their own little sun where everything could grow. Sweetie Belle couldn’t see the numbers on them—the cottages ran in a long, faceless rampart, which seemed to oppose her like a sabotaging presence.

She tried to orient herself by looking in the yards. Most of them had square, now gray-scaled flower beds and lawn decorations, intended for appreciation from the street. Only one appeared to have been deliberately stylized to convey an invitation—it had a pair of fig tress whose leaves spanned over a bistro with two small circular chairs and a floral mosaic table.

She knocked on the door of the little house and was surprised by the decorum of the mare who answered her. She was tall, for someone of her years—taller than Sweetie Belle by a nose, who was taller than Rarity by a nose—with tarnished, red marble eyes that gleamed down at her in the moonlight. She wore blue and gold earrings which dangled over a freshly laundered polka-dot blouse that looked especially thin over the lady’s broad shoulders.

They stared at each other a moment. Then the mare, noticing her visitor’s befuddlement, cleared her throat, and in the deliberately exaggerated, sing-song way of an old lady, said, “Hello…oo? What may I do for you, dear?”

Sweetie Belle couldn’t hold back a shy smile.

“Uh… hi.”

“Well, good evening!” said the mare, smiling in return.

Sweetie Belle let out a breath. “I… um… this is going to be a really weird question… Sorry to bother you, if it’s too late—”

“What’s your name?” asked the mare.

“Sweetie Be— er, Sweetie.”

“Sweetie. Are you lost?”

“No, Ma’am. I don’t think so.”

“Then come in, dear. No use standing out here in the dark. I have some lemon grass tea that you’ll love, Sweetie. And when you’re good and ready, I suppose, if you so desire, you can deign to tell me your business,” said the old lady, throwing her a wink.

Sweetie Belle laughed and followed her in. “Oh, I don’t want to make you wait that long, Ma’am—”

“Gray,” said the mare.

“Hmm?”

“Call me Gray, Sweetie. For cripes. Are you selling girl scout cookies?”

Gray’s house was even smaller inside than Sweetie Belle had imagined it from the street. The living room was quaint and had carpeting and a low ceiling; on one of the side tables she spotted figurines of angels in prayer posture and some pictures of family, both in color and black and white. The room smelled of stuffy incense, and was made warm and slightly inscrutable by tapestry sheets which were strung along the wall.

“Those are beautiful,” Sweetie Belle said. She felt drawn to Gray’s friendliness, rather than put off by it, as she was with Starlight and her scrubbed spaces. But she couldn’t shake that the grand lady was keeping something under wraps. It was as though she had traded her wealth for scents and heat. She noticed that Gray had two coins for a cutie mark.

“What do you do, Gray?” she asked.

“Retired,” Gray replied. “I worked in Ponyville all of my life. Most of it, anyway.”

“Oh… So you were an accountant?”

This time Gray thought about her reply. “Well, Sweetie… I am most proud to have been a mother.”

She didn’t say any more, but something hung in the air. Sweetie Belle believed she understood what it was, and maintained a respectful silence; saying ‘I’m sorry’ would have been silly and unnecessary.

“I’m looking for Yona,” she said. “Is this the right house?”

Gray nodded. “It is.” She motioned to allow Sweetie Belle to inquire for herself.

“PUNK PONY SURE HOPE YONA SAY POSITIVE THINGS ONLY ABOUT HER!!!” she hollered, getting red-faced and stomping up and down on the carpet. “OTHERWISE PUNK PONY NEED SKULLS TO BREAK!!!”

“Heavens!” said Gray, catching her breath. “I’m on heart medication, Sweetie. Is that a way to address a yak?”

There was a beat; then, they heard a voice from a back room.

“AH… SOMEONE HERE?”

Gray and Sweetie Belle broke into laughter at Yona’s good-natured alacrity; Gray taking care to remind herself, through their fits, never to doubt the exquisiteness of yak manners.

They met in the kitchen. Yona entered and curtsied dutifully, as low as the space allowed her to go, her wide frame elbowing the cabinets. She wore a headband with a frayed, multicolored pattern about her brow; Sweetie Belle noticed a thread sticking out of it. She bowed in return, more with marvel than certainty, resting her head on the knobs of her knees.

“Hmm. You had it right the first time, I think,” said Gray, poking her in the rib.

“Had what right?”

“Your tone. Yona is Yona. You are you.”

“Oh… Sorry!”

Yona shifted herself up. “Eh…! Yona just now think of wise yak aphorism, namely, that guest in house should not be made ‘sorry’ like arctic fox caught spying in Mr. Rooster’s hut… Or, in the favorite formulation of ponies everywhere—practically characteristic of them, Grand Poobah tells us, as their ‘little horns and wings’—‘no worries’. Come. Give hug, Punk Pony!”

They enjoyed a happy reunion. Gray and Yona then began to sort things around the kitchen; they worked without speaking, as Sweetie Belle waited quietly at the table.

“This feels like… spa treatment,” Sweetie Belle mused aloud.

“Oh, yes, yes… Punk Pony need famous hoof massage from Yona?” she joked as she continued cleaning. Yona negotiated the small space with surprising gracefulness, with movements like a baby testing what it could do with its new, bulky apparatus. Her hair fell down in straight locks which nearly touched the linoleum—hovered over it ghostly as she went about her menial tasks.

Sweetie Belle couldn’t take her mind off the headband—what it must have signified to large, russet creatures who lived on an endless plain. Ponies had no use for such accoutrements.

Gray was bent over at a tea kettle set on the other side of the room. She measured leaves from several uncorked jars, inspecting their composition carefully before she added them to a small stone mortar. Then she sifted the blend, smelled it, closing her eyes as though she were listening to it. She opened a drawer and removed a pestle which had been set on a red cloth liner. She felt it in her hoof, like it was an extension of her, and she was exploring a delicate muscle. Her spunky demeanor had given way to peculiar, intense thoughtfulness—for a guest? For Yona? She grounded the leaves, careful not to clink the pestle against the edge of the container.

After a few minutes she returned to the table with spoons, a bottle of honey, and three golden-yellow cups of tea, and seated herself. Yona thanked her and took a sip.

“Wow,” said Sweetie Belle.

Gray looked at her. “What’s ‘wow’?”

“You were, like… praying. I feel strange drinking your prayer, Gray.”

Gray was made a bit sad by her observation. “Why?”

“Because… prayer is supposed to come from the most sacred place inside you. Right? And here I am adding honey to it and getting my mouth all over it.”

“And?”

“And… It’s like I’ve been given this amazing gift, something I don’t even deserve. Look—if you gave me a golden egg, or a precious ruby, I couldn’t just take it from you—‘okay, see you later!’. It would come with responsibility, and—you know what, I’m just going to drink it.”

She brought the cup to her lips and Gray burst out laughing.

“It’s good!” Sweetie Belle said, setting it down.

“I’m glad you think so, Sweetie,” Gray replied. She looked over at Yona. “You have the best taste in friends, dear.”

“Punk Pony Gray’s friend too, now," Yona said. "It’s ‘a fish’, as ponies say. So, Gray have good taste, too.”

By now Sweetie Belle’s face had become nearly as pink as the side of her mane; she was desperate to turn the conversation away from herself. “Are those your tapestries in the living room?”

Yona reflected a moment. “Yes, yes. Yona’s drapes.”

“I really like them.”

“Ah, thank you, Punk Pony.”

“Did you learn how to do that in Yakyakistan?”

Yona shrugged, and took another sip of tea. “Of course. Every girl knows how before being knee-high to ragamuffin. Need one for new dormitory?”

“How fast could you do it?”

Yona scratched her big chin. “Hmm… one week?”

“Yona, I could totally put in a word for you with Rarity,” Sweetie Belle said. “She runs a few clothing boutiques and could really use some help. You’re so patient, and talented… You’d be perfect—no, no, I insist. I bet you’d even be able to find an apartment with a little more space.”

“Hey!” Gray stopped her. “You’re not trying to steal Yona away from me, are you?”

Sweetie Belle grinned. “And where exactly am I going to stuff a yak? …I’m kidding. It’s up to you, Yona. The offer is there.”

“We’ll see, Punk Pony. Yona happy here. Yona take care of Gray’s garden—important work, more important than become latest-and-greatest fashionista, maybe. By the way… Punk Pony expert in fashionistas, yes?”

A pain prickled the back of Sweetie Belle’s neck as she recalled the last time she was with Rarity. “It’s complicated.”

Yona took the cue. She loosened her jaw and relaxed her gaze down into her teacup, eyes half closed.

Sweetie Belle began, “So, like… I pulled some strings and got Twilight and Cadence to come to my show. Sergeant Spitfire came too, actually—”

“Your show?” asked Gray. She leaned back in her seat and folded her arms.

“Oh, right. I joined a theater troupe over the summer. We held a performance in Ponyville last night. Big deal, right?”

“I think that’s lovely,” said Gray. “You have the air of an actress, Sweetie.”

“It’s not that kind of acting.”

“Did you know about this, Yona?” Gray asked, looking over.

She nodded. “Punk Pony mention to Yona. Perform at Ponyville Gravitationist.”

“Isn’t that a shame,” said Gray. “I belong to that church—married it when I married my late husband. I saw there was a group from Rolling Oats putting on an exhibit, or some such thing. Yona, why didn’t you go?”

“I discouraged her from going,” Sweetie Belle answered on the other’s behalf. “But I think we’re getting a little off topic—”

“Girl, I’m going to kick your butt,” said Gray.

“There’s more to it than that. I had the princesses on my side, and I wanted Rarity to be there especially. Once that was in place, it was all about her. I wanted to prove something. If Yona was there, I would have been the empress with no clothes. That’s how I felt.”

“So what happened with your sister?”

Sweetie Belle took a breath. She summarized the events leading up to their trip to the Mirror Pool, with its baleful consequences. “I had her right where I wanted her. A theater show, where she could see me. A picnic, where she could see me. I changed so much after she left that she became a kind of monster to me, the last part of my past to be overcome. I wanted to show that I could, like… do it without her.”

“That must have been hard to go through,” Gray observed. “I’m sure you have a very deep love for one another.”

Sweetie Belle began to tear up. Gray went away and returned with a box of tissues which she set down on the table between them. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sweetie,” she said.

Sweetie Belle shook her head. “I feel… sinful.”

“…That counts as being too hard on yourself.”

“Eh… What Punk Pony mean ‘sin’?” asked Yona, breaking her strain of silence. “Punk Pony find church?”

“No church,” Sweetie Belle replied. “But that’s the best word to express myself. What I mean by ‘sin’ is that I might be doing something very bad, continuously, even though I get signs that I am not supposed to do it—and I am helpless to stop.”

“Ah, yes, yes, Yona see. Punk Pony worried about order-of-things.”

“Order of things?”

“Order very important to ponies,” Yona said, waving a huge foreleg over the table. “Natural, good. Like to have ‘cutie marks’, yes? Sin—negative aspect of order. Understand? Now Punk Pony have taste of freedom. Freedom big thought, but Punk Pony little creature.”

Sweetie Belle pondered a moment. “Are you saying that it’s all an illusion?”

“What mean ‘illusion’?”

She hesitated again, searching for the words. “My need to put myself in the ‘order of things’.”

“Problem existing in Punk Pony’s mind only?”

Sweetie Belle nodded ‘yes’.

The lamplight flickered above the table; Gray asked if anyone would like some more tea, and took Yona and Sweetie Belle’s cups back to the tea station.

“Well, Punk Pony!” began Yona, “must know first of all that Yona not only, as ponies say, ‘lacking expertise’ concerning braagdurf—or, what all-wise teachers of Friendship Academy call ‘theological speculation’—but also that Yona herself considers such matters entirely outside Yona’s business, quite like apple in hay dog eating competition.

“Nonetheless, in connection with ‘kernel’ of your question, which moves Yona’s feeling-center, if not other ‘centers’ of Yona, Yona once again reminded of wise counsel of Grand Poobah, who says in such cases, ‘a tale is better than a hook for pulling out skein in tattered robes.’”

“I’ve always meant to ask you,” said Sweetie Belle, “who is ‘Grand Poobah’?”

A reverent smile sparkled Yona’s face. “Ah! Grand Poobah most important elder in yak community, corresponding to Celestia or Twilight in Ponyville. Life of Grand Poobah filled with, so to say, ‘reflective wisdom’, and stories of Grand Poobah always replete with materials good for edification of yak youth, as well as yaks of responsible age. Even now, Yona remembers when Grand Poobah would gather us ‘little ankle-munchers’ to regale with stories of good, bad, and what ponies call ‘exciting derring-do’ of life on wild ranges of Yakyakistan.

“And story that comes to mind in connection with Punk Pony’s feeling of ‘sinning’ was told to Yona, on cloudy night conducive to mosquitos, as follows.

“In remote foothills of mountains from which river Oxus has source, which flows one-hundred miles to old city of Buckhara, there grows special fiber whose thickness and consistency is used for preservation of houses and even in most sacred ceremonies in Yakyakistan, which fiber ponies here would call ‘mud sedge’.

“Each year, in those days, was responsibility of Unflappable Bugscar to select ‘entourage’ of hardiest yaks and lead them to said remote region, for purpose of gathering these ‘special reeds’ in preparation for harsh Yakyakistan winter. These yaks taken from ordinary village duties for trek across badlands, sometimes to be gone more than two weeks.

“This ‘Bugscar’, by the way, also famous ‘personage’ of yaks, from time of grogdilduggr—which translation would be in Ponish, ‘before there was a postbox for secret admirers on every corner’.”

Sweetie Belle fidgeted—she realized she had been tracing out the interlinked patterns in Yona’s headband, intently watching it bob while she spoke—she turned her gaze down onto her own belly.

Secret admirers.

Twilight said so and she knows about these sorts of things.

Rarity looking for Twilight. Secret admiration is everything to a pony. Like wearing a colored headband to survive the russet and the sweat.

Gray returned and took a seat next to her with two more golden cups of tea. Sweetie Belle took it to her lips, and returned her hostess a grateful smile.

Yona continued, “One year winter come early, while reed gathering yaks remain in badlands. Here worth mentioning that difficult period of absence of hoof-selected yaks anticipated by village and its conclusion even turned into holiday for children, similar to your ‘Hearthswarming Eve’ or even the visit of magic fairy for lucky molar under pillow. But that year, much to fear and sorrow of everyone, yaks no return home.

“Whole countryside covered by blizzard, making return to Yakyakistan arduous, even for yaks of exceptional wooliness like Unflappable Bugscar. Yaks only stopped where find brush for fires. Next yaks burned special reeds. Then, after one week more, food prepared for special reed gathering excursion ran low, and yaks became—you guessed it—‘trapped like rats’.

“One night, big storm came. Yaks began to think of wives and children waiting in Yakyakistan. There was even heard several counts of wendenrdragl, or as we might say in streets here in Ponyville, ‘a whimper indicating the loss of hope’.

“Then, just happened that one of these unfortunate hardy yaks, while considering the possibility of his own untimely personal sacrifice to Great Nature, espied in haze a pillar of smoke. Yaks discovered that smoke came from spacious cabin, sent down by Providence—who else?—in the middle of ‘nowhere, squared’.

“Upon arriving at said cabin, yaks discover also that door not locked and in fact belonged to ‘special store’ of uncertain wares, owned and operated by an ocelot who has come down in yak history under appellate ‘Binky’.

“This ‘Binky’—though now of legendary status amongst yaks and yak ‘aficionados’—into the likes of which, by the way, it is partial wish of Yona’s to convert you, Punk Pony—this ‘Binky’ must have fallen back on haunches to have such ‘striking figure’ as Unflappable Bugscar walk into ‘special store’, with fart and itch, as though it were his very own feasting room.

“But was not just Bugscar’s famous ‘war face’ which set ocelot eyebrows a-juggling with fear of God, as they say, but very fact that ‘special store’ was nothing other than what you ponies term a ‘depot of paraphernalia’, or what in certain neighborhoods here is called ‘tribute hut to the ways and pleasures of the flesh’.”

“A sex shop,” said Gray.

Yona nodded. “The success of which, Grand Poobah left us to understand, owed to its possessing a monopoly in badlands, or in his words, ‘like watch which is right two times a day, and therefore never needs resetting’.”

I don’t usually go out.

“Where do you keep your silverware, Gray?” Sweetie Belle asked.

She indicated a drawer by the sink. Sweetie Belle went over and opened it—she noticed that the plastic utensil compartment was dirty.

Yona, waiting for the right moment, proceeded, “Ocelot went about business, making yaks comfortable, all the while making the face of one who has passed gas but cannot conceal blame.

“Indeed, Unflappable Bugscar, resting in flowing warmth of hearth, already began to think of difficulties to come for travel back to Yakyakistan, and likewise began to ‘sniff’ for solutions to these same difficulties.

“And he could not suppress grimace of confusion as he surveyed more closely the ‘products’ of this nerve-tattered ocelot. These were kept under glass or otherwise behind curtains or bars, from which condition Bugscar deduced that ‘dandy’ host was purveyor of means of warfare—even, of ruthless torture.

“He noticed, for example, ‘sable leather swing’, used to render a captive vulnerable to lashings of belly and chest; which contents included, as part of ‘today’s special offer’, a gag for muffling screams of tormented, so as to conduct information gathering operations without inconvenience to the discretion of inquirer.

“’What an odd fellow!’ muttered Unflappable Bugscar under his breath. ‘I would not wage an obol as to why ocelot warriors would have interest in limply-shaped mortars. Portable, perhaps. But one would easily set one’s own camp ablaze with curved shaft. Mmm… Better as blunt object.’

“But Bugscar, being yak of high honor, and grateful for ‘succor’ which Binky had given him, did not raise his pointed criticism directly.

“’Ah! Now, here is something useful,’ Bugscar said, eyeing certain article arranged next to dark room behind curtain. To be sure, was garment of cloth manufacture, but which, by science or magic—only great yak prophets know—its advertisement claimed, had that property which ponies distinguish by the word ‘edible’.

“Unflappable Bugscar, wasting no time, asked ocelot its price.

“In receipt of this request from most esteemed yak chieftain, Binky, as is said, ‘folded himself over three times’; and was with utmost inner effort, worthy of our admiration as one who ‘wriggles under the Bo Tree’, that humble sales-cat and keeper of ‘secrets of the fruits of Earth’ maintained composure; and, not without wiping away a bead of sweat, answered as calmly as fully-credible Canterlot gentlecolt, ‘Ah yes, my dear fellow! I see that your eye for undergarments is as sharp as not only your right horn, but your left horn, too. But these are no ordinary inner layers. They are for… eating, you see.’

“Unflappable Bugscar stroked his chin and made ‘groan of contemplation’—almost always positive sign when haggling with yaks.

“He remained still, so that what is called the ‘gravitas of his thoughts’ began to weigh on Binky, who, if he were lesser ocelot, no doubt would have begun to titter like mad hatter.

“Then, upon proper consideration, Bugscar started up as though bitten by Anadoelean gadfly.

“’Ah! Eating! Like for surviving harsh Yakyakistan steppes, yes?’

“Binky, by now almost delirious from his own apprehensiveness of scorn of Bugscar, replied with suave of cool-guy Manehattan buck, ‘Yes, of course, old chap! You’ve hit it right on the nose, as usual, Your Royalness. These edible undergarments are best sellers amongst our most intrepid soldiers’.

“Bugscar then inspected underwears carefully.

“’Hmm… But why made from such delicate fabric? Will garments not be torn by sand winds of Babylmanian deserts?’

“’You would be correct to assume so,’ replied ocelot, gamboling inwardly like fish caught in Ponyville cider barrel, ‘only if the piece were intended to be worn as a singlet. But the designers of the consumable garments had a special intention in making them, namely, that they be worn in many layers—five, six, even seven! The purpose, Your Highness, is to protect yaks from the elements, and at the same time provide them viands for a week’.

“‘But why little red bow on girder? Why great warriors of badlands adorn themselves with such vain frivolities?’

“’I was hoping with all of my heart’s desire that you would ask me such a question!’ said ocelot. ‘It is yet another innovation that factored into the final design of this underwear. Suppose, good sir, that you are in a skirmish with those rival trans-Carpathian yaks from across the isthmus—how then, in such a frenzy of heads knocking against one another, could your fighters avoid giving a rrrrap! to the noggin of one of their fellow countrymen, hmm?’

“Ack! It would be nearly impossible,’ answered Unflappable Bugscar, with ‘sagacious nod’. ‘But what do’?

“’Why, this… What you’re calling a bow,’ Binky explained, trying one of underwears on for demonstration, ‘is displayed on the backside, as you can see. That way, your regiment will be the only one on the battlefield with identifying livery. You will thus always be able to discern friend from foe in the fight.’

“…Well, Punk Pony!

“Great Uncle Bugscar so impressed by these ‘special articles for war’, which included so many designs which made him blush with shame for not having thought of them himself, that he haggled price for the amount of two crates.

“Yaks departed following morning, all of them wearing not seven but ten layers of underwears for eating. And, thanks to these unexpected provisions, although great snowfall persisted, yak entourage arrive safely back to Yakyakistan—some of them, perhaps, looking a bit pale around the cheeks, but not single one having dropped, as bored Ponyville hat maker would have it, ‘like fly from windowpane’.

“As to your question about sinfulness,” said Yona, remarking Sweetie Belle’s meditative expression, “it is, we might say, one big Ponyville salad with four or five vegetables, plus dumpling on side and honey-cake for dessert.

“Perhaps upon subsequent ‘deep reflections’ or even sufficient ‘lapse of years’ Punk Pony will see that order-of-things like visit from Unflappable Bugscar, most highly-esteemed guest, and creatures of Equestria like ocelot-store-keeper, each with their own ‘keys to life and happiness’.

“That is to say, with regard to question whether there is place for Punk Pony under ‘Celestia’s Sun’, camping out in ‘snowy barrens’, we ought to have recourse again to that favorite phrase and fully-crystalized feeling of ponies; namely, that Punk Pony should have ‘no worries’ about all of that.

“At same time, Punk Pony see that although Mr. Binky great hero of yaks, equal of Jargal the Magnificent, that if for one moment he were to ‘twitch’ or ‘dither’ in his external manifestations toward Bugscar, as in accordance with his ‘internal rumblings’, perhaps he and many brave yaks perish.

“Ah! Look at time! Ponies should not sit quietly if Yona tempted to engage in bad habit, especially malficient for Yona, of rambling without periods or commas,” she concluded, tugging at one of her ears.

Gray offered up a conciliatory laugh. “Oh, stop. You know I love to listen to you. We have plenty of time for another one of Grand Poobah’s tales… What do you think, Sweetie? Did you have somewhere else you needed to be…?”

The old lady turned and began coughing from some tea which she had swallowed improperly.

“Are you okay?” asked Sweetie Belle.

Gray rubbed her throat and nodded with tears streaming the corners of her eyes; her face had become ruddy, and her makeup showed. Sweetie Belle stood up and began to massage between her shoulder blades as she got it out. She could feel her old, big bones poking up beneath her blouse, and her activating muscles.

“Are you okay?” Sweetie Belle asked one more time. “Gray.”

Gray looked up at her. “Yes, Sweetie, thank you.”

Sweetie Belle left her and began to help Yona remove cups and plates from the table. She wiped the honey bottle cap with a cloth and carried it over to the tea station. There, she noticed a spoon resting on the brown spot of a napkin and a shimmering trace of tea left in the kettle. She thought of the utensil holder by the sink.

“Gray,” she said, being careful with the little kettle, “would you like me to clean this for you?”

“That would be wonderful,” the old mare said. “No soap though.”

Sweetie Belle tucked a tuft of her coiffeur behind her ear and maneuvered over to the sink.

“Punk Pony have good taste in friends, too,” said Yona, greeting with her eyes.

“She brewed me a prayer,” replied Sweetie Belle. “It’s the least I could do.”

Yona laughed. “Yes… Pray in own language, important for ponies.”

Sweetie Belle nodded. The words, delivered so festively as they rinsed dishes, penetrated her heart like a mountain appearing behind the clouds of dawn. The story of the ocelot began to work inside her as she moved seamlessly, drying plates as Yona handed them to her, and finding a place for them on a small drying rack as the old lady looked on. Sweetie Belle tipped the tea kettle to make it fit the arrangement of drying dishes, and turned to Yona with tears running down her cheeks. She felt a connection to her, and to Gray, which did not arise from being the same kind of creature as them. Through that perception, she realized that had even grown apart from her sister, painfully, with whom she believed she would share all things. Standing in the quiet of the closed kitchen tap, a patient silence prevailed between the three friends; and in that silence Sweetie Belle understood that she and Rarity could love each other in a new way, on grounds more sober, more exacting, and more joyful than what they had known as fillies.

After a time, Yona asked if Sweetie Belle wanted an escort home, and if she was still afraid of the possibility of a violent criminal at-large.

“It’s just gossip,” Sweetie Belle said, shaking her head, “and that’s not what was bothering me about the trip out, anyway. I’m afraid of the dark.”

Yona raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? Time for ‘real talk’?”

Sweetie Belle laughed. “It’s too bad, because I really love the dark, too. You get close to ponies that way. It’s real blood and guts stuff.”

“Where is your sister, now?” asked Gray.

“Probably still running around town, trying to find where Princess Twilight is staying. I really wish I could go be with her.”

“Oh, dear, that’s easy,” said Gray. “Don’t you worry about me, Sweetie. I get all the tittle tattle that goes on in this town. She’s at the Palfrey Inn.”

Sweetie Belle was so delighted by Gray’s information that she sashayed over and took her by the arm. “Well, would you care to accompany me there, Madame?”

She smiled. Gray gave her a sidelong eye.

“Trying to get me out of the house, eh?”

“Rarity needs me there. And there’s strength in numbers,” she said, turning to Yona.

“Eh… Old building, made for ponies who live in nooks and crevices, not for big strong yaks,” she replied, dropping a folded towel on the counter. “Go with Gray—good at protecting Punk Pony from dark, yes?”

“That reminds me,” Sweetie Belle said, switching to her new companion. “I want to come back and cook for you some time. As a way of saying ‘thanks’.” They said goodbye to Yona and started to go out.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Gray said at the door.

“Oh, yes. Mostly breakfast…”

=======Volume Three: corsi e ricorsi

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She Complains...! (pt .1)

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Winsome Weathervane, when asked why she—the charge housekeeper of the Palfrey Inn—so loved to recuse herself to maid’s tasks in the linen room on the third floor—spraying and folding towels, loading wheelies to the brim with fresh bedsheets, and so on—sometimes would answer fancifully, in her orange brogue, that the work took her back to younger days, when love was still a fresh blossom seen on an apple tree; or, in a more serious mood, she would reply that it made her think of her father, who had instilled in her, through the example of resigned persistence, that anything worth doing was worth doing, oneself.

In any case, the other ladies were always sent away on such occasions, to tend affairs “more becoming of their ambitions”; and no one could fault Ms. Winsome for the immaculate condition of the linen room, whose compartments and contents were as clean and orderly as the steps to heaven might be imagined.

These steps, in fact, were perfect for accessing a small vent which lay hidden behind a blockade of strategically lain laundry powder boxes, which led into the room behind the north wall—small enough for a cat, but situated to such advantage that, if a full-grown pony were to get on a knee from the counter, and press her ear against the aperture’s cold grate, that full-grown pony might have the privilege of waiting on the conversations of guests that ranged from local heavies to high Canterlot royalty.

The truth was that Ms. Winsome was not the least ignorant of this third advantage of the linen room; and, at present, even availed herself of it—in spite of the press of duty—that she might be privy to the business of Princess Twilight Sparkle, who had decamped at the Palfrey the prior evening.

Some of the younger staff had wondered at the Princess’s appearance at their quaint doorstep; and, questioning amongst themselves why she would choose to stay in above-modest accommodations, as opposed to her own castle, they were swiftly assembled and rebuked by the inn’s proprietor, Mrs. Winter Bottom, who insisted on Her Majesty’s right to privacy, as a condition of continued royal patronage. Twilight, however, and as always, had her Sufficient Reason—she needed sleep, which would be impossible for her if she were under pressure to receive guests in her official palace. She had too much affection for Ponyvillians—who had nurtured her during her tender, formative years—to turn them away; and so, she had made a precaution, not against her former neighbors, but against herself.

But Ms. Winsome, who was wiser than these, was more accustomed to consequential visits of this sort than she might sometimes have been able to admit; and she supposed that the Princess might have entertained an overly favorable comparison of herself with regard to her precursors, Celestia and Luna, owing to her well-known gregarious spirit.

The old maid was sure the evidence to confirm her suspicions was close at hoof; but for all the towels in Baytona Beach, she could not, on this night, make mane nor tail of the chatter which hummed the shaft of her cherished air vent. Twilight was speaking with an advisor who had followed the very same tracks that she had attempted to conceal, and had thus been discovered in private; so that now a small party was discussing with her, at a late hour, a very peculiar difficulty, which she indulged with reluctant patience.

“There have been no such attempts to ‘measure time’,” she could hear the Princess asserting to her interlocutors, “because time is a measurement. Likewise, no one has, or could, make any special instruments for doing so. That’s pure ‘pataphysics.”

“Not so fast!” came another voice. “You can’t tell me that measuring the measure of time is a silly measure! If time is about the movement of the sun and the moon, what do those moving things move in relation to?”

“A perfectly valid question, Pinkie,” Twilight replied, drawing out a pause, “but you’re not phrasing it correctly. You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask.”

Winsome thought she heard some grumbling, and then the reply, “Twilight, if we met at a wedding reception next to a towering cake, and I told you what I thought of how white it was, you’d tell me that we’d need to consult a wedding cake expert, even though the thing was right in front of us!—”

“I’m worried you haven’t been doing your breathing exercises.”

“Every day, three times a day, for fifteen minutes,” Pinkie repeated. “Yes, I have. Thank you, Mom. Geez!”

“Four times a day,” Twilight said, dolefully. “And I doubt you’ve been doing even as much as you say.”

Ms. Winsome’s ears perked at such parries of banter; and what before had seemed to her a Coptic ritual taking place in the next room now demanded a deeper investigation. She descended the counter and made a quick inspection of herself in a standing mirror—slim black tie and tuxedo vest, a white undershirt meticulously checked for wrinkles, rounded out by a red apron, cinched above the waist. It was the uniform she had worn for years—and the one worn by every other girl, old and young, who worked at the Palfrey.

She folded the last of a set of towels she had been working on and made a small stack to carry with her. At the Princess’s door, outside where the battle was taking place, she preened herself one more time with a freed hoof and halted the proceedings within by three quiet knocks.

“…Yes?” came Twilight’s voice.

Ms. Winsome cracked the door and poked her face inside.

“Um, Ma’am… I have some fresh towels here for you, by special order from downstairs. Clean as a dog’s whistle on a snowy morning, I promise.”

“Bring them in, Ms. Winsome, thank you,” Twilight said, waving her inside. “Tell the staff that two will do for me, I don’t need any orders for more.”

“They’re just concerned, Ma’am, that your towels are too cold, I suppose. No worries.”

Twilight and three others, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Roseluck, were seated at a draped circular table by the foot of the room’s unmade king bed. A chandelier hung from the center rafter which bisected the suite, but was unlit—only a few wax candles resting on dishes at the corner of the dresser gave light, and cast much of the room in shadow. Ms. Winsome could see that someone, probably the Princess, had ordered a charcuterie board brought up from the kitchen, and that the ladies had been enjoying cheese as they carried on the dispute.

“Glad to see you are making use of our amenities here at the Palfrey Inn,” Ms. Winsome said amicably, stealing a glance at the glowing faces of the guests as she passed over to the dresser. “Let us know if you need anything else, dear. Oh…! Look at this mess. Luna come up, this won’t do. Excuse me, Ma’am, don’t mind me, but I need to clean up a bit.”

She went about pulling all the linens from the large dresser, and sticking her head in one of its cabinets, lilting a few words against its vibrating panels; whereupon, the others put her out of mind, and felt at liberty to continue their conversation.

“Look, forget about what this has to do with me,” Pinkie Pie said. “I’m just surprised to hear you say that the nature of physics has no bearing whatsoever on the crime at hoof. You know that can’t be true, Twilight.”

The Princess, notwithstanding feeling she had an upper hoof to her opponent, was embarrassed to be levied with such an indictment. “Not in that way,” she replied. “Not as intuitively as you describe. Your idea is that there is a luminiferous nostalgia which permeates Equestria and that, since we correct for it in Ponyville, there is uncanny, permanent stability everywhere else.”

“Correct.”

“At the same time, your ‘luminiferous nostalgia’ strikes as an invented medium, one which, according to you, can only be detected thanks to a machine which causes systematic patterns of interference on birthdays and holidays. That’s simply not true, and not even provable. It is a tendentious argument.”

Pinkie Pie puzzled a moment. “Well, you can’t prove it’s not not true, either, now can you?”

“I can’t, and that’s not a good—”

“Can you prove that nostalgia doesn’t exist? That it’s an invented medium—as you say? I think it would seem like a very natural thing to most ponies, even if we haven’t come up with a fancy way to talk about it yet. That’s my point, Twilight. You’re not understanding the nature of scientific breakthroughs!” she finished, pounding the table with enough force to rattle the saucers around the charcuterie board.

“I didn’t deny the existence of ‘nostalgia’. Everyone has nostalgia, but the contents of nostalgia are relative to each creature. It’s the characteristic of nostalgia, as such—what is nostalgia to me might be forgettable to you. What is nostalgic to Princess Celestia might seem a daydream to a dragon king, or an old donkey. Don’t you think so, Pinkie?”

Pinkie Pie went on stuffing herself with cheese, reminded of her appetite by the clatter the table had made, only keeping a locked gaze with the Princess to remind that she hadn’t gone soft in the argument; all the while, however, she found herself troubled by the contradiction Twilight had presented her. But she was so convinced of the explanatory power of the Interferometer that she crimsoned at the thought of giving it up to an intellectual rival; and might have concluded the interview with “Okay, but I’m watching you”, or some similar threat, had not the Fairie Queen of relaxation, Fluttershy, intervened to diffuse the situation.

“Um… I have a teeny-weeny objection to your description of nostalgia, Twilight. If I might… Yes? I can proceed? Well, it seems to me that, if it is true that our sense of time is so relative, there ought to be certain observables in our… ordinary experience? that are simply unaccounted for if we look for them around us in Equestria. To do this, perhaps, it might be easier to imagine that we have a pair of binoculars, which allows us to see from different points of view as well as our own.”

She put her hoof on Rose’s shoulder. “It might be that time flows for her much differently here than in a town like Dodge Junction. The pace is much more quick in Ponyville, as anyone will tell you. Why, I suppose that dear Rose might be as old or even older than some of the ponies back home, who just saw her off as a filly. If our relationship to time is relative, then to them she is a filly, just as she is a mare in the crisp autumn of her life, to us.”

Rose smoothed her tasseled white mane down the front of her forehead; Fluttershy caught her, and smiled as she brushed aside a lock of her recalcitrant mane. “It doesn’t matter, Rose. Because—well, I’m sure you’ve heard about the tempo of life in Manehattan. What do we see when we point our binoculars there? I’ll tell you what I see. You are so ancient there that you have achieved a proto-immortal status. Because they live many lifetimes, in your one.”

“…Oh,” replied Rose.

“Yes. Statues of your likeness would line the streets. Talking photographs of you would entertain children, and bring comfort to the sick and dying. And, no doubt, one of those would want to fight you, want you dead… Because you reflect the establishment, and the world would be bleak for some ponies. Do you dig it, man? They would use time travel to go back into the past and right what is wrong in the world… So that the future, to them, would be livable. They would be, like… serious consequentialists. But as you see,” she concluded, turning to face the whole company again, “Rose is alive and well with us, so there must be some... absolute attribute to time.”

Pinkie leaped up. “Yeah! And because of all that, my theory of the luminiferous nostalgia holds, pone erat demonstrandum.”

By this time, Ms. Winsome had had several opportunities to overhaul the sheets and blankets in the dresser, but still little to pass onto the girls in the way of gossip, for all her effort and ingenuity. She cursed bureaucracy as she looked for a way to maintain her presence in the room; and, noticing that Pinkie had now devoured all the cheese which had been laid out, decided to offer to refresh the charcuterie for the ladies.

“Thank you, Ms. Winsome,” Twilight said, not looking at her. “Clearly I’m off-base in my modest assessment of the situation,” she continued, engrossed in the talk at the table. “I will say, in my defense, that my concern for Ponyville runs deep, and especially deep for the ponies who live here. And you are right, that I don’t appreciate the seriousness of theories. You’ve heard it said, I imagine, that if an earthquake were to swallow a small village that no one would notice—but a story about the same village would keep even the most frigid misers awake at night. And so you’ve reversed the order of causality and gone looking for the geography of that village. As I maintain, ladies, that’s not how science works, and I fear it’s a distraction from the work we’ve been commissioned to do. What say you, Rose?” she asked, turning a friendly gaze on their reticent listener.

Roseluck stood up and made a short bow over the table. “W-well, f-first I’d like to thank you for meeting with us tonight, Your Highness, on s-such short notice.”

“It comes with the territory—trust me,” she answered casually. “‘Twilight’ is fine, by the way.”

“Oh, no no—I would prefer if we observed stricter formality—m-may I stand over here?” Rose asked, scraping her chair on the floor.

“Hmm… I suppose so. If you prefer it—”

“Please, My Lady,” she said, making another bow.

Ha! Another looney makes it past the gate. Ought to get interesting now, thought Ms. Winsome.

“But don’t you remember that we’ve already met?” Twilight said. “It was years ago, when I was living in the old library. I was hosting a dinner for some visiting friends from Saddle Arabia and you helped me with some wonderful bouquet arrangements—”

“Think nothing of it. I don’t want to lose my head in old memories and neglect to honor your high position, Your Reverence.”

Twilight’s face drooped a little as she carried out the orders she had been given. “Very well. What say you on the petition that these your fellow equines have brought forth for my review, loyal subject?”

It might be remembered that the florist’s malady—quite apart from concerns about burglars and magical menaces from mysterious woods—was an acute and unarticulated loneliness, a lot not uncommon for ponies who make personal sacrifices at the altar of entrepreneurial success. The intimate acquaintanceship of a princess, therefore, was too great a stimulus to be a useful remedy for Rose’s real trouble, as a feast might be too large for a monk at the moment of breaking fast; the unanticipated friendliness of royalty did, however, have the effect on her of eclipsing everything else in the room, besides.

“It’s all true, I’m sure,” Rose replied somewhat absently, in regard to the discussion to which she had just been spectator, “though, if you will allow it, I would like to take this opportunity to raise a very crucial grievance of my own, concerning the census.”

“The census?” asked Twilight, looking at Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy for an answer—but they were as surprised as she was by the petition. “Okay, let’s hear it, then.”

Rose shuffled herself into an erect posture, and spoke as though delivering to an audience that lined itself along the room for lack of seating. “It’s perfectly natural that we should want to count the heads of ponies for the purposes of political districting and determining demographic changes. However, as a tax-paying citizen, it has always escaped me why ducks and snakes and bunnies must be included in the same accession. In the first place, these groups do not enjoy any political rights under our system, as such—they are not even considered ‘nationals’. In the second place, the means by which the animals are corralled and counted, is to drive them out of hiding so cruelly as to send them into a violent collective panic. That is what happened at the last census, some six or seven years ago, that you will recall, Your Worship. And you may also recall the stampede which followed it, one which was very costly for ponies living on Mane Street, and that we would not like to see repeated next year.”

Twilight put on a look of concern. “I see. I wasn’t aware that ponies here still remember that day.”

“Certainly, My Liege. I got away easy, with a few nubbed herbs and minor bruises. But poor Bok Choy, the cabbage pony, well, that was his whole livelihood, and it was a cold winter for him and his family that year, a very cold one. And there are others—like Carrot Top, or Red Radish, who I think might testify to the destruction caused by the rampant intruders.”

“Goodness… I admit, it pains me to feel so out of touch with the troubles of Ponyville,” said Twilight, sauntering over to a window as she reflected on the report. “You have my apologies, Roseluck. All of you do.”

“Um, ‘scuse me, Ms. Winsome…” Pinkie broke in, giving the lady an unpleasant poke in the rib. “I don’t wanna be rude, but… You did promise us some more cheese, so, uh…”

Winsome snapped back to herself at the touch. She smiled and snatched up the charcuterie board from the round table.

“Oh, of course, Ma’am! Sorry, I didn’t know you were in such a hurry. I’ll get that up quick as a weed in the heat, I will—we wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable while you stay with us.”

But Pinkie had already stopped paying her attention, being fixed--like Fluttershy was, as well—on the drama that was unfolding in the Sunrise Suite. Ms. Winsome hustled downstairs and into the kitchen, where, stopping at the empty prep station in front of the swinging double doors, she let the board drop, and hollered into the room as down a dark and odoriferous mine shaft, “I need a cheese platter for Princess Twilight’s room! Stat!” Two white-jacketed stallions appeared from around a corner; the first one cautious, and only coming out by the head, like a birdhouse chickadee; and the second an older pony, stout and dusted, carrying a broom, and cussing—the Vedic twin, come to peck the grapes of Ms. Winsome’s wrath, as his more prudent companion watched.

She folded her legs and glared at the shambling cook—anxious that she might be pulled away before she could firmly retrench herself in the Princess’s room—as he pulled out boxes and inspected dates on cellophane-wrapped goods; when, glancing once more in the direction of the stairs, she discerned a familiar voice by the front desk. She looked and, though it defied all luck, found that her neighbor’s daughter, Sweetie Belle, had arrived with one of the old matrons of the town; the former’s hair was dressed, and she was trying unsuccessfully to bargain with the concierge, who as a matter of confidentiality imparted by Mrs. Winter Bottom, denied knowing anything about Twilight or the affairs of the Friendship Council.

Soon the pair appeared to doubt their intelligence on the matter, and were preparing to leave, before Ms. Winsome hurried out and caught them by the elbows. She spun around and addressed the pony at the desk with a playful air.

“Ah! Ah! Are you so eager to turn away guests that I have been charged with receiving, Lucky Charms? Aye, you enjoy seeing me in the dunce corner, I wager, just like the girls in the linen room.”

Lucky Charms made eyes with Sweetie Belle and Gray as he replied with a laugh. “Not you, Ms. Winsome. If you’re a dunce when it comes to this building then what hope is there for any of us? I do have to keep things formal, you know.” His gaze lingered as the smile faded from his neatly shaved black beard.

“Formal, pish!” said Ms. Winsome, brushing Sweetie Belle down by the shoulders. “A mare doesn’t put her hair up like this for no reason, Sir. Come, lass! I’ll show you where everyone’s waiting. You too, Mrs. Gables.”

The concierge stood aside and the ladies went in a train upstairs, with Gray lagging slightly behind as she worked the steep climb of the old building. Sweetie Belle turned back to her and slowed down to keep pace. “Thank god you spotted us, Ms. Winsome,” she said, out of Charms’ earshot. “We’re looking for my sister. Have you seen Rarity, by any chance?”

“Not since this morning, I’m afraid.”

“I was worried you might say that.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s a long story.” Sweetie Belle followed the embroidered notches in the red shag as it rolled over the stairs under Ms. Winsome’s hooves. The carpet felt warm and ubiquitous; Gray began to heave against it from behind. “I hope we’re not disturbing Twilight by waking her up,” Sweetie Belle said, trying to cover her friend’s muffled breathing in the stairwell.

“You won’t be disturbing her at all,” replied Ms. Winsome. “In fact there’s already a tribunal taking place under her watch. There are even two ponies from the Friendship Council present for it, besides her. There’s a pony—will you believe it, Miss Sweetie Belle?—who is in trouble for making future ponies miserable, or some such thing.”

Sweetie Belle stopped. “Wait. You mean, someone’s on trial for things that haven’t even happened yet?”

“By my father’s restful woods, it’s true. And it’s a good thing you’ll get to see it, otherwise who knows what kind of mischief you’d get into, a young thing like you, and wind up like that florist.”

“Who? What florist?” huffed Gray, propping herself on a wall.

“Why, Ms. Rose, who lives in the center of town.”

“But how will they even know what charges to press?” Sweetie Belle asked.

“We reap what we sow, Miss Sweetie Belle,” Ms. Winsome answered superciliously and impatiently. “That’s the whole business of flowers, isn’t it? We were told she was running around impersonating Old Princess Celestia, wearing clown make-up and colorful hair. She says she has had just about enough of such glamorous royalty and is on a mission to put down the establishment in Ponyville. And it makes sense, the detectives say, that someone from Dodge Junction would think such things, and have such spirit, because they have a different flow from us.”

She stopped at the top of the stairs. “Well, what is it, now? Come on. Don’t waste your chance to hear the verdict dallying out here.”

“We’ll be right there,” Sweetie Belle said, taking Gray’s side. “Give us a moment.”

“I’ve changed my mind, Sweetie,” the old mare whispered to her, without being prompted for the cause of her distress. Her eyes flitted about as though she had left something important back at her little house with Yona. “I can’t go up there. I can’t.” She lumbered down to the next descending step to show her resolve, but Sweetie Belle caught her gently by the sternum.

“Whoa, whoa. What’s going on? You’re leaving?”

“It’s what happens when you get old, Sweetie,” replied Gray. “I’m very tired. My energy is gone from me. I’m sorry.”

Sweetie Belle maintained her hold. Gray stopped resisting, softly panting and keeping her gaze turned away from her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Sweetie Belle said.

“I need to sit.”

Sweetie Belle let go. Gray lowered herself down and remained quiet as she caught her breath. Then she said, “I know the pony under interrogation in that room. I don’t know if I have it in me to see her.”

“Is it an old enemy?”

Gray winced a little, and laughed. “Goodness, I wish you hadn’t said that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sweetie Belle took a seat next to her.

“She owns a store in town,” said Gray. “I’ve known her since she was a very little filly.”

“So you’re close.”

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“Hmm… That does sound a little bit awkward. But, in my experience, when you have a friend that you’ve been out of contact with for a while, they are usually happy to see you again.”

“In your experience,” Gray answered quizzically.

Sweetie Belle traced her hoof along the shag of the red carpet. A mug. A mug for Apple Bloom, next time. ‘Better a redhead than a dead head’… Eh, needs work.

“Well… I don’t know,” she said.

“Can’t block the stairs, ladies,” Winsome called down. “We want to make you comfortable while you stay with us but it ain’t the Hotel Belle, for jiminy. Let’s hoof it, now.”

Sweetie Belle looked back over her shoulder to respond; but Gray said to her, “I think it will make her very unhappy to see me again. I knew her parents. She used to come to my shop and play and ask questions. I knew that she really loved me, the way a child loves. And I loved her, too, the way a grown-up in the world does that, without showing it. I wanted to be an example to her that someone can have a happy ending, because it’s such an uncertain thing for all of us.”

Sweetie Belle became thoughtful. “Well, aren’t you happy? I mean… you prayed for me. That was real. That came from somewhere. That wasn’t bullshit.”

“I’m just an old lady who goes to church,” sighed Gray.

Sweetie Belle stood up. “Listen. You go in that room and you say, ‘Remember me? Yeah, my old ass is lonely, so shut up and love me, will you?’ I promise you’ll reach her. A connection like the kind you described doesn’t just evaporate. Sometimes it just needs a little jolt.” She took the old mare by the armpit and helped her to her hooves.

Gray took a few steps in the direction of the Sunrise Suite. As she moved she felt the tight heat of the walls and the sturdy old wood of the stairs underneath her, unyielding to her weight. She breathed heavy again; the shadowed form of Ms. Winsome beckoned down from the third floor.

“Finished catching up then? Good. This way, last door on the right side.”

They could hear talking as they approached the threshold. Ms. Winsome, Sweetie Belle, and Mrs. Gables were greeted by the warmth of bodies of the room and a flicker of surprised glances as they entered; but as far as the Princess was concerned, they went completely ignored, either by the latter’s intention, or because she was so concentrated on rendering her judgment to Rose and the others, that she did not stop to notice the appearance of new auditors to her performance.

She gave the following decree:

“Pinkie Pie, if you are able to find time in your schedule tomorrow morning, I would like you to go and see Mayor Lulamoon. Please inform her that, by my Royal Pronouncement, the Ponyville town census is no longer to include data on bunnies, or butterflies, or anything else that might be deemed a threat to Ponyville or its citizenry, if said critter populations should appear there, of a sudden and en masse, as the result of the survey process.” (Pinkie Pie gave her a salute, and assured her that her schedule was always wide open). “As for you, Fluttershy, I will see to it that you are remunerated for the work that you would have done in the upcoming census, by the fulfillment of a different order. Namely, you are to travel to the mountains of Cartmandu to discover for yourself the inner, invisible source of Friendship and to distinguish it from the karmic consequences of administrative piety—in short, you are to go for a period of contemplation and reflection. And you are to remain until you feel sufficiently able to report on your findings, which, We are sure, will be a boon to all of us concerned with the pursuit of Friendship.” (Fluttershy replied that this was fine). “It is my hope that we can all learn from and give thanks to Rose, for living through such trials, and coming out not only stronger, in my opinion, but wiser, warmer, and more thoughtful of others.”

There was a brief silence in the wake of her commands; and, observing a certain confusion in the room, Twilight found where the three arrivals were waiting for her attention, foremost of them the solicitous head maid, who was eager to present Sweetie Belle as a badge of apology for the poorly-timed interruption of a server.

“Ms. Winsome, I would prefer if you’d honor the privacy of a royal audience which I am giving—as well, by implication, the ponies I am giving it to,” Twilight said with detectable irritation. “The grievance of Ms. Rose has been duly addressed—there is no need for her affairs to circulate amongst the staffers, or anyone else who is unacquainted with it. …Hello, Sweetie Belle.”

Winsome Weathervane closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Far be it from me, Ma’am… Oh! the things you must imagine, with your mind in a thousand places. It’s not a life I could manage, I assure you. I only thought that these two ladies with me were privy to your court, as one is the relation of an absent councilmember, you know, and looking quite dollish—and the other seems to be a harmless assistant of hers,” she said wryly.

“If Starswirl himself comes to advise me, please knock,” ordered Twilight, auguring Ms. Winsome’s understanding from a stiff bow. “Now… ladies, if you would kindly wait outside until our business here is concluded, I’d be happy to talk to you about anything—”

“Let them in,” Rose said.

Sweetie Belle, though no longer a filly, had to restrain herself from giddy excitement like she might have had at that precious age, at the anticipation of Gray reuniting with her long-lost admirer; she quietly tip-toed back to give them an arena in which to meet.

Gray Gables stepped forward. Her shoulders felt sunk down. All eyes in the room were upon her—what, now, had she to show for her meting out of life, her patient pining for Silver Shoals, other than a mold-blotted apartment on the modest east end of Ponyville? She searched herself, in the weight of friends and royalty and strangers and silence, for what it was that filled her heart, what it was that profused gratitude each morning she pushed her aching knees out of bed to face the new day. But the words seemed to dissipate in front of her, like a fog, and in their place she saw Roseluck, whose whole appearance tokened the browning gashes of middle age.

After a few false starts between them, Sweetie Belle seized initiative and cleared her throat to address the room. “You know, this reminds me of a joke. It’s about two grizzly bears—big, ferocious things that you can hear from half a mile away, if they get upset. Anyway, these grizzly bears are having a civil discussion. It’s an old bear and a young bear, and they’re talking about who should have dibs on the last garbage can at a scattered forester’s house. The old bear says, ‘I’ve roamed these woods for decades. My time is getting close. I need to eat this garbage to keep up my strength, otherwise I might perish.’ And the young bear, you know, he says, ‘Some other old bear made it possible for you to carry on in the spirit of a bear, when you were young. And I expect you to keep things going for me.’

“A very serious discussion, as you can imagine. They kept at it for hours and hours, until finally, a dog shows up, who had been listening to them. He was something of a public intellectual in those parts. He came over and said, ‘I think I have a solution that will take care of both your needs, old and young.’

“Then the bears turned to each other, and yelled out, ‘Oh my god, a talking dog!”

A hush followed. One by one faces around the room became lighted—first Twilight, who shook her head in disbelief; then, “Ooh…! Because bears don’t talk,” from Pinkie Pie, who whispered it again to Fluttershy; only Ms. Winsome was thoroughly confused, and began inquiring the punchline of the other ladies, to no use—a sight which only added to Sweetie Belle’s satisfaction.

Rose looked sour as stifled laughter circulated around her. She perceived that Sweetie Belle’s joke had been made at the circumstance’s expense, and turned an unhappy look on her; the jokester replied with a wide, foolish, apologetic grin. Watching them, Gray noticed the crow’s feet around Rose’s eyes. She wondered if her old friend had—or might still be suffering—the kind of loss she had endured in the intervening years since their last meeting. Sweetie, full of youth and color and sincerity, formed a contrast. Gray loved her, too, that is, her station in life—different from Rose, who was now embittered—and understood, along with it, what the young pony was yet to endure, as only a matter of time. They shared a common tragedy and joy—the three of them. Gray saw her life play before her eyes through the mares in front of her, and felt it in the weight of her old hind legs which slumped to the floor, looking for rest—for she knew what tired legs meant for an earth pony.

“This is my friend, Sweetie,” said Gray. Her voice stopped the room like a note on a violin.

“Heh, nice to meet you,” said Sweetie Belle. She and Rose shook hooves.

Gray went on, “It sounds like you’re quite busy these days.”

“There’s always something...”

“That’s how it is.”

Another silence.

“How are you, Rosey?” asked Gray.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”

“Too long. How are you?” Gray asked. She tried standing again, but had trouble.

“Off the street. I have my own shop on merchant’s row.”

“I heard, I heard. The Plumerium,” said Gray, smiling and eager as a young filly. “Oh, I’m so happy for you.”

Rose went to give a reply, but seemed to check herself. “Are you really?”

Gray didn’t answer.

“I haven’t seen you. You must be very happy. Much better with me not in your way, isn’t it? Heath Cropper, too, I bet.”

“Rose… I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Oh, to hell with you!” Rose spat at her; she could sense eyes upon her. “To hell with you and your fucking retirement. I hope you have an island on Silver Shoals where nobody can reach you. It’d be a perfect life for you—just what you want.”

Gray went quiet. “I live on a stipend. I’m still in Ponyville. And I’ll remain here.”

“W-what do you mean? A stipend? What happened to Shoreham Accents? How much did you sell it for?”

“It doesn’t matter. That was years ago. I didn’t manage wisely. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that money.”

Rose looked at her, amazed. “That’s crazy. …I can’t believe it. I mean, how could you?”

“Rosey, Heath Cropper died. He’s gone.”

The eyes disappeared.

Gray said, “I got into business because I wanted to provide an opportunity for him. I wanted him to have a good life. I wanted him to travel and meet someone nice, then come back and live near me. That was the life I pictured. I wanted to give him that, you know, after his father died. I said to myself, if I can do that for him, then I’ll have done my part as a mother. It’s all I could do, I think. Then when I got the report from the boating accident—” Her whole body sunk down at the remembrance. Her bright, clean blouse clung to her like a thistle on a wool sock; it was the brightest object in the obscure room, with its candles and its curtains drawn for the Princess’s sleep.

She looked up at Rose with a gaze filled with childlike disgust. “I didn’t care anymore. The whole thing was meaningless and painful to me. I tried to keep up appearances, but… for what? I was ashamed of it all.

“I couldn’t see you. I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you. And I wanted to stay away from the world you were going into. I had sensed for a long time that you wanted separation from me. And after everything that happened, I wished for you to have your dream. You would have a chance to be as happy as I was with my son and my little store. One morning, I woke up with a feeling in my chest, like I had gotten surgery. Something had been taken out—a sickness. I was open, and there was a breeze cooling the wound in my heart.”

“Why didn’t you reach out to me…” said Rose. It didn’t come out as a question. She was humiliated by the offer, but heard herself say, “I would have been there in a heartbeat.”

“I know, dear.”

Rose wasn’t sure if she had told the truth. She cried, exhausted by the night and all the faces in her life that she had tried to explain herself to.

“Rosey. Come here.” Gray wanted to get up, but her knees were too sore from the stairs. She kept her back legs on the ground and held open a front leg for Rose to find her. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Please, come here. Will you forgive me. Please.”

“Oh!” gasped Rose, falling back on her haunches. “Oh! Oh! Sweetie, anybody...!”

“Yeah.”

Sweetie Belle got up and took one side of Gray, and Rose the other. Mrs. Gables groaned as they propped her up; she stumbled a little onto her hooves. Rose embraced and stabilized her and kissed her twice on the neck and buried her face beside hers and didn’t speak. Gray patted Rose’s white hair. She smiled, and hummed something to herself, and a tear fell down her face and thudded on the dark oak floor.

There was not a pony in the Sunrise Suite who was unaffected by the reconciliation between Roseluck and Mrs. Gables. Roughed and red cheeks abounded, and sniffles prevailed under the dome of a respectful silence; even Princess Twilight dabbed her eyes gingerly at the corners, waving a tissue with her luminescent magic. Far from exception was humble Ms. Winsome—who, however, unfortunately found herself in a dispute with one of the serving girls at the crack of the door. She stamped her hooves and in a brash whisper insisted on the authority of her charge, derived from Twilight herself, which would admit ‘no special cases’; until, finally, she stepped back in to congratulate Rose and Gray on their reunion, and to let them know that they should contact her directly, should they need anything else that would help them enjoy themselves ‘while you stay with us’—and left the room.

For the time being, it seemed as though the emotional boundaries of the group had been dissolved by the scene which had played out between the long-lost companions. Sweetie Belle could hardly keep from thinking of her own family, and decided that the moment was ripe to bring out the issue with her sister and the Mirror Pool; though she was, thanks to Ms. Winsome’s confused report in the stairwell, completely ignorant of the discussion which had really been taking place between Twilight, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and the shopkeeper. Thus, she turned to the party, after an appropriate lapse in the gravitas of the moment, and gave the following account.

“So… I wanted to tell you. Yesterday I took Rarity down to the Mirror Pool and I… kind of made her drink the water. I wanted to win an argument with her. I remembered hearing somewhere that, if you drink it, you can remember what you had for breakfast every day for the last two weeks. …That’s important because she was asking me about dieting, and I reminded her that she probably gets donuts from Coco Pommel every other day. So I challenged her to drink the water, to settle our little debate.”

“Drink the water?” cried Pinkie. “Who would say something like that?”

Sweetie Belle shrugged. “Maybe I read it in a book somewhere? I don’t know. Rarity was just as skeptical as you are, but I suppose I kind of… tricked her into doing it. It was a dare between sisters. I’m sure you know how that can be.”

Pinkie fleeced her mane as she tried to recall. “I guess…”

“The point being—and we’re not one-hundred percent on this, but—there may be a clone of my sister running around Ponyville. Maybe more than one. I wanted to inform you of that. And if that turns out to be the case, I want to volunteer myself to help catch it. It’s really my fault, after all.”

Twilight frowned as she turned it over. “I hardly see how it’s only your fault. But yes, that’s certainly something we need to address—"

“I blindfolded her,” Sweetie Belle blurted out.

“Blindfolded—uh, wow. I’m shocked. …We’re going to need to have a talk with Starlight about this. That’s so reckless.”

Sweetie Belle kicked the rug in front of her. “Aw, man! We will? I was hoping that she wouldn’t find out. What a bitch.”

“…Excuse me?”

“The situation, I mean. For me. Twilight… er, Ma’am.”

Her heart raced as Twilight held a leery gaze on her. She noticed that Gray had her face turned away; Roseluck looked baffled, and played with her hair. They were all interrupted by a snout poking through the cracked door. “Ma’am… Ma’am!” it whispered, drawing attention away from the conversation between Sweetie Belle and the Princess.

“What is it, Ms. Winsome?” replied that latter in vexation. “You can come into the room to tell me—everyone can hear you well enough.”

“I’m afraid that I cannot,” she replied, still whispering. “My business concerns a very discreet matter and I do not wish to impose on the present audience, royal orders.”

“It’s not about my towels, is it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you unless all matters in the current session reach a conclusion, and everyone present leaves the room.”

“Why don’t I just come to you...”

Twilight excused herself from the party and stepped outside.

She Complains...! (pt. 2)

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Princess Twilight visored her eyes as she stepped into the hall at the beckoning of Ms. Winsome, not knowing what business that lady might have had with her at such a late hour. She hoped, in any case, it wouldn’t take too long to settle; for she hated to be seen with her hair in wraps, and was—though she wouldn’t admit to it before her close friends—eager to resume her rest before an early departure in the morning.

She supposed whatever it was had to do with a staff inquiry that she was now obliged to handle in person, given the insistence she had made to the confidentiality of the hearing she just presided over in the Sunrise Suite, and under which directive Winsome had now enlisted herself as ensign in her army. That lady now stopped her by the linen room, and asked as though she had just returned from the front line, “Did you hear, Ma’am, that there was something running around by the Everfree Forest, not more than an hour ago?”

Twilight gawked at her. “Oh, no! This isn’t good. Hmm… What did you—”

“I heard it from Second Chances,” Ms. Winsome proceeded, “who offers carriage services to ponies who stay with us, and so who gets about town more often than a scarlet mare—well, he said there was talk amongst the market ponies of a ghastly white thing haunting the plaza and making messes, while others were laughing and arguing with those same folks, saying that they’re just trying to blame their bad luck on other things. Small town politics, you know.”

“All too well,” Twilight remarked with a hint of bitterness. “The best we can do is keep it on the streets and out of places where important decisions are made.”

“It won’t be so easy as you like it, Ma’am. Rumor is that Constable Quiet Step returned from one of his nightly walks with a quatrain on the joys of chickadees upon hearing them rustling in the brush while he took in the air. But who hears chickadees around these parts at night in the middle of summer?”

Twilight sighed. “And that, combined with all of the agitation in the Plaza—”

“You know that we have a lot of history here in Ponyville, living next to the Everfree Forest. You can’t be cross with us for getting worked up when things happen there.”

“I’m not taking sides on this,” Twilight said.

“You can’t make ponies forget those sorts of things, Ma’am,” replied Ms. Winsome, who was, along with everyone else in Ponyville, well-acquainted with her stance on reformation; and who, like others who took too great a comfort staying in the bounds of their native village, projected authority to be a process of forming strategies to advance her own interests. “I hear the police are getting ready to burn the whole thing down to solve it.”

Twilight spun on her. “Wait, what!? And just whose idea is that!?”

A few serving girls stopped in their work to observe the excitement. Ms. Winsome took pleasure in the attention, and fear in the Princess’s anger, and so assumed a more casual tone to comport herself.

“Oh, sure, sure,” she said, “after everything that happened this morning at Sugar Cube Corner, it’s only natural that the mayor, and the land trust, and all of them, I s’pose, are in a conspiracy to put the whole forest to cinders.”

“Well, it’s certainly not going to happen on my watch,” said Twilight, breaking into a pace. “The Everfree Forest is a historical location and a natural habitat. If I have to stick an oversight board in this town, I will. After all, maybe we have something to do with it, if we get a creeper now and then.”

“We have nothing to do with it, Ma’am—with all due respect. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got my place and the goblins have theirs, and if they can chase us out of our homes and shops then we can chase them out, too. Don’t you say?”

“Have I been away for so long that you’ve decided it’s okay to put quaint convenience above your respect for the lives of other creatures?” Twilight replied. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to blame you, Ms. Winsome. But if you can’t live harmoniously with others—including goblins, but not being limited to warm fuzzies, butterfly strokes, afternoon breezies, and chill cats—then you can’t live harmoniously amongst your own kind.”

“You have such a pleasant way of talking,” answered Ms. Winsome, more and more nervous at the heat which her fancy had stirred in her Her Majesty’s temper. “I’m sure you could convince a magpie to purchase its tinsel. Well, anyway, the foresters say that a fire is good for ecology—"

Twilight stopped her.

“I can see where I am needed.”

It was a fact that Twilight—who was as prudent as others might have said ‘brilliant!’, if asked for a description of her—never exhibited herself as a detective, as Pinkie Pie liked to do; but for that very modesty she was superior to her in that role. For, as she listened to Ms. Winsome, the facts of Sweetie Belle’s case dined in her ears. She guessed that the spook in the market must have been the clone her young acquaintance had warned about; and, further, that the timing of its appearance vis-à-vis the grievance of Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Roseluck, explained the incident which took place at the Plumerium. What’s more, she was inflamed by the report of Mayor Lulamoon’s clumsy intervention, who—it must be made known—struck a chord of jealousy with her, ever since the latter’s election to office at her old stomping ground. Such occasions were, amongst nobler imperatives, opportunities to continue their new, bureaucratic rivalry.

“I was hoping to relax,” the Princess said as she ambled back to the Sunrise Suite, “but it seems I have another Royal Pronouncement to prepare, which shall likewise be delivered to Ms. Lulamoon for review tomorrow morning. …Ms. Winsome, will you please have room service send up some coffee—there’s no time to waste.”

“Oh, certainly, Ma’am, but where are you off to, now? We haven’t got to the matter I needed to tell you about, yet.”

Twilight spun around again. “What? That wasn’t what you pulled me out of the room for?”

“Oh, no, right over here,” said Ms. Winsome, indicating the door across the hall. “I remember quite distinctly, Ma’am, that you didn’t want me to disturb your audience, and I thought, ‘Well, what can I do with another audience’? And I remembered that the Indigo Suite is open tonight… Perfect for a separate hearing room.”

Ms. Winsome pushed open the heavy door while she spoke and walked in. Twilight entered, and was saluted by Rarity, who was busy setting coasters for tea on a polished round table in the middle of the room. Her trim waistcoat was browned with dirt, and her mane was thrown up into a bun which betrayed a small patch of scalp along the hairline. She made a smile like a debutante’s and pulled Twilight in gently by the hoof, and even took care to set Ms. Winsome down in one of the room’s upholstered chairs, inquiring of her young nephew, who had been a babe at her last visit; all the while, praising the décor of the Palfrey Inn, ‘the gem of hospitality in Ponyville’, which she had always regretted not having occasion to enjoy, herself.

“It has been so long since I’ve wandered in Ponyville,” she said, by way of apology for her cleanliness, “that I got off the train and caught myself on a root in the old bower by Stirrup Street, and took a dive. And, foolish me, I hadn’t packed for a particularly long stay, and only have one traveling coat. So here I am, addressing you here as though I have just been pushed off a swing.”

“Not a word, not a word, Little Miss,” replied Ms. Winsome. “You’ve always been a proud girl. The moment that anyone here were to take issue with your clothes, you should remind them of your place in the Friendship Council—and, I promise you, they would ask for more dirt, enough to fill all their little flower pots. Don’t trouble yourself about the ladies here.”

Rarity craned back into a laugh. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Winsome! I’m glad to have your trust, though of course I would much prefer to represent my part, rather than wield its reputation in defense of my errors.”

“Forever and always a grand representative of whatever you fix your mind to do,” said Ms. Winsome.

As they talked, Twilight noticed that the tea pot that Rarity had set in the small kitchen was steaming. She remembered, too, when she had seen her at Applejack’s picnic, that her jacket was perfectly laundered.

“You’ll be happy to know, by the way,” Ms. Winsome began, “that you’ve arrived at the perfect time—”

She was stopped by a small kick the Princess had dealt her under the table, which, though not forceful, nonetheless conveyed the terrible weight of a power passed down through the millennia, to which the little maid-mare of Ponyvlle acceded with choked silence.

“Happy to have you with us, of course,” said Twilight, picking up the thread of the conversation, “but I’m surprised to see that you’re still in town. I was sure you had said that you were going back to Manehattan this afternoon.”

Rarity wasn’t sure whether her sister’s mental health struggles or the events which had exacerbated them was the less appealing alibi. “Oh, yes, well… the best laid plans. Actually, dear, I wanted to see you again, before I went.”

“You know I’m always happy to talk. But what do you need me for?”

Rarity hugged an empty teacup to her chest and sighed. “It pains me to say all of this to you, it really does. Sweetie Belle and I had a little excursion this afternoon, which I’m afraid may entail consequences that are beyond my competence to address, try as I might. We were discussing Rolling Oats and all of the cities we might like to visit someday, when, quite casually, I remarked that she hadn’t even seen everything there is to see in Ponyville. Well, poor Sweetie Belle—my partner in crime when it comes to misadventure—she misinterpreted my observation as a slight! She insisted that I show her one thing in Ponyville that would be surprising to her, or novel, or that would instill in her that spirit of wonderment she remembered from when she heard about places like Chairicho or Timbucktu as a filly.”

“I see.”

“Now, the precise ‘wonder’ I was thinking of before our little argument was… I’m afraid, the Mirror Pool. I recounted the lure it had exercised on our dear Pinkie, its hidden recesses, its peculiar natural history, and its place in local folklore—to say nothing of its magical significance. These things, I hoped, would paint a picture for my younger sister. And indeed, she was so drawn in by my ekphrastic spell that she followed me there, quite against what—if she had been fully acquainted with its dangers as well as its charms—would surely have been her own will. At last, we arrived at what appeared at first sight to be no more than a… sconced grotto.”

“I thought the Pool was forbidden,” said Twilight. “That is quite a liberty you took for the sake of winning a bet with your sister.”

Rarity began to play with a strand of hair which she had loosened from her bun. “A bet? Well, call it what you will. I have no defense. I suppose I am just worried about her leaving home, is all. I wanted to show here that there is still magic in this place. You understand, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid to learn what you did to prove it.”

“Oh, Twilight. You know what it’s like to have an older brother. Had you grown up with a sister, you would appreciate the unique connection two mares can have—in some ways, closer than a parent and child, who must respect the distance discipline demands of their relationship. A younger sister is someone who forms a train behind you, and imitates your every hop and strut to their own peril. That sister of yours would be a scrawny thing with a highlight in her hair, just like you have, and you would do the same thing I did, were you in my situation, which was to show that I still knew where to find magic. And so I glanced at myself in the water.”

“Little Miss!” snapped Ms. Winsome. “Now what will your poor mother do, with all of your likenesses coming to dinner? She has duplicates of her own, doesn’t she? She’s always said you and Miss Sweetie Belle were twins enough.”

Rarity seized her by the wrist, saying, “How right you are! And not just about my mother, but others, too, who may be affected by this silly heart of mine, which carried out a misjudged act against my sister’s knowledge, but for her sake—and that is why, Twilight,” she continued, switching to her wrists, “you must help me put a stop to this doppelganger of mine—for any trouble it will cause, I’m sure, will come under your purview.”

“My purview?” Twilight replied. “You must have seen the clone for yourself…?”

Rarity hesitated. It had been just this point—concerning the timing of the appearance of a duplicate from the pool—which was the nut that had divided her and Sweetie Belle back in her old bedroom. But as it happened, Rarity was forced to adopt her sister’s point of view, that the Gemini must have come quickly, or not at all, in order to maintain the semblance of a short timeline.

“Oh yes, of course,” she said, “and the first thing that happened was she found a stallion patrolling along the shadowy perimeter. But before Sweetie Belle and I could intervene they ran off together, the poor fellow believing—no doubt—that he had found his soulmate in this empty-headed imitation of me. Unfortunately, I… can’t remember his face, though I reckoned that little affair wouldn’t have kept her occupied for too long.”

“Huh! Ain’t that a lucky one,” remarked Ms. Winsome.

For a moment, Twilight considered her report in silence. “And what did Sweetie Belle think? Did she maintain that there was no magic left in Ponyville?”

Rarity took a long sip of tea before noticing that there was nothing in her cup. She glanced back into the kitchen then held up a hoof to ask for pardon. “It’s funny you should mention that,” she said. “We had a short talk afterward—hugged it out a little, you know?—and it turned out that she wasn’t so impressed by the Mirror Pool, because the magic she was looking for was the bond that she and I had rediscovered on the way to go see it in the first place. And I told her that the real wonderment was she and I, coming back together after a long separation, triumphantly, to learn that nothing, in the interim of time and distance, had changed between us.”

She gave Twilight a full-toothed smile to signal the conclusion of her tale. By this time, Ms. Winsome seemed eager to dispatch the police herself, to search for the stallion-in-uniform who, at least in principle, had stolen away with her honorary niece. Twilight thanked Rarity for her account and excused herself, promising that she would return after she had a chance to make a few notes in her personal ledger.

“Of course, dear, take your time,” said Rarity. “I’ll be right here.”

Twilight followed Ms. Winsome back out into the hallway with measured, meditative steps. She let the old maid go in advance of her to the Sunrise Suite, but, as for herself, reconsidered at the door; then, poking her head into the room, where the others were still waiting, she asked if Pinkie Pie would join her for a short talk outside.

They found a place by the railing that was out of the way of the servant mares who were coming and going. There, Twilight gave Pinkie the details of the interview she had just had with Rarity, all of which had impressed her as strange—first, the vacant cup and her overall unkempt appearance, and the untruth she had given for it; next, the stallion fantasy, acted out as a drama in front of her high school-aged sister; and, additionally, the formulaic resolution to her dispute that had arisen with the same. Above all, everything contradicted the version of the story the party had heard from Sweetie Belle; and this, combined with the news which had arrived from Ponyville Square, had raised Twilight’s doubts about the identity of the creature with whom she had just spoken. Indeed, she believed that it was not Rarity herself who had come to seek her help, but the dastardly fake, setting up decoy—the same who had caused Roseluck, and in all probability the Cakes, so much grief, and set the town council afire with visions of reforestation.

Twilight brought her voice down to avoid being overheard by the night staff. “You know what would be involved in this,” she said in grave whisper. “We need to get that thing out of the Palfrey and to a secure location, where the work that needs to happen can take place without stirring the local ponies into an uproar—”

“You mean zap-a-roo?!” cried Pinkie. The servers all stopped and turned.

“Heh, please excuse us…” Twilight said. She brought Pinkie to a different corner and resumed, “Keep it down, okay? I was hoping you could help me arrange something, a ruse of some kind.”

“Twilight, are you crazy?!”

“Hmm… Maybe you could tell her there’s a soiree taking place in that old barn on the turnpike…”

“Listen to me—In-ter-fer-o-me-ter. Just point the thing at Griffonstone, they won’t notice!”

“Oh, this again...”

“Yes, this again! You can’t just go around vaporizing your friends—”

“That’s not our friend in that room,” Twilight corrected her. “We need to be smart about this. Poor Rose is already harried enough by monster management in this town that she’s withering away in front of us. Think about what would happen if there were another episode like the one—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” grumbled Pinkie. “Geez.”

“So why don’t you help?”

“Because—” she began to make invisible tally marks—"purple-headed, yes—fidgety, yes—pony-sized, no. According to Rose, the invader was the size of a buckball.”

Pinkie Pie smiled at the standstill which occasioned between her and Twilight following her burst of recollection. But such was the Princess’s sense of justice that, once she saw what was right, she would not let herself be defeated so easily, least of all in the arena of forensic reasoning; for she knew that, though Pinkie was in possession of certain facts pertaining to Rose’s case, she was equally devoted to the theory of the Interferometer—for which, she suspected, her old friend would be disposed to misremember her depositions, and be willing to distort subsequent impressions. Upon quick consideration, she decided it would be best to use Pinkie’s own imaginative power against her, and said, “Well, obviously she would appear to be smaller at the scene of the crime than if she were to visit us here in a quiet hotel. Ponies at rest are always larger than when they are measured in motion, relative to our stationary point of view. You might even say that the shortened doppelganger salvages your luminiferous nostalgia from certain empirical flaws—though of course it doesn’t prove its existence entirely.”

“Say what?” replied Pinkie.

“It’s true.”

“…Explain.”

“All right. You said that the Interferometer causes specified degrees of conflict in Ponyville on predetermined dates and occasions. When the conflict is resolved, a lesson is learned, the perpetrator is reformed, and Equestria returns to a state of equilibrium. These indices, you say, act as a gauge for ‘nostalgia’, the ubiquitous medium on which good vibrations are carried.”

“Like an invisible ocean of rainbow sherbet ice cream upon which sail the Cheshire smiles of Being, to be more precise,” said Pinkie.

“…Sure. But suppose we had a creature that wouldn’t reform.”

“Supposing I did! Then what?”

“Well, ‘nostalgia’ would not be a suitable explanation for the transference of good vibes, since Ponyville would appear to be inert, relative to that creature who doesn’t receive them.”

“…Explain.”

“Imagine a world where there was no change due to your ‘interference’. There would be unfortunate events but everything would go its course without learning or redemption. History would appear to be a series of mistakes leading to nothing. Life for individual ponies would simply run down—their joys would be fleeting. It would even be a mystery to them why they were alive and what they should do. That’s the kind of world I mean by ‘inert’. But, as you see, we don’t live in a world like that.”

Pinkie Pie picked a lash out of her eye and examined it. “Huh. Yeah, talk about weird.”

“Objectively, we could say that such a difficult villain is simply going through a longer process of rehabilitation than what we are used to. But because their progress takes so long it appears to us as though there is an error in assessing it—like if you saw someone measure a pony nose to tail, but that pony was allowed to move around between the nose and the tail measurements—and then the measurer called the result a whole pony. We’d want to measure the endpoints of that pony simultaneously—I know I would—but since we are the ones in error, we’d really be shortening it. So we can say that the do-badder changes to fit our perspective—they become ‘buckball-sized’—because the world we know is not inert.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” shouted Pinkie, scattering maids in every direction. There were now five or six, who, being dressed in similar colors, resembled a gathering of pigeons dispersing over the sidewalk where a bag of potato fries had landed. “We get knocked down, but we get up again. The hard times are never going to keep us down.”

“Right.” Twilight sensed her own agitation begin to recede, and said, “Great. Now, if you can find a way to reach out to the barn ponies, I’ll start working on the drapes and flatware—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Pinkie stopped her, “hold the phone. I never agreed that any of that necessarily proved that… whoever is in there, is a clone. But it does make a pretty good case for my Interferometer. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you just don’t want to give me credit for such a powerful hypothesis.”

Twilight saw that her ruse had failed; but maintaining her composure with the acuity of an experienced high official, she came up with another one. “Fine. Well, if you insist on science, then maybe we should do a test. Let’s ask her a few questions that only Rarity would know and see if she gives the correct answers. If she fails, we’ll send her back to the water dimension of the Mirror Pool, just as we did with your duplicates. And perhaps, in any case, it will be a step toward recommending your theory.”

“That won’t work,” said Pinkie. “Not a knowledge test. If it really is a clone, she’ll be thinking whatever Rarity was thinking when she activated the pool. We would have to tap into something more deep-seated… Hmm…”

“I don’t suppose she hates watching paint dry,” quipped Twilight.

Pinkie frowned. “Let’s be serious here for a moment.”

“…Sorry.”

They went into a slump while they pondered which way to proceed with the test. Something began to rustle behind the door next to them, and the knob turned—a young and freckled laundry pony stepped out, the last of the guard of eavesdroppers. Feeling observed, she greeted as she made her way down the stairs, smiling at another attendant as they passed each other going in opposite directions, one bright red apron for another.

“Twilight, do you think the uniforms here are ugly?” asked Pinkie.

“Not in particular,” she replied. “I would say they are rather dapper. Why do you ask?”

“What do you think Rarity would think of them?”

“Who’s to say,” said Twilight. “I feel dilettantish when I am around her. She could tell me one moment that an outfit was cute, and then silly the next, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Aha—I’m glad you said that,” Pinkie replied. “Do you think she’d be able to recognize Sweetie Belle in one of these get-ups?”

“I have no doubt she would.”

“Rarity would. But a clone wouldn’t. She would be too absorbed in judging the ensemble that she wouldn’t pay attention to who was in it—if we took a little care to disguise them.”

Twilight looked over the railing down on the landing where several attendants circled around each other like drones. “It might work,” she reflected. “We would need Sweetie Belle’s cooperation. But she’d be too self-aware if she understood the purpose of the test. Hmm… Maybe we can convince her it’s an acting exercise.”

“Where I come from, we call that a ‘prank’,” said Pinkie, as they started to walk back to the Sunrise Suite. “See if we can get her to mess with Rarity a little—ooh, this is starting to sound fun!”

“Mess with the clone, you mean.”

“We’ll see...”

Twilight felt herself at a much greater ease in observing her scheme come to fruition; she whispered some directions to Pinkie as they approached the door to the room, and the two mares shared a hoof bump. She really believed, however, that her hypothesis would not be falsified; and she staked the welfare of Ponyville, whose troubles she had been reminded of in the drama of Roseluck and Mrs. Gables, on her special acumen for troubleshooting, which she privately imagined to be one of her own best qualities.

Inside the Sunrise Suite, all of the ladies had made themselves comfortable on the furniture. Yet, there was a certain tension in the air; for, by now, Roseluck and Mrs. Gables had been given sufficient time to catch up with one another, and in the exchange Rose had made a detailed account of the invasion of her store which had impelled her to seek magisterial aid from Twilight. In turn, Sweetie Belle kept to herself on a different side of the suite, faking an interest in antique trinkets. She had become afraid that, besides shielding her sister from culpability with regard to the spawning of a clone in her likeness, she herself had confessed to a crime of a more parochial sort, involving the Plumerium. Indeed, Rose had started to make barbed glances at her; and Sweetie Belle was careful not to betray her apprehension about what might happen—a task which at present required much more tenacity, as Twilight entered back into the room and turned the attention of the company directly on her.

“Ah, Sweetie Belle, just the pony I wanted to see,” she said, in an unpleasantly familiar phraseology. “We have good news. Rarity is here. She showed up while we were outside in the hallway. I told her to wait in the Indigo Suite across the hall until I finished up with my affairs in here.”

“She did?” replied Sweetie Belle. “How is she? I mean, how does she seem?”

“Oh, just as vibrant as she always is,” answered Twilight. “Actually, I could have had her come in here, but I had an idea fly by me when I saw her coming up the stairs. We were wondering if you’d like to help us play a little joke on her—that is, if you’re up for it, Ms. Comedienne.”

Pinkie said, “We were thinking—wouldn’t it be funny if you went into that room and pretended to work, just like you were one of the employees at the Palfrey? Get her to say something silly, that she would never say to her ‘little sister’, then bring her back in here for the reveal!”

“She’ll never buy it,” said Sweetie Belle, as her heart began to beat faster. “She knows me too well.”

“Is that so?” said Twilight. She smiled and cajoled her with a long, purple leg. “I bet you could fool her. I challenge you. This will be your final performance for the weekend. Let’s see how good of an actress you’ve become.”

Twilight’s playfulness altered the mood of the room. Roseluck looked relieved, being herself in need of a little humor, and especially humor which did not place her so squarely at the center of its crosshairs. She shared a disarmed glance with Mrs. Gables, who uttered a quiet expression of surprise at what was transpiring before them; and soon giggles began to flitter amongst all the mares of the Sunrise Suite, but one.

Sweetie Belle could all but give in to the good spirits which now enlivened the group, that which included old acquaintances, a palliated ill-wisher, and a new friend whom she felt she had known for much longer than a single evening. She was stopped, however, by a strange fear. She felt like her heart was in motion, as though it had already left the little river house, to see where else the river might go; it was asking her to leave something behind. She had the ghost of Rarity’s blessing, but now saw that she would have to endure not being recognized by her, to honor that love.

Besides this, for the moment, she wanted to warn her about making an entrance in the Sunrise Suite, where she would surely cause Rose to associate her misfortune with her and Rarity’s trip to the Mirror Pool.

“All right. You’re on!” she said, giving Twilight a return nudge. “Let’s do it.”

They were interrupted by knocking at the door. It was Ms. Winsome, who stepped in and made a bow to Princess Twilight, then brandished at her a freshly loaded charcuterie. “Your cheese, Ma’am,” she said. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Luna come up if I hadn’t nearly forgotten about Mrs. Pie’s request entirely. I suppose the business with the Plumerium is done, then? Goodness, now! Shall we bring Little Miss Rarity in?”

“We’re not quite ready yet,” Twilight replied, “but I’m glad you’re here. Do you have a spare uniform that will fit Sweetie Belle?”

“Why, what for, Ma’am?”

“We’re going to pull Little Miss Rarity’s tail, and we were wondering—”

Ms. Winsome looked around her at the giddy faces in the room and, perceiving that there was intrigue at hoof, required no further solicitation from the Princess to jump in. She dashed out and returned from the linen room with a fresh uniform, which she assured would be a good size for Sweetie Belle, adding in fits, “Oh, boy! What a delight! But not a word to Mrs. Winter Bottom, now, or we’ll all be tossed out. Well, not you, Ma’am, but we modest folk have accounts to pay, you know…”

She helped Sweetie Belle get dressed, fastening buttons and tugging her collar snug against the back of her neck in the silhouette of candlelight: “Loop your tie over to the left… Your other left, lass… Brilliant, there you are… Another button you missed, up here… Let’s check your apron… Hmm… Good enough! Welcome to the Palfrey Inn, Miss Sweetie Belle,” and lead her over to a full-sized mirror.

“How do I look,” Sweetie Belle asked, receiving murmurs from the party. She peered at herself to see if she could discern the answer.

“Take this,” said Mrs. Gables, pulling something out of her shirt pocket. She had Sweetie Belle face her and unfolded a pair of glasses which she landed grinning on her young friend’s nose. Sweetie Belle smiled too, and turned back to the mirror. She felt her heart pounding again.

“Gosh, you look older,” said Fluttershy, almost laughing as she inspected her, up and down. “Would you please, when you have a moment… You see, there’s no more soap in the bathroom, they must have disappeared when the room’s previous occupant… left.”

Now all of the ladies were laughing at her. Gray chimed in, “Yes, Ms., and after you’re finished with the soap I’d like a bottle of rosé on ice, so that we may toast to the future success of the Plumerium.”

“I’ll take a soda!” Rose said, and she laughed, too.

Twilight pondered her. “Hmm. One more thing.”

She raised her horn and a wisp of magic began to hover around its tip like an electrode. A halo brightened the floor around where Sweetie Belle was standing, and she felt a coolness forming anklets around the bottoms of her legs. Twilight closed her eyes. Sweetie Belle thought she looked like she was trying to communicate with her, like she was taking a pulse; she felt a shiver in the haze. Then the eyes flipped open and a jet rose up from the floor underneath her and enveloped her in a fast-moving vapor, cradling her toward the surface of a pool of light. She thought she had seen the eyes glowing but had no wherewithal to reflect, being lifted more and more firmly. She sensed her hooves leave contact with the floor. Then her mane became undone and flew up in the air, and tumbled down the sides of her face as the magic began to fade.

Sweetie Belle took a moment to gather herself, then was prompted by the silence of her onlookers to view herself in the mirror once more. She hardly looked like an intellectual; the pink in her mane had completely yielded, leaving her with a single hair color: a big mop of amethyst that brushed against her work uniform with a sound like plump office ponies squeezing into a coach.

“Hey, no fair!” cried Pinkie, giving Twilight a dirty look.

“Luna come up,” wondered Ms. Winsome, “if she isn’t the spitting image of her sister. You can see it, now. And I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all, Miss Sweetie Belle, because I know how you get.”

Sweetie Belle offered a smile. “I guess after everything that’s happened you might say I’m a little less worried about coming off as a copy of Rarity, heh.”

Pinkie gave Twilight an elbow; to which the latter announced, calmly, “Just a hair change. But the effect is striking, indeed, Sweetie Belle.”

“Call me ‘Tuesday Hills’,” Sweetie Belle said, observing herself in the mirror. “I can already imagine how she speaks, and walks,” she continued, gesturing, “how her coffee tastes to her in the morning. What kind of potato crisps she likes. It’s… easy.”

“Excellent,” said Twilight. “I’m sure you’ll be very convincing.”

“Ma’am,” said Ms. Winsome, touching Twilight at the elbow. “I apologize for my impertinence. But, seeing that Miss Sweetie Belle has never worked in hospitality before—or shall we say, ‘Tuesday Hills’—would it not be fitting that she had a supervisor to follow her? I’m in charge of all the girls, you know, and I think Little Miss Rarity would find it so out of place, if there were a sprout working in her room without any kind of guidance from a superior. Would it not be fitting then that I should attend her in the Indigo Room?”

“Ah… You are so correct, Ms. Winsome, and as brilliant as ever,” said Twilight. “Yes, please. Would you care to accompany Sweetie Belle on her prank session? If you have time, of course.”

“I consider my duty to Equestria above all others,” Ms. Winsome answered solemnly. “Besides, the girls know what kind of worker I am, and that I would never leave them to flounder unless I was under the most critical kind of pressure. Come on then, Ms. Hills.”

Sweetie Belle was so preoccupied with the added complication of having Ms. Winsome with her that she at first did not recognize she was being called by her new name. It would be so many degrees more difficult to get Rarity out of the Palfrey with their nosey neighbor watching them over her shoulder, that she couldn’t think of what to do, and was only startled out of her rumination by the command of the charge maid.

“Girl! We’ve no time to waste, now. We don’t pay you to mingle with the guests.”

“Sorry…”

Ms. Winsome needed no additional direction to carry out her orders. She made Twilight an honorific courtesy and broke for the door with Sweetie Belle moving quickly behind in her innkeeper’s attire.

Their black rear dress shoes clicked the floor, and their sleeves swished with them into the Indigo Suite with militant uniformity. Sweetie Belle froze a little to see Rarity drooped over the table, as anxious-looking as she had left her in the plaza, with a bottle of opened wine at her elbow.

The old maid whipped her out of her stupor with another terse injunction, and Sweetie Belle followed her to the back of the suite.

“Oh good,” Rarity said, watching them pass. “Do you have an update for me, Ms. Winsome?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient, Little Miss,” the mare replied, digging out linens from an armoire. “Twilight is still in a meeting with a representative from the town, and will be busy a little while more. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”

Rarity sighed. “Oh, yes, of course.”

They continued to sort materials from the cabinet, pulling some things out and replacing others. Sweetie Belle worked mechanically, sometimes inciting a soft execration from her mistress. After a few moments Rarity met her with a look and caused Sweetie Belle to drop something on the floor.

“M-Ma’am,” Sweetie Belle answered in a deep voice.

“I have a question for you,” Ms. Winsome said, interrupting them. “Do you think you can answer it?”

Sweetie Belle nodded.

“Can you count how many front hooves you’ve got?”

Sweetie Belle held up her front legs and smiled grimly.

“Good, good,” said Ms. Winsome, “I can see you’ve gone to school. You can do other things with them too, besides counting, if you really practice. …And what are you doing now, posing for Ms. Rarity? Start taking the old sheets from the bed, before I have to retire. Heavens.”

Rarity disguised a chuckle and turned in her chair to observe as Ms. Winsome found her rhythm with the new hire.

“Take the mattress, now… That’s the box, lass… Now, hold it up so that the slip won’t go when I put it over—hoof cracks! there it goes, just as I said. Pick it up again. No, no… Listen, I’ll hold and you put the slip. You’ve got the wrong end… Oh, I guess I’ll just have to do that, too…. It’s okay, lass, there are many uses for one of your faculties, even if we haven’t thought of them yet. Get the next sheet, will you? There’s a girl. …Try not to wink at Ms. Rarity, now, while you do it.”

“First day?” Rarity said, trying to relieve the young server of a little pressure. Sweetie Belle smiled but made no definite answer. “Not to worry,” Rarity continued, “you’ll get the hang of it. Don’t take it personally if Ms. Winsome starts to get under your skin, she simply has a very direct way of getting things done.”

“Lift,” ordered Ms. Winsome.

Sweetie Belle picked up one side of the mattress while Ms. Winsome swept by her like a figure skater, making rapid adjustments to the skirt and to the cinch of the slip cover.

“Drop. Other side.”

Sweetie Belle hastened around the bed and the ceremony was repeated. When they were finished, Ms. Winsome grabbed a heavier blanket and tossed it in her direction.

“Follow me.”

She pointed up in the air and let her two front hooves come down in wafting separation. Sweetie Belle understood, and they each took a side of the blanket and threw it up over the bed like a parachute. Then Ms. Winsome pointed her snout for Sweetie Belle to meet her at the head, where they both took the hem of the blanket.

“Look.”

She held it up to show Sweetie Belle her grip. Then with ‘two, three…’ they folded it in synch, forming an attractive overlap. Finishing this, Ms. Winsome squatted and tucked the comforter under the mattress with quick chops, which Sweetie Belle attempted to imitate, but at a laggard pace, until she met the older mare at the center.

Rarity gave them applause at the sign of their completion. “Yay! Freshly made bed. And a virtuoso performance, Ms. Winsome. Both of you.”

“Aye, she’s a pretty thing, isn’t she…” grunted Ms. Winsome.

Rarity laughed. “Now that’s not nice! She’ll learn… What’s your name, honey?”

“T-Tuesday Hills, Ma’am,” Sweetie Belle replied in her deep voice.

“A pleasure. Well, I’m Rarity, as Ms. Winsome has said. How do you like it here?”

Sweetie Belle managed a smile. “Not too bad.”

“Better than ‘not too good’, eh?”

“Much better, in fact.”

They shared a laugh at their small town dialect. Then Sweetie Belle said, “Uffda! You look a little worse for the wear, stranger, if you don’t mind my commenting.”

Rarity stopped in surprise. “Well now, and perhaps I do?” She fluffed her bun and went back to sulking at the wine bottle.

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“It’s all right.”

Ms. Winsome hummed a little melody for Sweetie Belle to hear as she worked at the bed matching pillows to their cases. Somehow, the lady sensed that it had stung her more than she had expected to be introduced to her own sister—to say nothing of following that introduction with a faux pas, and becoming a source of minor aggravation to her. The little smile that Ms. Winsome kept to herself was brandished like a weapon, but Sweetie Belle resolved to hold back the tears she felt as the effect of that humiliation.

“How about some tea,” she said, glancing over at Ms. Winsome. “Something we can share together. We could use a break. And it would be nice to talk, anyway, if you don’t mind. I know a good blend for relaxation.”

“A fine idea,” said Ms. Winsome. “But perhaps you should see if your guest is interested, first, lass.”

“Really, it’s fine,” said Rarity. “I’ll take whatever company I can get.” She reflected for a moment, and added, “But I’m really not in the mood for tea. Why don’t you share some of this with me, dear? I wouldn’t mind at all. What’s wine without friends, anyhow? Please, grab some glasses.”

“You heard her,” said Miss Winsome, visiting one of the cabinets. “Have a seat, Ms. Hills.”

She took out two crystal glasses and set one of them in front of Sweetie Belle. Then she slid the wine bottle over to her like a big puck. Sweetie Belle picked it up—it felt heavy in her hooves. She filled her own cup less than halfway, gingerly, then leaned over and obliged Ms. Winsome in the same, and topped off her sister. The potation had a pungent, fruity scent which prickled Sweetie Belle’s nostrils as she sniffed it; for, despite her pretenses toward mature interests, she had never tasted alcohol in her life, as her age had prohibited that indulgence by law.

It was a moment after Rarity took a sip, when she turned to Sweetie Belle and asked, “Is it not your druthers?”

“I don’t have a favorite,” she replied. “I’m not really an aficionado.”

Rarity winked at her. “Not too much, then. We don’t want you flipping tables at work. But have a little, Ms. Hills, and do tell me a little about yourself. I rather enjoy meeting new folk, despite appearances.”

Sweetie Belle gazed down the length of one of her pressed white sleeves. “Me? There’s not much to say, really. When I got out of school I wanted to be a singer. I got to the city, did a couple small-time musicals, made friends with some ponies on the scene. It was fun.”

“—And,” Rarity interrupted with a teasing swill of her wine glass, “what did you do for money, dear? Let’s cut to the chase. I have acquaintances of my own that frequent these sorts of circles and I know you weren’t taking in much just starting out, if anything at all.”

Sweetie Belle thought for a moment. “I got by. I worked at a museum and did some gig work cleaning peoples’ apartments.”

“And now you’re here—” a confused look lingered on Rarity’s face.

“And…”

“And now, what?” Rarity asked impatiently. “What brings you to Ponyville? You’ve picked up some lingo, I see.”

Sweetie Belle raised the cup to her lips to give herself time to think of an answer. The wine was tart and full on her tongue, and left a burning sensation in her throat like a hot stone that passed into her chest. She sat with the weight of it for a moment, then replied, “Well, the reason I’m here is that I have a little boy that I have to take care of.”

Ms. Winsome lurched forward, choking back the wine she had been sipping on. “Certainly, Ms. Hills!” she roared out mirthfully, “why, how could any of us in this cramped cupboard of an inn forget it? You’re always singing his praises like a canary, until we’re ready for the fumes to take us, at last. Aye, what a doting figure of a mother you strike, anyone can see.”

“He’s my child and I’d throw myself onto train tracks for him,” replied Sweetie Belle. “If I have to endure a little ridicule from you and the ladies, Ma’am, it’s not much matter to me.”

“Of course, of course! Let’s have a toast then, to motherhood,” said Ms. Winsome, raising her glass, “and those sympathies it imparts to us, either directly or by reflecting from others like Ms. Hill, which protect and preserve the children of Equestria—to say nothing of producing them. Though I suppose you and I,” she resumed, nodding at Rarity, “will have to settle for the sympathies of a sister.”

“To motherhood,” Sweetie Belle said, holding up her glass and leering at Ms. Winsome.

“To motherhood.”

They clinked their glasses and took a sip from them; upon which note Rarity, whose portion was already a bit farther down than her companions’, proceeded with her investigation of Ms. Hills. “I want to apologize for being curt with you earlier, Ms. Hills. May I call you Tuesday? Very good. I’ve had a long day… I want to know more about you, Tuesday. Forgive me if this is too forward…”

Sweetie Belle said that it was not.

“Good, good. I’m just… I want to just talk. And I feel very comfortable with you. If I get too personal, feel free to correct… But, darling, you look not much older than my sister, who is not even done with high school… and you have a little one? What’s his name?”

Rarity’s eyes looked as dark as the wine, with something desperate in them that frightened Sweetie Belle. She turned her gaze and scanned the table for an answer. “I named him Meadow Lark,” she replied, “after the old tune. I think he’ll be a singer one day, like me—er, like I was. Just… better at it, hopefully.” She smiled.

“I love jazz,” said Rarity. “Though I didn’t know much about it until I moved to the city, to be honest. You can hear strains of jazz everywhere, on the streets there… Anyhow, I’m sure he is extraordinary, if not a lot of work for you.”

“Oh yes, one-hundred percent…” Sweetie Belle answered, already dreading the follow-up.

“Where’s dad?”

“Wait till you hear about this one,” Ms. Winsome broke in, enjoying herself so much that she had forgotten that she was on the punch clock. She rocked back in her chair and said in a scowling voice, “Oh, what a slimy bastard he is!”

“No!” said Rarity, grabbing Sweetie Belle by the hooves. “Don’t tell me…”

“He’s… out of the picture.”

“Dead?”

“No, I mean… We don’t see each other.”

“Well, then, he ought to be dead!” thundered Rarity. “Call me a cynic, but I have the stinking suspicion that he doesn’t support you and Meadow Lark at all.”

“I mean, kind of…?”

“Kind of!? What does ‘kind of’ mean?”

“He sends me money,” Sweetie Belle answered hastily. “He runs a valet business in Manehattan.”

“Oh, right. How many broke stallions I’ve known who own their own businesses.”

“As long as I get a check at the beginning of the month, I don’t care,” said Sweetie Belle.

Rarity blinked at her.

“We ended amicably,” Sweetie Belle added, immediately regretting her choice of phrase.

“Amicably…” Rarity repeated the word to herself; the effect of the alcohol on her judgment seemed to diminish. “You’re young. You have a career. Then, you have a foal with some urchin hustler. He lives in the city and sends you checks while you work as a maid in a small town. There is no way something like that ends amicably.” She let Sweetie Belle have a long, disapproving stare. “You’re protecting him, Ms. Hills. I suppose it is not my business and I should let it drop. But you’re not doing yourself, or your son, or any other mare, any favors by doing so.”

“I’ve been saying that for weeks,” Ms. Winsome interjected with a cloying smirk.

Sweetie Belle ignored her, took another drink, and leaned into a long sigh. “He just needs time. Neither of us were expecting Meadow Lark, but… You should see the way they interact, Ma’am. I almost hate to say it, but seeing that makes me remember why I fell in love with him. And I just know that he loves me, too, still… He loves us. Life is complicated for an entrepreneur, and it can be hard to settle. You have people you love at home, right? Er… Oddity, was it?”

A shriek of a laugh escaped Ms. Winsome. She flew into another performance, this time making encomium to Ms. Oddity, whose clear-headedness, she insisted, was a model for Ms. Hills’s own; and with such zest that Sweetie Belle became alarmed, lest the cover of the operation be given away by the insinuations of that lady, who had been persuaded by the grape to make them as volubly as possible. Ms. Winsome, then, was startled to hear a knock on the door; and still more to hear a voice call from the other side of it, “Is that you, Ms. Winsome? Thank goodness… We’ve been looking everywhere!”

She fell forward, and, supposing she might be caught en flagrante partaking in libations with guests during a shift, gave a hurried response to her inquisitor.

“Yes, who is there? Just allow me a moment, will you? I’m having a business conversation with a client about the catering on Wednesday—”

A ruby-colored nose poked through the opening of the door. “Miss… Miss! I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“Then don’t!” cried Ms. Winsome.

“But it’s about Mrs. Winter Bottom!”

“Well why didn’t you say so!” She got up and went to the door, leaving the wine glass on the table and looking at Rarity and Sweetie Belle over her shoulder. “Tell me what it is for heaven’s sake,” she said to the other mare.

“She was upset with you about the mop buckets on the second floor.”

“I’ve said it a thousand times that I’ll take care of them before I go to supper,” hissed Ms. Winsome.

“Why, it’s already done, Ms.!” replied the mare. “Early Bird did it before she left, and that’s what Mrs. Winter Bottom was cross about. It was supposed to be your job.”

“What business is it of mine what Early Bird does? I didn’t twist her hoof like some lazy cretin. She’s always trying to jump over her own knees, anyhow.”

“Well enough,” said the other, “but ponies like to talk, you know—not that I believe them—and incidents like these might be enough to convince Mrs. Winter Bottom of that reputation, if you’re not careful.”

“Oh, my cat’s curse upon you and your cronies!” spat Ms. Winsome, leaving Rarity and Sweetie Belle behind to settle her affairs with the other maids. Her voice trailed off—grousing in the short echo of the corridor—until silence came into the Indigo Suite like a soft rain.

They didn’t speak. Rarity looked contemplative of the cup which was now without an owner; she took her hoof off of her own. Sweetie Belle considered whether it was the best time to break the ruse and warn her sister about what was waiting for her on the other side of the hall; that is to say, a potential criminal charge—but refrained. There was something unusual in Rarity’s demeanor which instilled patience in her—a certain willingness to go to jail, if necessary, to allow what needed to be said to come out.

“It’s Rarity,” said her sister in a quiet voice, after a long wait. “Though you can call me Ms. Oddity, if you like. It’s certainly how I feel, most of the time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sweetie Belle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

They were quiet again. “It’s been a pleasure to get to know you, Tuesday.”

“Same,” replied Sweetie Belle.

Rarity fixed her seat, and the old chair creaked under her. “A little about me, then? I’m a Ponyville filly, born and raised. I, too, am an entrepreneur—I’ve been hemming clothes since I was a foal, or close. I got the habit from one of my aunts and I’ve always loved it. True fashion sense—I mean, when it’s really good—is not the opposite of nudity. It makes a pony more naked. It’s like seeing someone waving at you, or winking, or crying, or telling you to bugger off—with their whole life story. Clothes change us. Well, enough about that. Now I own three boutiques of my own—one here, one in Canterlot, and one in Manehattan.”

“Wow,” said Sweetie Belle. “I guess you really love it then, huh? You must be crazy busy.”

“I am,” Rarity said, “and I’m also friends with Princess Twilight, believe it or not. I designed the dress for her coronation—oh, it’s nonsense!”

“What’s nonsense?”

“I don’t deserve any of it,” Rarity snapped, eyeing Ms. Winsome’s empty glass.

“Who does?” said Sweetie Belle. After another pause, she resumed, “You sound so accomplished, Ma’am. Meanwhile, here I am making beds and taking licks from old ladies and just trying to… figure it out.”

“We all are, dear. It never stops. When I was young I thought that if I could make it in business then everything would be all right. The whole problem was just a lack of capital. Save money, work hard, eyes on the prize. All the love is baked in. I took it for granted.”

“That’s why you think you don’t deserve it.”

Rarity nodded.

“I know how that feels,” said Sweetie Belle.

“You do not. You have a son.”

“You will too, some day. Right?”

“I’ve always told myself that. But the art world is funny. The psychology just isn’t the same kind that you find in a place like Ponyville. It can be a very… selfish world, shall we say. I’m not sure that it can give a child what it needs. Besides, plenty of my friends have children, and I get to play ‘auntie’, which is the best thing in the world. Imagine having all the fun with Meadow Lark, then being able to say, ‘good to see you, until next time!’ and leaving the messes to someone else.”

They shared a hollow laugh.

“Well, the grass is always greener,” Sweetie Belle said. “I definitely feel that way sometimes, too. I do miss the stage. But for all the ‘mess’, at least there is a pony there that will love you forever.”

“Mmm...”

Rarity smiled and brushed a tear away. Without thinking, Sweetie Belle reached out and put her hoof on Rarity’s wrist. She held it for her, massaging, as the feeling of soft rain came back into the room and her chest became warm. Rarity closed her eyes. She turned Sweetie Belle’s hoof over and pushed it between the two of them, letting it land there with a fleshy thud. They held hooves and looked at one another without speaking or averting gazes for a long moment. Rarity squeezed a little. The wine seemed to have settled in their glasses like paint on an old doorknob.

“Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said. “That’s you. It has to be you. I recognize your eyes. And your smell. You must be nervous. Don’t lie. Tell me.”

“Uh… hi.”

“Hello.”

They laughed again, slow and long like a sunset, swinging their held hooves like children.

“You’re a good actress,” Rarity said. “You had me convinced. You still have me convinced. Bravo.”

They were quiet, still, in the wake of their ‘hello’.

“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle. “I wanted to warn you—you want to stay out of there, Rare. There have been things happening in town which you might get in trouble for, but I think it will be okay, as long as the ponies involved don’t see you and draw unwanted conclusions. I’m covering for you—” she looked at her uniform—"uh, I’ll explain later. Just get out, while you can.”

Rarity shook her head. “No need for more deception, I say. I’ll go in. I certainly don’t want you to suffer for my mistakes. We’ll face it together, how about that?”

“Are you sure?”

Rarity let go and got up. She set the wine back in its ice bucket and said, “Let what will happen, happen.”

Sweetie Belle smiled. “I feel the same way.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ5FMEjWr5Q

She Complains...! (pt. 3)

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Sweetie Belle’s prolonged absence raised the suspicions of all the ponies who were waiting for her back in the Sunrise Suite. Fluttershy and Mrs. Gables found a corner in which to converse, as the others seemed to have become sullen and untalkative in the anticipation of the execution of their prank on Rarity. But having little in common—the old lady had never once touched a coloring book—their conversation returned, by and by, to the spectacle of Sweetie Belle’s costume change that they had both seen, and all the preparation for that performance, and how it ought to be the funniest thing either had been audience to in years.

So went their circular talk as the Princess, the ‘Pataphysicist, and the Florist formed private camps in different parts of the room. Twilight sat at the round table, having tired of the conspicuousness of the bed, and stole glances at the door; she now would have welcomed an intrusion from Ms. Winsome, or a maid in contact with her, who bore tidings of the conclusion of the experiment. She felt her eyes get heavy, and worried that if it took too long to identify the cretin she would be forced to chose between the welfare of Ponyville and her punctuality with regard to a highly formal panel appearance at a beer-tasting competition in Griffonstone.

For her part, Pinkie Pie might have been pleased at the delay in the outcome, as evidence that Rarity had recognized her sister, and had therefore gone beyond pleasantries with her (as indeed they had); but so tuned was her mind to the machinations of scientific reasoning that she wondered whether the lapse in time was itself proof of the relativity of nostalgia, as between two sisters meeting after such a stretch of events and locations; and whether, as Fluttershy had earlier suggested, things were passing much more quickly in the Sunrise Suite than in other certain parts of Equestria, such as the room across the hall. The conclusions of her own truth-seeking began to weigh on her as she gazed into her glare in one of the room’s benighted windows—what would be the significance of home, and personal change, and friendship, if each pony was bound to their own time, anyway?

More cheese…

But even more to her present dismay, Roseluck had stationed herself with the charcuterie board, taking two bites to eat each single square she took from it. She stood next to Fluttershy and Mrs. Gables, but kept her eyes on Twilight and Pinkie Pie. She had begun to ponder the Princess’s use of magic, which seemed to her a hard squeeze for what, apparently, was meant to elicit a quick laugh; and, seeing how serious they had become in the interstice to the result, she supposed that Pinkie and Twilight held a secret pact of some kind with one another—but yet was too short of proof, to risk flying to accusations before such honored company.

Of a sudden, Sweetie Belle and Rarity entered the room in a grand style, laughing and fleering as though they had just come off carousing together at a cocktail lounge. In the hall, Sweetie Belle had mentioned the need for their final deception, that is, for Rarity to act out the surprise which she imagined her supporters in the Sunrise Suite to be innocently looking forward to. And so Rarity ended a peal of aristocratic laughter, finding herself in the midst of acquaintances of old, with a gasp that made the others wonder if one of them was sitting on a breakable antique.

“Oh, Twilight!” she said, “you didn’t mention that you’d be entertaining so many guests! How lovely. And here I thought that you had abandoned me in that little bedchamber and completely forgotten the matter! Well… I’m happy you’re all here, because I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Tuesday Hills. If you would step forward, dear.”

Sweetie Belle swaggered over and tossed a leg over her sister’s shoulder. “Nice ta meet’ya! It’s, uh… a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ovah here.”

“…And she’s a fellow Manehattanite!” Rarity said. “How about that? But surely, Ms. Hills, you’re being extra courteous for my sake... You must have already met some of these fine ponies.”

Sweetie Belle gave her a knock on the cheek. “Ey…! More than you might imagine, toots.” She winked at the others and removed the glasses Gray had given her, exposing her true identity for her sister to see.

“Surprise! It’s me!” she said.

“Why—it’s—what—Twilight!” said Rarity, holding up her sister’s hair, and inspecting her nostrils. “Let me look closer, because I don’t believe it—Oh! oh! I’d recognize that nose anywhere. It really is her! It really really is!”

Fluttershy applauded the performance and was overcome with laughter as Rarity continued to solicit reactions from her crowd; but whether that performance was under-executed compared with the practiced expertise of her sister’s, or whether she simply lacked a commitment to the internal experiencing of her role, the feeling of tension between camps rose—until a sound burst through the room, and, like a shot fired at the opera house, sent all parties into a frenzy. For Twilight, upon seeing that Rarity had been successfully duped by her sister, and wishing to put an end to matters without further delay, sparked her horn so that the room glowed with its charge, and loose stationery whirled about in its twisting force. These sights, however, were no deterrent to her opponents, who cried imputations against her in the tempest; the first Roseluck, who had experienced flashbacks of the invader’s colors and mannerisms watching Rarity’s presentation, and who insisted that her presence at the conference was a sign of conspiracy against her, on the part of the loathsome Friendship Council, whose design it was to destroy small businesses; and the second Pinkie, who interpreted Rarity’s wooden acting as an indication of inside joking, and who was therefore convinced that her world-adjusting Interferometer had not been falsified by a negative result.

“This is a public safety issue!” Twilight hollered back beneath the blowing wind of her magic. “You have no right to interfere with public safety, Pinkie, which is all you are doing now!”

“Hoh, well!” returned Pinkie, holding fast the top of her blustering mane. “You’re saying I’m dangerous to mental health, Little Miss ‘I wanna go zip! zap! zap!’ at all my best friends?! Why don’t we ask Rose what the monster looked like, shall we? …What about it, Rosey Rose?”

“…Ever since that new mayor stepped into office…” Rose could be heard, between spats of paper being flapped against her face, “…the land and commercial management policies of this township have been devoted to nothing but gentrification… Clean up the sidewalks, lay some patterned bricks here and there… An increase in property values without a like improvement in business, I’m not afraid to say… Too much investment in that riverwalk district just so we can host… What? Theater ponies from Rolling Oats? ...try and convince me that my biggest problems come from outside Ponyville!”

And, indeed, the remainder of those in the Sunrise Suite—especially the two actresses who had starred in the nefarious play—could hardly abjure from conspiratorial thoughts of their own as the debate raged between the three implacable chieftains.

“Sweetie Belle… What the hell is going on?” Rarity shouted in the din, unsure of how privy her sister was to the causes of the chaos that played out before them. “Hey… What the…!”

Sweetie Belle clutched her from the front and swiveled herself so that she formed a shield between her sister and Twilight. “Don’t do anything sudden,” she whispered, as low as she was able. “Please. Stay with me,” she said as Rarity struggled with her.

“What’s the meaning of this… Stop, will you! You’re scaring me!”

She pushed her down but Sweetie Belle held on. Her head rested below Rarity’s chin and she pulled tighter, and Rarity could feel her trembling in her arms. She seemed to have shrunk; her haughty retorts had left her, and she pulled and pulled. Tuesday Hills was gone. For a flickering moment it even seemed as though time were moving backwards. Finally, Rarity freed a hoof and dealt her a blow across the face. It was a hard slap that sent Sweetie Belle tilting backwards; she looked up with eyes that seemed submerged in a dream.

“Fuck off!” cried Rarity.

The room was shaded in amethyst from Twilight’s magic and covered Rarity and Sweetie Belle like poisoned air.

“You can’t help yourself,” said Rarity. “Why won’t you let me be here for you?”

“I just wanted you to see the show.”

The three embattled mares persisted arguing in the middle of the room. Rarity helped Sweetie Belle up.

“Let me handle this,” she said.

“That hurt.”

“What did?”

Sweetie Belle didn’t answer. Rarity brought her close and pressed a long kiss beneath her eye.

“I need you to trust me,” she said, trailing away.

She left Sweetie Belle and determined herself to end the dispute which had caused so much havoc. As she stepped into the circle, little gales from Twilight’s horn blew her hair back, tossing it into wild disarray. Her jacket became disheveled on her. But she waited, until the others were impelled to restrain themselves, or make a decision what to do with her. To her amazement, the magic died down, and silence washed in. She sensed the hard gazes of Roseluck and Princess Twilight.

“Ladies… please,” she said, with as much confidence as she could muster in her ruined and frightened condition. “Plainly, I am the subject of an indictment. This has not been made clear to me. I’m sure you have your reasons. However, in the interest of transparency I would be very pleased to be informed of them before any action is taken against me. Thank you.”

“TWILIGHT THINKS YOU’RE A CLONE FROM THE MIRROR POOL AND SHE WANTS TO Z-Z-ZAP YOU TO ANOTHER DIMENSION!” Pinkie cried out in a single breath.

Rarity gulped her saliva. “I see… Twilight, dear… I am who I purport to be.”

“Um… Not that I’m taking sides on this or anything,” Fluttershy said, teasing a paper clip out of her hair, “but, well… that is something a clone would say.”

Rarity groaned at her. “Thank you for your opinion, Fluttershy.”

“The Plumerium was invaded a few hours ago by a bandit hairstylist who is very close to your description,” Twilight said. “And an illegal trip was made to the Mirror Pool, for which I’ve been given conflicting accounts by you and Sweetie Belle.”

“So you sent her into that room to spy on her,” said Mrs. Gables. “Oh, Princess…”

“It was a test,” Twilight corrected her, “to be absolutely sure that we know what we are dealing with. One that she failed, by the way, for not recognizing her own sister.”

“Ah! Well, in that case…” Mrs. Gables glanced over at Sweetie Belle. “What’s gotten into you, Sweetie? Say something on your sister’s behalf!”

“This is between Twilight and myself,” Rarity interrupted, her conscience still smarting with the red mark on Sweetie Belle’s face. “Leave her out of it. The whole thing was a play. But if you want to interrogate me, I am ready for you.”

“Very well,” said Twilight. She took in the scattered room like a military general pondering the receipts of a fateful campaign, looking out over the smoke of a battlefield between deadly eruptions. If she could not succeed in her mission by diplomacy or by force, she believed there were other means available; and as a commander in war is in their darkest hour faced with the prime riddle of nature, so she was inclined to contest her foe on philosophic grounds, so as to try the value of her ideals in the face of harsh truths, and thus expose her to the judication of the trenches.

With so much formality as was possible under those circumstances, she cleared a spot in the room and set herself up between the curtain posts of the large bed like a sphinx.

“Let’s find out who you are. Join me, please.”

The others stood back as Rarity assumed her place in front of the bed with delicate composure.

“That’s right,” she said, repeating herself, “I am me. And I should be pleased to convince you and everyone here. Do what you will.”

Twilight replied, “The world is deceptive. Is it not?”

“It certainly is.”

“Here’s a question. Are you part of the world, or no?”

Rarity considered the question. “I want to say, ‘inextricably so’, because that’s what I feel. But I can’t.”

“I see. And why can’t you?”

“Because a thing cannot be both absolute and deceptive. There’s nothing ‘inextricable’ about it. There is always something behind deception.”

“If you are a part of that world,” Twilight said, “then you find yourself in a contradiction. If you are not a part of the world—as we have decided you musn’t be—then who are you, and how do you know?”

“Perhaps I am nothing,” Rarity said after a shrug. “If the world is deceptive, it could mean that we are all nothing, you and I, and everyone in this room. Even the room. The point would be moot.”

“You would have no way of knowing, if you are separate from the Known. There would be no ground beneath you.”

“Exactly right.”

“So… you are as blind to the nature of yourself as any duplicate. By your admission, your testimony is as good, as sure-hoofed, as that of a copy, since you have no baseline in yourself.”

Rarity could hear the creaking of the old floorboards of the lake house distantly—bowed wood from age and humidity and river breezes, flap siding faded blue under moss and sun, the unused dinghy that belonged to the family before hers had been there. All boats lead to Manehattan—or to Rolling Oats—but they don’t lead back. Dusty, confused kitchens, numberless coffees, smiles, and short-tossed tales to be forgotten like time’s lighted stage passing through town, forever.

“You’re wrong that a duplicate would be blind to its own nature,” Rarity replied. “That is, in fact, all that it sees—every glance into still water, every stop before a mirror, every pass by a polished window, repeats to it its own face with less normality than the copy on which that existence is predicated. I have seen Rarity looking back at me in the reflection. But I am not certain of her originality. I cannot express my own. Every attempt at a dress is a failure. It would be much easier, perhaps, if I were a duplicate. But I have this terrible blindness.”

“And that is your proof of your selfhood?” asked Twilight. “That you are, essentially, lost in the world?”

“Twilight, remember the day when Pinkie Pie came home with one hundred replicas... How differently they would have integrated themselves into Equestria if they were born of doubt and crisis! They would have founded their own cities, perhaps, or looked for religion or satisfaction in apprenticeship to an art. They would have looked for new cutie marks. Some might have become murderers, or married into a lineage, or gone into the mountains so that they would never see anyone again. But you see how things went. Now, you and I have doubt in us. So to ask me if I ‘know myself’ is unfair, since all I have, as the basis of everything, is a question—”

Once, the only time in her life, she had been in a cathedral in Canterlot.

There was a wedding.

Above the bride and groom were enormous glass windows filled with bright patterns.

The blues were Heaven’s blues. The light looked far away behind them. The light in the chapel was of a different sort.

The reds were like blood, hidden in all of us. Heaven’s blood.

Green and purple: nature and the void.

You can’t see yourself in them. Disappear.

She meant to watch the ceremony. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the figures of ponies in the colors…

Time for flowers. Now the groom sees his bride. She walks down the blood-red carpet to him.

…She sits in front of the void, speaking…

How high those windows were. Vertigo looking up, my wafting red flower petals here on Earth, to say what we see in that distance.

Bounce, bounce…

“Aha!” cried Pinkie Pie, satisfied at her mention, and frolicking over the carpet to join the talk. In the gravity of the dialogue between Twilight and Rarity she had somehow managed to get the charcuterie away from Roseluck, and stuffed herself with cheese as she opined on the proceedings. “She’s the real Rarity, just like I said! And, it’s hard for you to admit when you are wrong, Twily… just like I said! No biggie. But now—I think you’ll agree—we can see just why it’s so important to have a scientific explanation of the little disturbances which go on in Ponyville. Oh! I was thinking, by the way—maybe we can rename the apparatus the Pinkie-ferometer, just to be clear about the progress of our understanding of the physical universe—where it comes from, and all. I mean, I deserve at least some credit for my discovery, right?”

Before Twilight could answer, there was not a knock, but a crash! at the door; and, lo! Ms. Winsome had returned, cantering in after a party of three ponies which had given itself entrance to the somber interrogation room. She begged Twilight’s forgiveness for the present infraction of her royal edict, which she insisted she had tried earnestly to prevent from transpiring once more, ‘while you stay with us’.

The leader of the invaders, Applejack, marched up to the bed, as immune to the prevailing mood of bureaucratic decorum as her hooves were to the dried mud that trailed behind her on the chamber floor. With her was a cohort consisting of Rainbow Dash and, of all ponies, Mr. Pennywise, who carried with him a large birdcage encasing the very creature that only hours before had ravaged the Plumerium. Roseluck jumped at the sight of it, nearly toppling poor Mrs. Gables over; and the maids outside, some of whom had been erstwhile eavesdropping (it might be assumed that Ms. Winsome counted amongst their number), now had a clear view of the Sunrise Suite, and an excuse to be witness to the spectacle within.

“Howdy, ya’ll!” boomed Applejack with proud rustic courtesy. “I hear ya’ll are havin’ a private talk. Thought I’d let myself in… Figured you might be interested in this.”

Rarity stood at a loss for words for the first time since her departure from the Indigo Suite; she couldn’t believe the simulacrum of her which sat on the perch, so unflattering, patting its big, round belly—full of who-knows-what—and grinning smugly into a tiny tin mirror. Sweetie Belle’s spirits began to lift again at sight of the obese and insipid version of her older sister, and the look of shock which it gave to the same, as more staff began to gather round and stare.

That damned coconut, Rarity thought.

“By all means, come in,” Twilight said to Applejack while she shooed onlookers back from the exhibit she had brought in. “It’s just… Well, I had no idea you had any stake in this.”

“Me neither, Twilight,” Applejack replied. “Rainbow and I were about ready to turn in when Mr. Pennywise came knocking at the door.”

The old stallion gave his serene look to the crowd standing around before continuing. “Can I get a cup of something, Princess? If you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” said Twilight. Having no more use for intrusions, she turned a condescending eye on the head maid. “Ms. Winsome? And why don’t you bring us a little more cheese, too. Pinkie Pie seems to have eaten everything.”

“You must admit, Ma’am,” Ms. Winsome answered with barely concealed indignation, “that it’s not a fair thing to send me away, with all these ponies around who could help, besides me, and who have much less right to hear the story of this strange little creature than I do, who have been serving you all night.”

“I’d be most grateful, Ma’am,” Pennywise said by way of thanks.

A few of the serving ladies muttered objection to the claim of Ms. Winsome’s. Twilight, silencing them with a raised hoof, replied, “It’s only because you’ve served me so well that I continue to trust you, most of all, with my errands. I think the other girls have a lot to learn from you, Ms. Winsome. Besides, you’ll hear it all one way or another… I’m sure.”

Ms. Winsome uttered a curse to herself and made a bow to Twilight. She pushed past a group of the maid staff, making her way downstairs with further and louder oaths, leaving a wake of calm for Pennywise to pick up his part of the story.

“I’m sure that you heard about the hullabaloo that took place at Sugar Cube Corner this morning,” said Pennywise, addressing his royal, as well as his civilian, audience. “There was a real effort by the town police to track down the goblin which they thought was running around ruining marriages of long standing. And I suppose for that reason—and because rumors had circulated about someone coming and going through the Everfree Forest—they reached out to me to ask if I knew anything about it. Well, I hadn’t. I thanked ‘em and told ‘em that Astrid and I were fine. But then I remembered there was a very pretty young lady who had given us trouble out by the dome of the Mirror Pool—but what to do with that, well. Then I said, ‘Pennywise, you old fool, she told you her plans for the afternoon’. And I thought that if there were a duplicate of her she might try going to places which she had already been to.”

“And that’s where we come in,” said Rainbow Dash. “We spent a solid half hour looking for Sweetie Belle around the orchard—in the treehouse, the cabinets where the kids used to play—whatever. Then AJ remembered the outhouse. I gotta tell you, given what transpired yesterday at lunch I didn’t want to know what some clone version of Sweetie Belle was doing in there.”

“Rainbow’s a bit squeamish, truth be told,” said Applejack. “She likes a tight shift. It’s why she keeps me around.”

“Definitely not for your knack for getting to the point—ponies are waiting, hun.”

“All right, all right. Rainbow stayed back and Pennywise and I went in. And, to our surprise, we found this little one curled up next to the potty. And, I may be getting old, but that ain’t no Sweetie Belle. Now, doesn’t that just beat all?”

The creature was still preening itself in the toy mirror, but stopped as it began to notice the attention it was receiving from all the ponies on the outside. It’s twinkling blue eyes lit up. “Fashion…” it said, tendering an unassuming smile.

Slowly and in succession, each pair of eyes began to look up at Rarity, who pretended to ignore their cues. But before she was under too much pressure to comment, there was a commotion amongst the maid staff—Mrs. Winter Bottom had appeared in the doorway, wearing a night cap, having evidently been disturbed from early in her slumber.

“Princess,” she said, observing the mess in the Sunrise Suite, “you know we are grateful that you have chosen the Palfrey Inn as your place of lodging during your time in Ponyville. But I’m afraid that rules are rules, and no one is allowed to bring wild things within the walls of this establishment. In this, I believe I would be corroborated by the several lines of nobility who have stayed here before you. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive us, Mrs. Winter Bottom,” Twilight replied. “Believe me when I say that I am an admirer of those who uphold the work of policy makers. In this case, however, we have a legal interest in identifying the creature before you…”

Her words hung in the air. For regardless of Twilight’s manner of prevarication, the identity of the creature was clear—the Council, the maids, Roseluck and Gray Gables, all could make out its resemblance to one mare in the room. Then at last, and with a contemptuous sigh, seeing that there was no way out of a public confession as her sister had wanted, Rarity undertook to close the matter for good.

“So this is how it will be? Fine. It’s mine. I ate the key to Ponyville Gravitationist by accident, right before Sweetie Belle was supposed to perform there with her theater troupe. In the interest of courtesy I opted to handle the situation myself. But the toilet was out of order at Sweet Apple Acres at the worst possible time and I was forced to recourse to the woods, instead. The Mirror Pool has privacy.”

“…That’s right!” said Pinkie Pie. “Spit Shine had been given the keys to Sugar Cube Corner by Mr. Cake, and Rose had her keys stolen, too… So it was a key-gobbling doppelganger, all along… Well, shucks. But then, why would that thing be sleeping in an outhouse?”

The room descended into quiet deliberation; Rarity began to feel as though she were standing under the glare of a heat light.

“Ugh…! What does it mean to be someone’s ‘friend’, anyway!?” she answered in frustration. “Is that really not enough for you all? Okay, very well. As you know, one of my first concerns in any predicament is sanitation, and I needed a little water to wash with for what I intended to do. So I cracked a coconut that was hanging from one of the vines in the dome for the purpose of transporting that liquid, but I must have gazed into it at some point as I reflected on my troubles in Manehattan. Nothing appeared to have happened before I left—and, mind you, I did have to take time, to, er… dig through my own tell, as it were.”

The silence became louder. It was cracked by a snort which stretched into a long, pitched laugh, typical of Rainbow Dash savoring a joke at someone’s expense—her whole body convulsing like it was preparing for a sneeze, the sound carrying out the room and down the hall of the Palfrey, writing the history of the victor on walls already ancient.

Rarity bristled at it, her face turning red like a clown’s makeup. “Oooh! As usual, Rainbow, you miss the point of everything—"

She heard the sound of Twilight’s voice on top of the din and saw that the ponies in the room were forming a berth around Pennywise’s birdcage. This time, the Princess chose a divan to represent her throne and took a spot there, in a more aristocratic style before the assembly, whence she made an announcement to them.

“For now, we will say that the invasions which took place at Sugar Cube Corner and at the Plumerium are solved. We have received hard evidence of the perpetrator, and a confession in corroboration of that fact, as well as a preponderance of accounts which seem to support Our conclusions. As to remuneration for damages, a financial assessment will be in order… Will the offending party be able to offer her labor for the appropriate amount of time, as per Ponyville legal code, to these businesses?”

Rarity, who had already suffered humiliation, felt her chest tighten under the stone of public ignominy. “Oh, gosh…” she said, losing her breath. “Community service? I suppose I have no choice. I can find someone to replace me in Manehattan… Maybe it will be a positive change, anyway. Always about positivity, right?”

“I’ll do it,” said Sweetie Belle. “…Yes, I’m sure. I have the time. I can work something out with the Cakes. And, I guess, if Ms. Roseluck would be willing to have me, I could work off the damages at the Plumerium.”

“I think it would be a wonderful arrangement,” added Mrs. Gables. “I’d love to come visit to see the both of you.”

Rose folded her arms, and quietly considered the proposal. “That sounds… nice. Yeah. It would be good for me. To have a little help around the store, that is. Can you do mornings…?”

The crowd in the room began to chatter, and the negotiation lapsed into pantomime. Rarity blinked back tears. She had struck her sister, the strong, loving young mare that had just protected her from Twilight’s decree.

She relived the moment again and again in her mind, but before long she was surprised to be slammed with a hug; it was Applejack who stopped her, taking her roughly by the shoulders and saying, “Rarity, I wanted to apologize to you and Sweetie Belle for not going to the show last night. See, I’ve been on a strawberry kick lately, and… Sometimes I just don’t know where my mind is. I know it’s hard sometimes, but I’m glad you told the truth. I hope I make you feel like you can be honest with me when you need to be—that’s what the Element of Honesty is for, by my reckoning, ‘cause we all fib, now and then.”

Rarity exhaled and tried to cover up some of her redness. “Oh, Applejack. Yes. It’s such a relief to hear...”

“How should I put it… All I care about is what comes out the horse’s mouth—not the horse’s ass.”

Rarity frowned. “How touching.”

Applejack smiled at her, then doffed her cap. “Aw… I just wish Sweetie Belle were here so I could apologize to her, too.”

Sweetie Belle was there, in fact, listening off to the side, having completely forgotten that she was in costume. She waved a hoof and hopped up and down to give herself away.

“Huh? Well, look at you, getting all dressed up!” said Applejack. “And here I thought you were one of the bar fillies. Good to see you, kiddo.”

They hugged.

“I guess you got to see a performance after all,” Sweetie Belle said over Applejack’s shoulder. “I call it, the saga of my sister’s butt monster!”

Rarity smiled at the jab, but didn’t reply.

“Hehe, well, call it what you like,” Applejack said. “I’m just glad we got to see each other again. And, I’m sorry for being such a grump. I just think sometimes… with all this ‘city’ stuff… maybe you’re a mite hard with Apple Bloom.”

Sweetie Belle gasped at the indictment and made an ‘x’ over her heart.

“Apple Bloom is my bestie! Seriously, Applejack, you have no idea what I’d do for that little redhead. I only tease her because she’s such a better pony than I am, in like… every way.”

Applejack tsked her. “Now, now. There’s no need to talk like that. We love all ya’ll.”

“We love you, too. Rarity and I. We would never want to give the impression that we look down on you. Just smack us around a little if we do, we’ll fall into line.”

“See, I told you that you were overreacting,” Rainbow Dash called out, lighting from flight. “That’s how teenagers show love. I mean, I should know, I practically still am one, heh. Right, Rarity?”

Rarity came back to herself out of a thought, but refused to answer.

“Aw, come on. You know you’ve always got a place with us, no matter what kind of chaos you decide to unleash… Whether it’s a miscast stitching spell…”

“Rainbow.”

“Or, I don’t know, defecating in a forbidden magical area—”

“Okay, do I make fun of your bodily functions, hmm? Do I say, ‘Oh, she must get very bad hemorrhoids when she pushes her speed to rainbow explosion levels…?’”

“I do, actually. Or did, I guess.”

“Oh, never mind.”

She and Sweetie Belle caught eyes. Rarity turned away bashfully. She sensed Sweetie making glances at her. They stood a while longer, close enough next to each other to feel one another. Then Sweetie put a leg over Rarity’s shoulder. They didn’t speak, but Rarity leaned her head onto Sweetie Belle’s and let out a long breath.

“Looks like I’m not going to be helping Dad with his windows for a while,” Sweetie Belle said.

Rarity closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I hope he finishes them,” Sweetie Belle continued.

Rarity was quiet again.

“It seems important,” Sweetie Belle said.

Twilight raised her voice once more. “Are there any other matters that need to be settled?”

“Just one,” said Pennywise. He ambled across the room to where Rarity and Sweetie Belle were standing, surprising her out of her reflection. “Ms. Rarity, as an officer of the Royal Equestrian Administration for Parks and Recreation, I hereby take your admission of actions transpiring on those protected grounds as an admission of trespassing. I therefore take it as my solemn obligation to present you with this fine, which you may contest in court, for the sum total of two-hundred bits. You have been served, Ma’am.”

Rarity took the slip and examined it. “Thank you, officer. I promise that I will never consider doing something like this ever again.”

He nodded and thanked her for her cooperation.

The room lit up with a pink sheen as Twilight’s horn became galvanized. The miniature Rarity seized the bars of its cage and began to coo and bat the lashes of its hollow, diamond-shaped eyes. Then, with a charge that flushed the air like a fired hearth, Twilight let forth a beam which ruptured the imposter from its imprisonment, hovering it in the air with a garbled cry, as magic energy distorted purple, white, and blue into shreds which flew back to the depths of the Mirror Pool, never to return to Ponyville.

Silver Shoals

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Pea protein hotdogs fetched from a pillar of steam—like an alley cat stealing out of a sewer grate, yes. The stench like heat and concrete steps glazed with dried alcohol. ‘Now made with sea salt’. Much better when it comes from the sea. Flung away from the corridors of the stadium and the streets… The sand, the water, the wind… Thrown into parched, odorless buns, those wieners. Food not fit for a lady. But what does a lady eat. Hungry now... I will pay attention to her next time. In fact, here we are. Leading my best life. I saw the real thing, a living sea—after all. But what can I say that she doesn’t already know?

what can I say what can I say what can I say to her

Inside.

The jingle of the greeting bell affected her like a loon’s cry from over moon-white lakes of a benighted waterway; it startled her from a rumination she had been having, a long dream since arriving onto the city dock filled with sun and the scents of distant shores. It had been two weeks since Coco Pommel had embarked on her trip, uncertain of the fate of ownership of Rarity For You. She stepped in, partly surprised to have its smell all the same as it was when she left it. The business day was now over, and the showroom was draped in shadows cast by the light of a slightly cracked door.

With her in a tall turquoise rolling suitcase were treasures that she had brought from outside Manehattan. Everything had been picked and preserved by her during her cruise through the Quadrupediterranean—one which saw stops in Burrocco (where she had haggled for a coconut hair comb under the shade of a palm tree), the island of Halta (at which place she had obtained a round jar of red-spiced honey, to be used for her morning toast), the great citadel of the Acroponys (there, she had hoped for a piece of ruin to display on the little mantle in her apartment; but being too closely followed by the tour guide, and fearful of scorn, she had settled for a photobook on ancient architecture, instead), all the way to the merchant city of Steerna (upon which view she had begun miss home, and so purchased there a string of pearls to hold onto for a friend). Above all, however, her traveling was given away by a strip of a sunburn on the tip of her nose, where her pelage was most thin.

She left her bag and walked into the showroom as though she were excavating a burned building, taking in every shape and smell. She noticed the sheen of corner-tucked fitting mirrors and the whiff of fabric loads—polyester, cotton, silk. She caught the oily musk of an old stitching machine and felt the slivered singe of her sunburn as passing darkness covered and uncovered her, as she timidly crept past displays toward the office light. She forgot about the suitcase and recognized the scent of sweat and money and perfume as she approached, closed her eyes, and sniffed an empty invoice envelope on the door, the smell of plastic.

Something else—ah, spring rolls, her favorite! Cabbage and oil and fried wheat flour. A fat, offensive odor amongst these delicates. The smell of self-confidence, hers. The way it lingers. I could let myself fall in that smell. Her force, gathered up in a little white container to-go. Will always be here, the way oil sticks to old gears one-hundred years after.

She creaked open the door and everything crowded in—aerosol and chlorofluorocarbon, with a note of citrus fruit from a wall plug, all blasting her.

Rarity looked up. She was bifocaled and seated at a desk with photographs of two designs in front of her; with an inspecting glare, it took a moment for her to process that a new body had entered the room.

“Coco!” she cried out, grinning filly-like as she got up to greet. “You’re a day early.”

They shared a one-armed hug, and Coco replied, “No, I just got off the ship an hour ago. I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

She glanced around the room as she spoke. There were stacks of papers everywhere on the desk and on the back counter, rolling together like waves against a dingy shore.

Rarity had on a busy smile. “How was the trip?”

Coco laughed. “Lovely.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Rarity said. “And I want to assure you that the struggle has been constructive. Very manageable, in fact. Though with business maintaining as it has no doubt I’ve been a bit… hmm… discombobulated?” she offered, bolstering the same smile.

A little wine on her breath, too. Pinot grigio. The way she looks at me, I feel like she sees a spider in my hair and she’s trying to think of the best way to break the news. Searching eyes, wine and spring rolls, searching eyes, searching for what.

“I can see that,” Coco said. She began skimming the sheets in one of the paper piles, checking the dates. “As long as you’re okay. …Ah, the ticket numbers are all confused. That’s how I usually do it. A single ticket number might have many reference dates. That’s all right, it can be fixed.”

“Oh, yes, you think so? That will be good.”

“Will it?” Coco asked. Her pulse began to quicken. She let the paper she was holding fall back on the pile.

“Yes, of course. What do you mean?”

“We can do it together,” Coco said. “But, later.”

“Sure.”

They held silence a moment, scouring the waves of papers. Then Rarity, glimpsing something tragic in her friend’s expression, let herself fall in a high-back chair and kicked her hooves up on a stool.

“Ms. Pommel, please be a dear and massage my legs. I’ve been standing all day.”

Coco sized her, and, breaking off from her thought, got down on one knee. She cradled a pale limb against her chest and began rubbing, before Rarity yanked it away.

“Don’t do it you boulder head! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

Coco jumped back. Rarity rolled up after her and, with a wave, asked her to take the stool in front of her.

“Listen, you… Hold my hooves. Say this with me. No, Rarity, I will not massage your legs. I am a hard-working mare and talented in my profession. I perform exceptional duties not limited to organizing your messy filing system and making sure your head doesn’t fall off your shoulders.” Her nose scrunched with a playful impulse. “You would be nothing without me!”

The tragic look flickered across Coco’s eyes again.

“Oh, I could never think that,” she replied. “I’ve learned so much working with you. I think these have been some of the best years of my life…”

Searching.

The water looks green and brown and yellow with seaweed and shadows as you stand over it, pondering why you might be so close to a vast depth as to see sand and detritus and diving birds at the top, as the water recedes into one endless sapphire spreading in every direction. The air whips in short breezes with the smell of a thousand imagined civilizations, tiny orange coastlines that crest the sea. There with their spears and monuments, their eyes shadowed under antlered helmets—I am their abyss, looking back. The big blue membrane of the sea beating like our hearts, separated, impenetrable, filling the air with the scent of brine and death, muscling over the fallen, carrying us over our own deep. Then, by chance—another ship…

She smelled the wisp of a sweet-scented hoof brushing back her hair, fixing it like a cat’s dry tongue cleans a kitten’s fur.

“Did you see to it about the costume designer role?” Rarity asked her.

“I got some contact information.”

“Oh… Okay. I thought you wanted to speak to someone in person.”

Coco didn’t answer.

“They’ll love your Bridleway experience, don’t worry,” Rarity went on. “And we’ll have to start to coordinate our costumes when we go out, because all of that sunshine and happiness has you looking damned sexy and I will simply not get any attention if I am seen with your likes.”

Coco broke into a laugh. “Oh, no! You can’t do this to me! Don’t think that I won’t file a cease and desist, Ms. Rarity,” she protested, loudly and languorously and privately remiss that they were without a mirror in the crowded office space.

They compared their lives from the preceding two weeks. Coco described all of the creatures she had seen around shores far away from Equestria, taking time to recount each detail like an old storyteller; Rarity leaned an elbow on her desk, wistfully as a press-wood Penelope, wondering at, though not regretting, what she had missed. And after a little while Coco, observing the doting posture of her friend, and feeling as though she had spoken enough about herself, asked about Sweetie Belle and the trip Rarity had taken to Ponyville before she had left; to which Rarity heaved the sigh she had been holding onto, and said, “Oh, it was beautiful. Everyone is well. My parents were extremely happy to see me, and pass along their good wishes to you, Ms. Pommel.” Coco returned their acknowledgment, and there was an expectant pause. “Sweetie Belle slays me,” Rarity resumed, shuffling her seat. “Absolutely slays me. The show was a success, I think. We were all very proud.”

Coco frowned. “But everything’s not okay?”

“I’m afraid something terrible has happened. Thinking of that weekend just reminded me. One of Sweetie Belle’s friends has passed. She died a few days ago.”

“Oh no!” gasped Coco. “Was it a family friend? Someone from school?”

“No, no. It was an old mare… Maybe she was at the performance? I’m not sure. Sweetie Belle cut me a newspaper clipping. Will you help me look for it in this big mess I have? It’s somewhere in these bottomless papers… I thought I had put it right here.”

Coco and Rarity split up and began sifting through paper on different sides of the back counter. They became preoccupied in the task and went silent with one another, quietly turning things over in the muted pall of death. Rarity yanked the drawer of a squeaking filing cabinet and cussed and muttered to herself. Coco lifted a stack of invoices to her nostrils. It had a musky, inky scent which billowed up when she fanned the sheets toward her face or smacked them on a counter, one that reminded her of the gold-trimmed books at Saint-Clyde’s that she was never allowed to touch when she was a filly.

“Aha!” cried Rarity, thieving something out of the filing cabinet. “That’s where I left it… Take a look.”

It was brown and thin as a dried tissue, and had been carefully snipped so that nothing showed around the border. The print was small so that the entire piece took up four and a half inches of newspaper. The back of the page could be made out in faded, reverse letters that appeared like celestial objects over a dark sky—it was a fragment of a continuation of a second-page story, concerning the town beautification committee’s response to the caterpillar endemic. Property owners who are awarded a grant are not limited from making changes to their property that reflect and enhance that property’s style and character. Anyone who feels—, it read.

On the top of the slip was a square portrait of a sideways-smiling, middle-aged mare with the title Mrs. Gray Gables (Daisy) in bold letters underneath. A tiny turquoise pendant set off layers of red and orange in her hair like the marigolds of front yard flower beds that run on for many streets. A studded necklace imbued her with symmetry and a certain determination. Like a vow-taker who had long forgotten the meaning of her purport, something inside her seemed to have weakened, taking flesh along. Her eyes were blurred, heavenward, wondering, and rimmed with thick glasses. There was a hoof placed on each of her shoulders, belonging to two ponies who were now cast into obscurity.

Rarity read it:

Mrs. Gables passed away peacefully in her home on Brass Halter Road on the 2^ndquarter moon of Sun’s Length.

She was born sixty-seven years ago on Moon’s Return under Celestia’s Sun, to loving parents Plucked and Painted (Meadows), who owned the consignment store Finders Keepers that everyone old enough to dance the Hot Trot still remembers!

It didn’t surprise any of us that Gray had her own home décor stand in Ponyville Square by the time she was a young mare. She couldn’t stay away from selling to her beloved Ponyvillians for too long!

She met the love of her life, Cedar, after her parents passed. They had one wonderful son together, Heath Cropper.

Cedar’s devotion to the Gravitationist church led Gray to declare her own faith. We will remember her as a pony who believed that all of us, in the end, find our way back to where we belong.

Besides her family, her career, and her church, Gray always enjoyed Tuesday coffee with her friends Ink Berry, Sweet Spire, and Coral Bells. She liked tending her garden and crochet. She was selfless, humble, and touched countless lives, taking great pride in her store Shoreham Accents, that provided everyone in Ponyville with a reminder of the beach!

She was preceded in death by her sister White and by her husband and son. Funeral services will take place at Ponyville First Gravitationist Church and a burial will be held there at noon on Sunday.

When she finished, Rarity handed the clipping over to Coco for her to look at. She read it again to herself and became thoughtful for a moment. “Wow. Did you know her?” she asked.

Rarity shook her head like a stork viewing itself in shallow water.

“That’s sad,” said Coco. “Stories like that always make me sad. I mean, when someone has a little life like that. It makes you wonder.”

“I met her briefly when I was in Ponyville that weekend,” Rarity corrected herself. “I do know of Shoreham Accents, but I didn’t know that she was the owner. Apparently Sweetie Belle got to know her. She lived with Yona, and it was very recent.”

Coco read the clip a second time as she was listening, but the letters on it faded away, the way a sound loses shape when it is repeated by itself in rapid succession.

“That’s sad,” Coco said again. “Sad for Sweetie Belle, too. It never makes any sense. One of my aunts passed away this year. I didn’t know her very well but she left me some money. That’s what made me want to take a vacation. And I told myself that I would find a few quiet moments to remember her.”

“Did you?” asked Rarity.

“I kept forgetting—actually, I only really remembered when we were on land. There was one day in particular on our trip to the Erechneighon where I really felt that I owed her something. Because that temple has a famous south side, called the Porch of the Maidens. In that tradition, it’s said that the weight of the world is carried on the head of six mares, represented by ten-foot-tall caryatids which all support the pediment of the temple. The complex is built on a high outcropping and we were all going up steps to meet these great ponies who support us. And I couldn’t think of my aunt’s face.”

“Ah... You were climbing those steps to see her. That’s beautiful, Coco.”

“Only I was so out of breath by the time we reached the top that I was ready to choke,” Coco replied, blushing and pushing her hair away from over her eyes. “I felt so out of shape. My rib cage felt like it was on fire.”

“And that’s how you remembered her,” Rarity encouraged. She got up from her seat. “Right?”

Coco rubbed her nose to hide her face and left off a reply.

“We’re both out of shape,” Rarity said. “Because we’re stuck here, doing this, most of the time. The work never stops.”

“At least you’re skinny.”

Rarity answered in a smiling voice, “Not everywhere, and you know it. We give up more than we might think to do this.”

I don’t think you ever told me how that came about happening

oh it was quite simple

working with my Aunt Whipstich in her little fabric store I developed a reputation

some in our clan were very uncertain about the whole thing

I wanted to cry, but refused to let the others see it

mom’s not one to talk about her feelings

Rarity resumed her seat, setting down a bottle of pinot grigio between her and Coco.

“Yes, always more than we might think… But not everything,” she added, pouring out two glasses. She regarded the clipping of Mrs. Gables a moment. “Well, would you like to hear the letter that I received from Sweetie Belle?” She batted her eyes to show that she had made a request rather than an offer.

“Of course,” Coco replied. “As long as it’s nothing too personal.”

“Oh, Coco! Why do you have to make this so difficult for me? We dwell in the personal, in our household. Why, I may as well read you the Sunday funnies, instead. Anyway, I think she’d want you to hear it. I’m no longer the dramatic one in the family, oh no sir.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that!” said Coco, cracking a grin at her friend’s jesting. “Fine, then. Let’s get personal.”

Rarity nodded and threw back a sip of wine. “Very well, here it is.

“Dear Sis,

“Do you remember this lady from that crazy night at the Palfrey? I’m thinking not. You probably had a million different things going through your head, but somewhere in all of that you did shake hooves with her. I wanted you two to be introduced. I thought that there would be time later for a more proper getting-to-know-you at Bayard’s or something… But obviously that didn’t work out.

“Why do I mention all of this? I’ve got a lot to say and I’m not sure where to begin, in part. First thing’s first—I’ve decided that I’m going to live in Rolling Oats after I graduate from Friendship Academy. That’s the deal I made with Mom and Dad. They’re not eager but they like that I’ve been putting in shifts at the Plumerium, something about ‘gumption’ (yech). Don’t tell them, but Gray was the real reason why I was able to get into the shop to work off damages. She put in a good word. Ms. Rose wasn’t all that friendly with me after everything that had happened.

“I’m a porter. I keep the showroom and the little greenhouse clean during the day and deal with the big stuff at night—moving plant racks, mopping the floor, etc., while Ms. Rose takes care of her books in the office. Gray came to visit us once or twice before she passed. One night when I was working on the floor I could hear Ms. Rose yelling about something. She would speak in sort of a hissing whisper until Gray interrupted in her round vibrating voice and Ms. Rose would resound with things like, ‘I don’t care anymore! I don’t care.’ I got worried that they were fighting with each other so I set down the mop and got closer to the door. Then I heard, ‘Who takes forty-five minutes to mop an eight-hundred square foot floor? I wonder what parents teach their kids these days. If that were me at that age I would have been fucking fired. I may as well do it myself.’

“I just kind of stood there a while in shock. I wasn’t even angry, just nervous that I had bungled Gray sticking her neck out for me and that we were going to need money because Ms. Rose was going to come out at any moment and kick me to the curb. That’s how aggressive she sounded, Rarity.

“Then she finally appeared after I was finished and approached me with a big grin. She asked if I wanted a water for the walk home. Super awkward.

“For the next few days we just kind of grinned at each other. A few times a customer would come in and ask me something I couldn’t answer and I’d need to get her. But it would always be quick and we wouldn’t look at each other.

“I know it sounds like all of this is the reason why I’ve decided to leave Ponyville… Well, one day there’s a customer who has a delivery question and I can’t find her. Like, I really can’t find her. Like I’m in the store by myself, basically. I thought she might have been mad at me again, but if that were true, why would she leave me running her store? Was it a test? I managed okay, but I was starting to get really anxious. Then when I ran to the greenhouse to grab some transplants I heard her whimpering. And I knew what had happened. I just knew.

“I was so scared, Rarity, scared of being in front of that mare in that moment. She hated me. I wondered if she might blame me for what happened, somehow. But she needed somebody.

“I put up an ‘out to lunch’ sign as soon as I got the chance and set it for a half an hour. My heart was pounding. I stepped back to the greenhouse. She was hidden behind a rack of carnations, still sobbing. I sat on the other side of the flowers and I asked if she was okay. I told her I was a ‘good listener’... Ugh, I’m cringing now just thinking about it.

“She shouted ‘No!’ from her spot but didn’t tell me to leave. So I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there with my knees folded, holding space for her. I would have liked someone to hold space for me, too, because I started crying, but I didn’t want her to know.

“A half hour definitely passed with both of us keeping to ourselves. I had to reset the time on the door. While I was up I started organizing the displays and making things look the way she liked it. A few ponies knocked on the door so I switched the sign to ‘closed’ and continued working. I worked… I don’t know, like an angel might notice. It calmed me down a little.

“Then I heard hoof steps behind me. She must have realized I was still out here by all the noise I was making moving things around. Boy, did she look a mess. She told me that it was good that I had put the ‘closed’ sign up and that I could go home. She thanked me. I told her I was sorry. I said it and made sure I looked her in the eyes. They were red and still. We both stood there like two bowling pins.

“I wound up staying. We talked for hours, until it got dark out. We were sitting on the floor leaned against the front desk and she told me what it had been like for her coming up in Ponyville and how important Gray had been in her life. She was glad that she was able to see her again, to sort of say goodbye. But I could see that she was still struggling. When I asked her about it, she would kind of talk quietly and turn her head.

“Then she looked at me, straight on—a long look, like she was working up a nerve to ask me something—and confessed to me that she was gay. I guess I was the first one she had told. I told her that’s cool. But a long time ago, apparently, Gray had said something to her along the lines that she would find her heart with a family, and, for some reason, Ms. Rose had always interpreted that prediction to have meant a traditional family. So she became closeted for so many years, afraid of disappointing a pony who had really loved her.

“After a while, she internalized that Gray despised her, as a coping mechanism, and cut off contact. Then they met again after all that time in Twilight’s room, and she was proven very, very wrong. But she was still terrified of coming out to her, and now it’s too late.

“She started to cry again, and told me there was a side of her that was glad Mrs. Gables was dead. I told her I understood, and we were quiet for a long time. We were sitting there together, just breathing, and I could tell that a change had taken place in her. I didn’t want to disturb that, and tell her what I thought, that the Gray Gables I had met sitting with Yona that night could only give herself away, and would have done so to see Rose pursue her deepest happiness—and maybe did just that. I could see in the way Ms. Rose rolled her head back and forth on the backboard of the desk the relief and freedom she felt that she could finally go after what she wanted all along. We hugged, Rarity. And it was a real hug. No bullshit.

“That night when I got home I sketched a letter to Ms. Bon about my intention to live in Rolling Oats. I put down what I could remember and cried as I wrote, just bawling, letting out everything that I had dammed up while I was trying to be supportive for Ms. Rose. I said I was amazed by just how powerfully two mares could reach each other, brought into one another’s long inner horizons by these strange roles which make up our lives, like crossing ships on a vast, purple ocean. Just because that possibility exists, I said in my letter, is why theater exists, and it’s our job to remind ponies of the magnificence of their own encounter with the passing world.

“Ms. Rose says I can come back to the Plumerium as a regular employee once my service time for the Cakes is completed. That way, I’ll be able to save bits for the move.

“And in case you’re wondering, I’ve already heard back from Ms. Bon. She was happy to hear from me, and fondly remembers your exchange with her at Ponyville Gravitationist. She disagreed with me about theater. She gave me the following counter-example: a mare who was a well-known socialite in Rolling Oats passed away about a year ago. From the description, she seemed to cut the figure of a Pinkie Pie—familiar with everyone in the city and their families, knowing where everyone dwelled and what their birthdays were. She lived inexplicably, off social graces, and could always be seen with a boa and a feathered cap, rounding the corners of the old streets like a happy ghost. Well, like I said, she died. And Celestia knows who prepared her service, but they stitched her up and sat her right there in the front of the gallery slumped over in a floral chair to greet her ex-acquaintances as they rolled in. And the weirdest thing is that everyone loved that she was able to attend her own funeral. They thought it was the best idea. That feeling, Ms. Bon says, is why theater exists—just a story in a universe where stories don’t exist, the kind of confidence and neurosis that goes with that, something which speaks to our primal cultural instincts.

“She’s right. And now I’m not sure.

“Two shopkeepers, either finding something real in the improvisation of their lives or turning up something sublimely counterfeit in the mere models that happen to comprise them…

“So I need your advice. What do you think?”

The letter fell out of Rarity’s hold and wafted under the chair she was sitting in. She bent over to pick it up and her hair fell forward and touched the floor like a cataract. She snatched the papers from between her legs and, a little drunkenly, tumbled back in her seat with strands of her mane still draped over her eyes.

“Honestly,” she said, moving her dangled locks like a toddler disgusted with an old toy, “why do ponies think I know anything about life? Here I am in this ramshackle store, flanked on every side by mannequins that nobody looks like, putting together and poring over outfits for mummied sophisticates as if it’s the most important thing in the world.”

when we learned there was an unfinished building for lease not far away from Ponyville Square

a portion of whom could complete the upstairs

my own little shop

my parents and some of our close family

juice boxes in the cooler for Sweetie Belle

some in our clan were uncertain about the whole thing

so there I was, a young mare fresh out of charm school, running a shop with genteel ambience downstairs and an unfinished wooden inferno upstairs

quite simple

I think I’d be terrified in that situation, I said

it all passed through up into the vault above the light of the lamps as I sank into myself, into my work

in those days

the sound of crickets from the Ponyville tree line

I wanted to cry

when she got bored she would sing into one of the little electric fans I had or try on outfits I had hanging about

frizzy hair in bunches sticking to her shoulders

“Let me ask you—” Rarity continued with a slur mending her speech—"how many of us in fashion actually have taste? How many of us can say that we know what style is—how many actually care? We hold out hope that what we do matters because there are some of us who tell what we see, rather than are told what to see. Quel miracle. But I tell you, Coco, the older I get, the less convinced I become that I am a proprietor of insight into anything besides my own… ineluctable ordinariness.”

Rarity pushed her books to the side and put her back hooves up on the desk, and with an exhausted groan let her hair cascade over her shoulders and the arms of her seat. Her declamation had made Coco uneasy, who, after everything, had little to say, and who watched her friend with an awe similar to that of a child who had encountered a scolding adult; and who, finally, was prompted to ask what she had been afraid to receive an answer to, “Are you still thinking about selling Rarity For You?”

Rarity glanced at her. “More life questions?”

Coco broke a smirk. “Right, right. I’m asking the wrong pony.”

“You had your chance with the maidens and blew it,” Rarity joked.

“It’s just… The store is called Rarity For You. The name would have to be changed.”

“Hmm… Indeed it would,” Rarity said. “But that’s not the important thing, Coco. Do you understand?”

Coco nodded.

“Maybe it is just what I need, to let go of it. Just like Sweetie Belle’s leaving. To not be so afraid of finitude. There is a freedom in that.”

Rarity pondered a moment.

“But… Perhaps we must have recourse to different methods of prognostication. I’ve heard that in Yakyakistan there is a custom that whenever a tribal elder is confronted with a serious dilemma they must decide on it twice—once while sober, and once while absolutely doused in their celebrated raki. If said parties disagree, it is believed that there is within that yak a conflict of essence.”

“And as for us city ponies…?”

Rarity brushed the idea off. “Forget about all of it. Tonight, you and I are yaks, Ms. Pommel!”

“Hear, hear!”

They laughed together.

“To Mrs. Gables,” Coco added.

“…Yes. To Mrs. Gables,” Rarity said. They clinked glasses. Then Rarity seized the clipping and made another inspection of the mare staring back at her on translucent paper. “Probably my age in this picture,” she said. “There but for divine grace go we, Coco. Someday someone will be having a laugh over my poor dead face, wondering where it all went wrong for me.”

She folded up the clipping and tucked it in an envelope along with Sweetie Belle’s letter and tossed it into the sea of papers.

Stone pillars wafting with the smell of fried chickpeas and donuts, going to see Auntie who supports us. The ancient world is a big kitchen long forgotten. Even the land smells like food. Big statues covered in the grease of spring rolls. Because you can’t eat limestone, needs to be carved out for you, served. The grapes grow down below in great magnitudes, juicy, sweet, intoxicating. What was it like to find that first purple jewel—welcome to my home, says Auntie. The mare at the desk on the cruise with my application, her blouse like my aunt’s. Auntie For You. I pushed my face into that fabric, once—a filly, I remember, fearful in her big loathsome sunflowered house, sun and breeze in the windows coming through her shirt.

“Hey, by the way—there’s something I’m still curious about,” said Coco.

Rarity peered at her through spilled purple tresses. “Hmm? What’s that?”

“You never said what you saw at the show.”

“The show…”

“Black Box Theater. What was it like? I think you left that part out.”

“I suppose I did…”

Rarity closed her eyes and let her head roll back, the floor dusting her mane like the gravity of Equestria pulling the stars down from the firmament.

“Well. They gathered us all in an outward facing circle so that we could only see part of the environment we were in. We waited for a very long time, I recall, fidgeting on old church pews which the actors had moved for this purpose, and we couldn’t see each other very well, either, and I began to forget the rest of the audience and felt alone with myself. Then after a little while more the performers filed out—I should say, I heard them file out, but only saw a few of them cross my section of the performance space.

“So… this isn’t going to be visual, I thought. I was tired and forgot about Sweetie Belle and closed my eyes. I heard the sound of scratching—hadn’t I seen an office desk at one corner of the room from where I had entered? Now someone must have been working there. Sweetie Belle told me later that the whole set had been improvised that morning using only objects which could be found around the church, completely from scratch. It all felt very loose, like fragments of my intuition were appearing and finding new applications—like I was thinking hard, but not in the clear, discrete sort of way we associate with thinking.

“Then the sound of paper tearing—which I found to be very relaxing, actually—followed by even and purposeful hoof steps on that same side of the room. When they stopped, there was the sound of flowing water and something being pounded against the wall. There was some connection between the patroller and the water which I did not understand.

“Yes… a sound piece. As time progressed those hoof steps came nearer and nearer, but whatever I might have felt about them was washed away by the water wheel, which in the pristine clarity of my senses had become like the lapping of an ocean. In a strange way I wished that my parents and Sweetie Belle were there to enjoy it with me, though I knew they were in the room, somewhere. I felt impervious to the hooves. I would open my eyes when I chose to.

“And when I did, I saw that a charcoal sketch of a horseshoe had been posted in front of me over the old church mural, three feet tall. Was it made for me, or what the artist imagined for themselves? There were tiny, flowing figures of flowers on either end of it, reminiscent of a variety I wasn’t acquainted with. But then I believed that they could be me, sure. But in a different life. One where the artist’s sensibilities and my own faded together into the deep blue behind the leaves and stars of a balmy night.

“And when I looked down the circle of the audience I saw that the whole wall was lined with horseshoes of different curlicue forms, and that some of the ponies still had their eyes closed.

“And the pony at the desk was my sister, working busily, making a dozen and more designs for stained glass windows, not looking up but scribbling furiously, shutting out everything.

“And next to her were ponies siphoning water from a large jug and turning the wheel of water without speaking.

“And the sun was setting, and orange rays passed through the old windows of that building, filling my ocean of sound.

“And I began to recognize the silhouettes of those I knew in the room fading in and out of that golden water, into and out of my dream.

“And Mom and Dad and Sweetie Belle were there, like floating timbers from an unknown shore.

“And we were the drift and sitting on top of it at the same time, looking toward the sun.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5tyJAygvfg

Everybody Dupes

by Heavy Mole

=======Volume One: Not All Marks Are Cuties

Dumb Fabric

Un-sisters

What's 'Uncouth'...?

A Lady Doesn't Whine

=======Volume Two: The Lilies of The Field

Toast!

Into Her Own Reflection She Stared

The Horror

Gal Pals

=======Volume Three: corsi e ricorsi

She Complains...! (pt .1)

She Complains...! (pt. 2)

She Complains...! (pt. 3)

Silver Shoals