Dame Trixie and the Countess of Wyrd

Chapters

The Dark Magician and the Song of Light
Trixie's Scheme
The Countess and Her Inspiration

The Dark Magician and the Song of Light

As usual, Trixie put her all into her entrance.

Fall Bridge was a huddle of tiny wattle-and-daub cottages, shying away from the river on one side, and shying away from the endless dark forest on the other. It had a village green that could barely hold two carriages, and in the middle was a fountain with vines but no water.

Only one bridge led in and out of the town: a simple stone affair that had been not so much built as piled up. Water passed under it simply because the stones had stuck into place, leaving a gap; there was no sign anyone had so much as planned for the jagged tunnel at all.

Under her makeup, Trixie grinned. This town wouldn’t know what hit it.

First came the storm clouds – specially arranged by the unseen team of pegasi flapping behind the bow of the dark shroud – and they rumbled loud enough to make ponies glance up and foals shiver and cower. Next, the specially trained flock of crows and ravens, all heralding her approach, all flying in a pentagram. A pentagram with six points, true, but the unicorn handlers could only do so much with a species naturally bad with numbers.

She could imagine it already; the top of the whitewashed caravan would be catching the light of the street lamps that haunted the bridge. She strode across the stonework, trying not to wince at the way the stones seemed to buckle under her.

Behind her, the sigils on her caravan shone with a special luminescent paint: crescent moons, pointed hats, twinkling stars, ringed planets, bats and cats and rats and, for the sake of variety, a couple of three-headed dogs sitting and roaring. Sickly green goo lit up the edges of the caravan, helped no doubt by the cheap Hearth’s Warming lights tucked under them.

And then she rose over the hump of the bridge, and the flares fired upwards from the front of the caravan. Gasps and awed murmurs greeted her entry.

Under the light of the flares, the long arms of her scarf flapped from her neck like tentacles, aided by the hidden fans on either one of her yokes. She adjusted the dark lily in her mouth from one side of her black lips to the other. A sapphire pendant shone on her neck and a silver femur dangled from the earring clipped onto each equine ear, each pinna.

Her crimson-dyed forelock cut across the pale moon of her powdered face. She stared out at the world through sunglasses as warm and inviting as the half-closed eye sockets of a skull. Her tunic, midnight blue as the body of the famous Princess Luna, swayed and rippled as cleanly as waves across a lake.

On the caravan, the flares died away. The speakers played a tinny recording of howling wolves. All around her, the ponies of Fall Bridge fell silent and stared. All one hundred of them.

She strode carelessly along the gravel road winding away from the bridge, and forced herself not to smirk at the sights. That would just ruin the dark image. She had to be poised, cold, intimidating. Here, a couple of foals gawped and leaned towards their mother. There, a quartet of elderly ponies narrowed their eyes. Envy, she guessed.

Arcing around the fountain, and holding her breath against the sudden stench of rotten eggs pouring from it, she waited for the crows and ravens to swoop down and fly past. That would be the signal. Three… two… one…

When the rush of feathers vanished, she stopped at once and the hidden unicorns inside the caravan activated their magic. Both yokes lowered themselves from her.

She kicked backwards. The caravan rattled on its hinges – specially shaken by the unicorn team inside – and the side began to creak open as patiently as the shell of some gigantic hatching egg. Timber crashed onto soil hardened by long years. The stage spewed mist across the green, snaking at the hooves of the foals and the ponies and the elderly.

Trixie slipped hurriedly through the mist and only then gave herself a small chuckle. Look at their wide eyes! Look at how they gawp and stare in sheer awe and amazement!

She gave a curt nod to the unicorns hidden in the wings, who nodded and scrunched up their faces to focus. The banner – a gauzy stretch of paper with a grey spider’s web painted on – rose up and hooked its edges on the rails. On either side, the confetti cannons reared up and waited.

“Break a leg,” she whispered. “And knock them dead.”

The cannons fired.

Under the explosion of black and white shreds, Trixie’s magic horn shimmered. The unicorns on either side nodded. Daggers with carved blades and encrusted hilts spun and circled her head in midair.

“Do re mi,” she muttered, and paused to clear her throat. “So far la ti. Mar mar mar, may may may, mee mee mee, mie mie mie, mo mo mo, more more more, mow mow mow, muu muu muu…”

One unicorn levitated the microphone before her. A brief smack of the lips, and she caught it in a telekinetic spell and brought it close.

“FILLIES AND GENTLECOLTS!” her voice boomed over the speakers. “STALLIONS AND MARES OF ALL AGES! THIS IS NOW OFFICIALLY THE FIRST DAY OF THE WWWWWWEEK OF THE WWWWWWWYRD! YOU THINK YOU’VE SEEN IT ALL!? YOU HAVE SEEN NOTHING YET!”

She quickly glanced up, and the pegasus hovering overhead saluted and waved a hoof up at the clouds. The crash of thunder and the cries of shock ran through her like a hot drink on a chilly winter’s evening. She licked her lips, smudging the lipstick slightly.

“RRRRRRRRRUB YOUR HOOVES TOGETHER FOR THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE IRRRRRRRREPLACEABLY INCRRRRRRRREDIBLE, THE STRRRRRRRIKINGLY STRRRRRRANGE, THE MAGICALLY MAGNIFICENT… TRRRRRRRRRRRRIXIIIIIIIIIIIE!”

Orbited by the knives, she beamed, threw herself forwards, and was immediately hit by a thrown tomato.

“OW!”

She yelped at the juice that stung her eye. The confetti settled around her. Some unicorn behind her shut down the speakers, and a burst of static made her yelp again. All the knives clattered on the boards; one or two stuck blade-down in the wood.

“Who threw that!?” she shouted.

Around the front of the stage, the crowd that had gathered was glaring at her. Many were moving their lips, but in the general hubbub, she couldn’t make out a single word from any of them.

“Come, come!” She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “There’s no need for this kind of treatment. I – that is, the Grrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie of the East – wish only to grrrrrant you all the grrrrreat honour… rrrrrrrrrrrrrr… of her prrrrrrresence.”

The trills, she thought soon afterwards, should really have done the trick. There was nothing like rolling a few “r’s” to remind them of who had taken some education, and thus who could school who.

Judging from their scowls, however, it didn’t seem to be sticking.

An elderly mare near the front waved her zimmer frame. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Strutting around like a witch, scaring the life out of passing ponies!”

“Yeah!” shouted a stallion from the back. “Who in Equestria do you think you are? Princess Luna?”

“Well no, of course not,” Trixie said, and quickly shook her head and added, “Fillies and Gentlecolts, please! The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie seeks only to be herself, in all her wondrous and spellbindingly spectacular glory! And as befits the occasion of this, the one hundredth and twelfth anniversary of the Week of the Wyrd!”

Another tomato leaped out of the crowd, though she ducked it just in time. Depressingly, she’d had some practice several times before now.

“If you had any sense, Miss, you’d turn right around and leave now,” said a unicorn mare, who was standing amid a crowd of foals that represented seemingly every age group. “This is not how you’re supposed to celebrate!”

“That’s right!” yelled an old stallion next to her. “It’s disgraceful, outsiders comin’ in here like a herd of bulls in a china shop, doing whatever they please. No sensitivity these days!”

This speech was followed up with many mutterings along the lines of “hear, hear” and “disgraceful, yeah” from all over. Trixie watched grimly as the crowd dispersed. There were only so many times she could watch this sort of thing happen.

“Citizens of Fall Bridge, please!” she yelled, and there was a bite in her voice. “This is all a simple misunderstanding! Look, I can take this makeup off!”

Hastily, she wiped the pale powder off her face and tried scraping the lipstick off with her teeth. Not that she expected it to work – the ponies were already scattering along the dirt roads leading into the green – but she’d never liked having muck anywhere near her face anyway. Up until now, she’d relied on her horn and her dress sense to make an impression.

She paused to try her old “bouquet flashes into existence” trick, just in case the flash of magic impressed anyone. Not a soul watched her or even turned around, and she dropped the flowers after about a minute’s worth of non-applause.

By the time she’d yanked the earrings off and unwound the scarf, the green was empty of ponies. Around her, the mist had thinned to nothing. She remembered she’d have to buy some more dry ice on her way out.

Speaking of buying, she thought gloomily. A pegasus landed beside her and was joined by one of the unicorns. Both of them held out a hoof each.

“I expect you want paying now?” she grumbled.

Neither of them moved. Irritably, she headed to the wings where her trunk was waiting, and enchanted the lid to open before her.

“Let’s just hope I have enough,” she muttered, and she levitated the sack. “I’m saving up for a drink later.”

The Mermaid Tavern of Fall Bridge was a cottage with a sign creaking over its door. Were it not for that, Trixie would have walked right past it, and even with it, she had to stop, retrace her steps, and check that the clanking plank had “Mermaid Tavern” painted on it and not, as she’d first distractedly thought, “Apothecary” or “Home Sweet Home”. Unhappily, she noticed it was quiet inside. No bar worth going into was that quiet.

“Invest in a big entrance, I said,” Trixie muttered as she marched up the dirt track to the front door. “It’ll pay off later, I said. I’d fire myself if I wasn’t so darn persuasive.”

Although there was a pegasus pony keeping up with her, she had no interest in talking to him. As soon as she levitated the last few bits out of the floppy sack beside her and guided them up to him, he tucked them under the flap of his saddlebag and took off. She watched him vanish over the thatched rooftops.

She jingled the sack hopefully, and then peered inside.

“Twelve bits,” she muttered. “I wonder how many glasses that’ll get me.”

Not enough, she thought, and she pushed the door open. The hallway was white, and the only decoration was a bracket on the wall with four grey roses falling apart in it. Had it not been for the rumble in her stomach, she would have walked out there and then.

She passed a few happy minutes waiting for someone to come in and say “Good evening, I’ll be your waiter, please follow me to your table”. Then, she went through the nearest door with a huff.

Once, the Great and Powerful Trixie of the School for Gifted Unicorns would have dined in plush restaurants along the high avenues of Canterlot. She would have supped rare delicacies as she travelled from town to town, and regaled an ever-present crowd of hopefuls and admirers with tales of strange deeds and brave efforts. Yeah well; once, she could have looked at herself in the mirror. And winked.

This bar was a mirror, in a way. The room was dull timber and square tables and three-legged stools a carpenter would laugh at. About a dozen ponies hunched over drinks. None of them were talking. Their faces had the grim looks of ponies who went through life determined not to say a word to anyone, in case it showed weakness of character. Even the stallion behind the bar merely grunted when she came down heavily on one of the stools.

“Cranberry juice, if you please,” she intoned. “The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrrrrixie needs refreshment and relaxation.”

“Mmm,” said the stallion. “And wh’t you havin’?”

That old one. If I had a bit for every jab at the third-person thing, I wouldn’t be stuck here listening to yet another one.

“Never mind,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Just get me some juice.”

He grunted and ducked below the counter.

It wasn’t even as though she liked cranberry juice, but over the years and the hundreds of miles, she could still hear her dietician’s nagging voice. Cranberry juice was good for the horn, the mare had said. It was anyone’s guess why it was good for the horn, but Trixie had been young, and at that age would’ve swallowed rusty horseshoes if it meant she could keep being great and powerful.

Stupid little Trixie, she thought, and she downed the juice in one go. Barely a shudder passed through her.

“Yeuch,” said Trixie.

“‘nother?” mumbled the stallion.

Trixie raised the glass. “Take your best shot. Everyone else has.”

“Bad day, huh? ‘eard abou’ it all.”

“Bad day? Bad month.” Trixie downed the second half-pint and tried not to think of the complete set swirling around her stomach lining. “What happened to the good old days, Joe?”

“‘m Clem,” mumbled the stallion.

“Once, I was the unstoppable, the untouchable, the unsurpassable queen of magic and mystery!” As she spoke, the glass swiped through the air, trying to catch the thoughts raining down from above. “Ponies watched my miracles, admired my sleight-of-hoof, and queued up to follow my travelling caravan of secrets!”

“‘nother?” mumbled Clem.

“Best of all, I had the spark.” Trixie pointed at her own chest, pressing her hoof hard into her sternum. “A great burning flame of life, right here! Every time I heard a foal squeal ‘It’s Trixie, it’s Trixie’, it flared up and burned bright against the twilit sky. Now? I might as well be no one at all.”

“‘nother?” mumbled Clem. He was not one to listen to customers in this mood, obviously. It would be like listening to moonlight every evening.

Trixie sighed. “How much?”

“Three bits. Plus tip.”

She threw four bits across and tipped her glass back, patting the bottom for the last drop. At times like this, she was glad she never looked in a mirror anymore.

The worst part was that she knew, deep down, that she wasn’t the pony she used to be. Any time she tried to make a catty remark, or tried to rub it in some truculent unicorn’s face that she was lightyears ahead of them in the craft, she remembered Ponyville, and winced, and turned the other cheek so that they, in turn, could give her some more cheek.

Ponyville… she should really go back there one of these days. Oh, she’d done her best to tidy up the houses she’d damaged, and to bow and simper to the ponies who’d been glaring down at her for her crimes.

Thanks to that, they’d welcome her with forelimbs wide for the hugs, or at least they’d welcome her with a gentle pat on the back. Failing that, they’d probably just give her respectful nods and leave her alone. At least it was something.

If only she could say the same thing for everywhere else. But she’d told one fib too many, and made too big a claim, and suddenly tomatoes were eager to get acquainted with her face. That was if she was lucky. Most of her fortune up until this point had been spent removing graffiti from her caravan, or in extreme cases buying new ones.

Only then did she notice the lights had dimmed. Every head in the place turned to the far wall, and she noticed that there was a raised section of the floor which one might charitably call a stage.

Someone stepped out onto the creaking floorboards. The spotlight overhead flickered into life.

For a moment, Trixie’s brow furrowed. She had a vague feeling she’d seen this pony before, but her mind was coming up blank.

“Who’s the mare?” she whispered to Clem, and got shushed for her trouble.

Trixie went back to patting the last drops out of her glass. Not as if it mattered, she thought. Look at her. Plain as a piece of rice paper on white bread. She’s got lovely, dark, flowing locks, and they’re just hanging off her head.

Beside the spotlight, a stallion dragged a piano over the planks and let the back door slam behind it. Two forelimbs cracked in readiness. The mare nodded to him, and he sat down with a thump and began tapping the keys.

The piano’s probably hers, Trixie thought. I can’t imagine a dump like this affording one. She tried to stretch her tongue up the glass.

On the edge of hearing, the mare’s lips parted with a wet pop.

“To fly above the windy mountain snow,
“To rise and taste the sunlit firmament,
“To soar once more; to see the shine below,
“To make my life – my pleasure – permanent.”

Trixie hummed with disbelief, and half a dozen heads rounded on her with a chorus of “shh!” She’d travelled through mountain passes before, and there wasn’t a lot to see beyond rock and snow. Maybe they looked picturesque from up high, but she wasn’t going to find out. There were too many stories about ponies getting buried under avalanches.

She put her glass down and cocked an ear to listen. Why not? It’d pass a few minutes, and the singer was pretty OK. None of the notes were off, at least.

“I used to serenade for royalty,
“I used to celebrate with great cantatas,
“I used to startle with a rhapsody,
“I even used to cope with sweet sonatas.”

Around her, the patrons were turning away one by one, and a flash of outrage ran through Trixie. The singer was clearly putting her all into the song now, and what an all it was! Lacking though Trixie was when it came to a musical education, she could tell the singer had done a few dozen gigs before. Better still, she’d done a few gigs and clearly learned from them.

“But now the slopes are cold, and dull, and wrong,
“The climb too hard, the steps too treacherous.
“And now the thermals only catch the ‘strong’;
“The weak ones fall; thus fall the best of us.”

Only Trixie was staring at the stage now. Come to think of it, she was sure the singer was familiar, and joys once trapped in hibernation were awakening somewhere deep inside her chest. That was a voice that believed what it said. A voice like that could carry a mare through a blizzard with a caravan almost pulling her shoulders out of place, and still leave her laughing at the world. If her own rising smile was any sign, it must have done just that, a long time ago.

The singer stared at the ceiling, and a tear dribbled down her cheek.

“Why did I dream I’d be a butterfly?
“A moth am I: my dreams will flutter by.
“Why did I throw aside the glittered veil?
“Why did I think my heart would long prevail?

“A blank am I: a room without a view.
“A slowing beat, my cord will break in two.
“To know my time is past, my death is due.
“To hear admirers name me thus; ‘She’s who?’

“To hear admirers name me thus; ‘She’s who?’”

The piano guided itself gently to a final haunting note, and then fell silent. Not so much as a cough ensued.

Trixie mouthed the last two words. Beside her, the stallion was lifting her glass off the counter, and she was vaguely aware of the other ponies that had long since vanished into their own worlds, sipping their drinks and waiting for the mare to get off the stage and go away.

Trixie watched the singer’s hopeful ears droop.

Part of her resented the idea of anyone being better than her at anything. It was still kicking at her even now, trying to get her to stand up. A few years ago, it would have stepped forwards and started saying things like “Such a quaint little ditty, sweetie pie,” or “A lovely way to wake up the cats and dogs at night, Little Miss Screechy, but…”

The rest of her seized it and threw the energy, surprised, into her legs, and then rode it off the stool, across the room, and towards the figure, who was coming down the edge of the stage wiping her face with the back of a hoof. She was confident of what she wanted to say, and certain of what she wanted. One way or another, she wanted the company of this mare. The Great and Powerful Trixie got what she wanted.

The spotlight went off at once. A wall stepped out in front of her. After she’d adjusted her eyes to the dark, the wall resolved itself into a stallion with a suit attached. He had to be a bodyguard, if only because this place didn’t look like it could afford a bouncer.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he said in perfectly clipped tones. And not just clipped tones, but polished, varnished, and manicured ones as well. Trixie pegged him as a Canterlot-type guard at least.

Short of actually rearing up, sheer habit drew her up to her full height. That meant being eye-level with his unsmiling mouth, but frankly his pink polka dot tie wasn’t much better to look at.

“The Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie demands an audience with that singer,” she said, in the tones of one disgusted at the mere thought of being denied in any way. “And what manner of ignoramus are you to prevent Trrrrrrixie from going wherever she pleases?”

“I don’t care what your Trixie friend wants,” snapped the guard. “You aren’t going anywhere. Miss Rara wishes to retire to her quarters for rest. She must not be disturbed.”

“I’m not trying to disturb her, you fool! I heard her singing. I want to talk to her for a moment.”

“Then you can give me a message to pass on. No one will disturb Miss Rara’s peace on my watch.”

A hoof landed gently on his shoulder. “It’s OK, Mister Heads. Let her talk if she wants to.”

When the hoof was lowered, the bodyguard stepped aside. He was still staring at Trixie with the cool, unthinking patience of a crocodile eyeing up a stray salmon. The mare stepped forward.

Miss Rara was worse up close. By pony standards, she was plain. The black curtain of hair had a few subtle shades flowing through it, and a few locks had faint traces where the curls hadn’t fully straightened out. Yet, this all simply emphasized the knots and dull sheen of the whole. Her dress had a few scuff marks, and was fraying under the right pit. Even her eyes were a bit too red and puffy for Trixie’s liking.

That voice, Trixie reminded herself. Forget the packaging. That voice came out of that mouth.

“That mouth” was smiling, and it wasn’t the fake smile of someone trying to please a fan. It stretched up to the eyes and filled the cheeks and carried with it the instant belief that Trixie was her best friend in the whole world, and she couldn’t have picked a better pony.

Cynical cogs creaked into action deep inside Trixie’s head, but she focused instead on saying, “May the Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie just say… May the Great and Powerful Trixie… The Great and Powerful – oh, forget it. That was the most amazing singing I’ve ever heard, bar none.”

The mare couldn’t smile any further. Pressure built up in her face until it flared red with the friction.

“Thank you so much,” she said breathlessly. “What a lovely compliment! You’re very kind, Trixie.”

“Ha! Trixie merely has a good ear for singing, and your song touched me deeply,” Trixie said. Silently, she thanked the mare for getting the third-person thing without issue. “You, my mellifluous friend, have a gift. You cannot waste it in a dump like this.”

“OK,” said the bodyguard, and Trixie rounded on him. “You’ve had your talk. Now leave Miss Rara alone.”

“Mister Heads, please!” Miss Rara placed her hoof on his withers, and his shoulders sank an inch. “I know you’re doing your job, but she means well.” She turned back to Trixie. “Don’t mind him, Trixie. He’s just a bit twitchy. He’s a sweetheart really, once you get to know him.”

Mister Heads glared at Trixie, but it was too late. She’d seen him wince at the word “sweetheart”, and with a smirk she filed it away for later use.

“Trixie,” continued Miss Rara, “would you like to join me for a cup of tea and a chat? I have a caravan outside. You could join me there for a while.”

Free tea! This was turning out better than she’d hoped.

Good grief, said the cynical thoughts at last, she’s so trusting. I could be a nutcase, for all she knew. No wonder Mister Heads is twitchy. And how does a run-down mare like this get a Canterlot-type bodyguard and a pianist, anyway?

Miss Rara beckoned Mister Heads to lead on, and as they passed the pianist, who was shuffling his musical scores in the dark, Trixie levitated her own forelock closer to her eyes. Red dye streaked through the silver.

Darn. I knew I hadn’t washed it off properly.

“Do you have a wash basin by any chance, Miss… Rara?” she said.

After Mister Heads opened the back door, Miss Rara squeezed past the piano. “Of course! Help yourself, Trixie.”

Something nagged at Trixie’s instincts. Not that she trusted her instincts much – last time she did that, she’d ended up with a corrupting amulet clamped to her neck – but the rest of her was interested in hearing them out.

“Miss Rara?” she said, squeezing between the wall and the piano. “Is that a stage name? You’ll have to do a bit better than that, if that’s the case.”

With shocking speed, Miss Rara rounded on her. “What did you say?”

“Well, something like The Romantic Lady Rara, or the Magnificent Rara, She of the Rare and Exceptional Talent would be much more fitting for a life of showmareship. RRRRRRRRRRRRReputation prrrrrrrrecedes performance.”

The mare’s eyes were spotlights. After a while, Trixie squirmed a bit under the glare. Attention was all very well, but it was twenty mares’ worth of attention focused through two eyes, and “quality over quantity” counted for something too.

Thankfully, Miss Rara blinked and the smile dawned again. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I just have… bad memories about that.”

“Aha. So you have had some experience.”

“Huh? I’m sorry?”

Trixie nodded in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner. “No offence intended, Miss Rara! Many a diamond in the rough has been overlooked by duller eyes than mine. It’s lucky for you that the Great and Powerful Trixie can see further than most.”

Mister Heads opened the back door wider. He was holding it for them, but neither of the two were moving. Trixie was waiting, but she had the sense she was leading a conversation of one; Miss Rara’s facial muscles were struggling, and the way she finally scrunched her face up made Trixie wince.

“S-Sorry,” said Miss Rara, turning away. “I’m such a filly at times. Please excuse me.”

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it,” Trixie said at once, though she was wondering what she was apologizing for.

“It’s not you. It’s just…” Finally, the smile came back. “I’ve had it a bit rough recently. ‘Rara’ isn’t a stage name, though it’s sweet of you to think that. It was a nickname a friend gave to me a long time ago. My real name is Coloratura.”

And the tumblers inside Trixie’s head clicked into place. Now she sensed it; the ruined curls in the mane, the emerald in the eyes, the way her voice skipped and danced even while speaking.

The memory fit together with the flow of music and song and a backlit stage. She’d seen it once during a visit to Manehattan, passing through on her way to the mountain road. There’d been posters everywhere. Ponies in the street talked about what a radical change of style she’d adopted. They’d called her the “Sweetheart Siren”. Her voice followed you out of the theatre and down the street.

For a moment, Trixie was there: the plush seating, or at least plusher than she was used to; the way the lights dimmed until only the mare at the piano could be seen; the flex of the dull hooves; the slight pop of the mouth before the first note hit…

“No…” She forced her jaw not to drop, but the shockwaves were still rushing through her. “Coloratura? The Coloratura?”

Miss Rara’s smile dimmed. Her eyelids came down slightly, half-prepared to slam at a moment’s notice.

“You,” said Trixie, “are Countess Coloratura?”

“I’m afraid I was, yes.” Miss Rara shrugged.

By now, the shock was thinning out. Her cynical mind tried to cut her question off pre-emptively, but the rest of her pointed out that there was still the implicit question of how it happened.

“What happened?” she said.

“Something good and awful and wonderful and sad.” Miss Rara gestured to the bulk of Mister Heads, who was tapping his hoof meaningfully. “You’re the first pony in weeks who’s said anything nice to me. Maybe it’s destiny but… shall we talk about it over tea?”

Despite herself, Trixie was feeling smug. The inside of her own caravan was nothing she’d actually brag about; just a mass of chests and barrels and any props she couldn’t fit inside the two. She used the chests for chairs, and had a chest each to act as larder, cleaning kit, toolbox, bedding storage, and, on some of the worst journeys of her life, “waste disposal”.

Again, it wasn’t much, but at least she had a lot of furniture, even if it was only in the technical sense. Whereas Rara…

As soon as they’d stepped inside, she’d had to settle for rugs and pillows because there were no chairs whatsoever. Mister Heads had to go outside to heat the water in a pan; at least Trixie had a kettle in hers. Clothes had been dumped in the corner, not even sorted into used and clean piles.

“I was always awful at housekeeping,” said Rara cheerfully.

“I wasn’t looking,” said Trixie, who in fact had only just looked away.

“My mother and father used to tell me I sang like an angel and lived like a devil.” She picked up the tray, groaned when she almost dropped it, and stretched it so far towards Trixie that the unicorn levitated it out of alarm. “Cookie?”

“Thanks. I’ll wait until I finish the first two.”

The tray rattled on the floor. “Oh…”

“Nothing a quick-fix spell can’t handle.”

While Trixie’s horn glowed, she ignored the posters on the walls, which in practice meant ignoring the walls. The posters were plastered on everything but the ceiling, in some cases so thickly that only an eye or a face peeped out from behind the newer ones. Every single one of them showed either Rara or Countess Coloratura.

It wasn’t hard to tell which: Countess Coloratura was a fashion explosion, here boasting a ponytail that doubled as a whip, there wearing enough makeup for a troupe of clowns, and often dressed in clothes that hadn’t been sewn so much as riveted together. Together, the posters boasted more steel and bolts than a tanker designed by heavy metal punks.

Most of them, Trixie noticed, were Countess Coloratura. The few Rara’s present became background to her dressed-up alter ego in any case, but she doubted there were more than a dozen visible, including the half-smothered ones.

“At least you won’t have to bother about mirrors,” said Trixie, eyeing up a Rara playing the piano.

Rara blushed and sipped her cup. “I’m not vain, or anything. I collect them as a reminder to myself.”

Trixie blew on her own tea. It’s best not to say anything, she thought. There were three chests full of paper Trixie faces in her own caravan, and she always struggled to close the lids.

“I had an epiphany,” said Rara suddenly, “a few weeks ago.”

Despite her cynical side rolling its eyes and smirking, Trixie pretended to be fixed on her tea. Only the cocking of her left ear betrayed her.

“I was the Countess at the time. I’d been the Countess ever since I first moved to Manehattan.”

“What an inspired name!” Trixie nodded. “Countess Coloratura. High, noble, classy, exotic, and with definite overtones of ‘do not mess with the likes of me, because you can’t afford it and I can and I will never let you forget it’. You should use that name again.”

Rara clenched her jaw, and at once Trixie glanced up. She could hear the tendons cracking.

“Or…” Trixie busied herself with dunking a cookie. “I suppose you could settle for Baroness?”

“It was my manager’s idea,” said Rara, and she tried to catch Trixie’s eye. “It was a big city, my manager told me, cutthroat and selfish and merciless. Only the strong survived, even if they were just singers. I was scared. It wasn’t like that back at home. I thought how lucky I was that I met him. He was going to help me stay alive.”

Trixie shrugged. She didn’t care much for cities. They were too big and too impersonal, and the streets thronged with wannabe conjurors. Even when she’d been less shy about throwing her weight around, she’d never found it fun to slam into a target that big. It was harder to see her own shockwaves in a city. There was usually another pony doing the same thing a block away.

Her cookie melted and fell with a plop into her tea. Figures, she thought.

“I got rid of him in the end,” Rara continued.

“Why?” said Trixie, trying to levitate the sodden mass out of her cup. “He sounds like a pony with vision.”

“He used me! He was a bully and a scrounger and a lying snake! He hurt my friends!”

Trixie almost dropped the cup and rolled hooves-over-head into the wall behind. The words punched her ears and pummelled her brain. She had to shake her head to focus again.

Aha, thought her cynical side. Not for the first time in her life, she suddenly wanted to kick it in the mouth.

Rara blinked and noticed she was standing up. Hastily, she swallowed and settled back down as though afraid of getting shot at.

“I’m so sorry! You couldn’t have known. That was wrong of me to take it out on you.”

“Oh hardly,” said Trixie, pouncing on the lifebelt in the words. “You don’t want a manager like that sucking your blood. If any pony tried that on me,” she added with a rush of certitude, “they’d be begging me to get rid of them, because that would be the kindest thing I’d do to them. Eventually, and once they’d stopped screaming.”

“Erm… that’s sweet of you… I think…”

“So who is your manager now? Mister Heads?”

“Oh no. Mister Heads is the last of my bodyguards. I ran out of money to pay the others, but Mister Heads… well, he said he believed in me. We agreed to a reduced rate. Just don’t talk to him about it, or he’ll get upset. He’s a Canterlot pony, through-and-through, and I know they set a lot of store on standards and expenses. I don’t like what he’s doing to himself, but he won’t listen to me. He even chipped in to hire that pianist tonight, but only if I agreed not to spread it around.”

“How gallant of him,” said Trixie, while inside she was gasping with utter shock.

You’re blabbing about some Canterlot-type’s insecurities, and you still only know me as Miss Nice Mare I Met In A Tavern. Thank goodness I’m not like that manager, or I’d be walking all over you and using you as a doormat for good measure. How could you possibly have lasted this long?

“After my manager left, I had to improvise on my own. It started wonderfully. Everypony was really excited about the change. They said it was an experiment for the ages. I thought I had found my calling.”

Trixie’s nostrils flared. Oh, the mare gushed enough and smiled and looked fondly at the ceiling while she went back to that happy time, but she spoke as though she’d learned this speech by rote. Either this is but a drop in the ocean of her blissfulness, or there’s a minefield of misery here. Either way, she’s not letting anyone see a thing. Not on this round of the tour, anyway.

“Did your new manager botch it up?” she said, shaking her head sympathetically. “Trixie has never trusted anyone to handle her affairs, except her own good self. A lot of ponies are self-supporting these days. It happens a lot way down south. You should consider it.”

Part of her sensed the tension that shot into Rara’s muscles…

“Well,” said Rara, “I didn’t get a new manager. Not exactly. In fact, I thought it best if I became my own manager.”

…and that part of her smacked itself in the face.

“Ah,” she said. “But with a voice like yours, you must have had some success.”

“Oh yes. I was soaring over the highest peaks.” Rara tittered into her own hoof.

“There you go. It couldn’t have been that bad –”

“And then the winds changed.”

Rara slumped where she sat. Idly, she stirred her tea with a cookie.

“It wasn’t the same after that,” she whispered. “I thought I could be who I really was, after so many years of pretending. It’s hard when it turns out you can’t. Singing wasn’t enough anymore. They said I was coasting. I didn’t understand it. I mean, I was doing what I liked, what I believed in, and suddenly it wasn’t good enough. Have you ever had that too?”

Gently, Trixie put her cup down and sat as smartly as she could. Perhaps the fumes were making her light-headed. Perhaps she was just tactlessly stupid. Either way, she was wishing, hard enough to crack her skull, that she had just kept her trap shut.

“Uh…” she said. The Great and Powerful Trixie did not say “uh”, but sometimes it helped plain Trixie to think of the magician as a coat she could take off at will. “Trix – I’m not good at this sort of thing, but I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to… you know?”

The caravan door shot back so hard that the whole vehicle rocked back and forth. Most of Trixie’s tea ended up on the carpet.

Mister Heads stepped inside, jaw clamped around a set of sky blue mouth-gloves, which in turn were clamped around a metal tray. On the tray, the vat of recently boiled water wafted strands of steam. Briefly, he put the lot on the floor.

“Refill, Miss Rara?” he rumbled.

“Yes please, Mister Heads. Thank you!”

“And you?” he added to Trixie.

She glanced at the sad stains around her cup. “Apparently, the answer is ‘yes, please’.”

Even while he poured out Rara’s tea – with a lot of unnecessary inching and checking and double-checking before, during, and after – his pupil remained locked onto Trixie’s face. Roughly, he sloshed a chunk of water into her cup, adding to the ring of stains around it, and then dumped the lot against a wall and stood to attention at the entrance.

“It’s sweet of you, Trixie,” said Rara with a weak smile, “but please don’t worry about me. Mister Heads is all the help I need. And I’ve got my singing. I’ll never forget that, whatever happens.”

You’re lying, Trixie thought. Somewhere in there, you’ve buried a lie. You’re not looking at me, and your face is twitching, and your voice is flatter than it was a moment ago, and it’s a bad idea to lie to someone who knows the art of cold reading. I’m a magician. I’ve had practice. I know the tricks.

She didn’t say anything. Talking wasn’t a winning tactic at the moment.

Moreover, the machinery inside her head was coming to life. She could sense it clanking and banging and screaming against axles that needed oiling. This pony was a goldmine. She had a track record, she had talent, and with a spit and a polish, she’d have class. The only reason Rara was in this pit was because she couldn’t sing her way out of every problem, but if she could, then the world wouldn’t stand a chance.

Trixie’s gaze shifted over to the implacable Mister Heads, who didn’t bother removing the glare from his face. She wondered if they’d ever met before too, but her mind dismissed it. Once she’d passed through the school, Canterlot had offered her nothing worth staying for. Every pony she’d met there had been either a tutor or a distraction. Hardly grudge-holding material.

Throwing the last of the tea down her throat, and trying not to gasp at the scolds she’d just inflicted, Trixie jumped to her hooves and took a bow.

“It has been a pleasure,” she said, “but Trixie must have her beauty sleep. Rest is good for magic.”

“Aw.” Rara pouted and slumped. “You’re not leaving already?”

“We can meet up tomorrow,” said Trixie quickly. “Trixie has come for the Week of the Wyrd. Assuming these hicks don’t chase her out of what she laughingly calls ‘town’, Trixie will be performing miracles beyond mortal comprehension for the amusement of fillies and colts.”

“How sweet!” Rara’s voice shot up to the ceiling, and in her enthusiasm to get up, it was only gravity that prevented her body from following suit. “I love working with foals. They always believe.”

Trixie blinked. “Believe what?”

“Nothing specific,” said Mister Heads. “It’s just a belief in things generally. Now, you were leaving?”

“Until next time, then. The Grrrrrrrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrrixie bids you all adieu and good night.”

Trixie pushed the door open, but then stopped at the frame. She had a feeling something more was expected of her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was. Hardly any ponies had ever treated her to tea at home, at least excluding those who ran tea shops in their own living rooms. And she had a growing wish to make Rara smile, or at least to smile more warmly still.

By the time she’d turned around to speak, Mister Heads was bulldozing his way towards her, and she snorted and leaped out into the night. She let off a smoke bomb out of force of habit, and was just grateful she didn’t trip over anything this time.

Trixie's Scheme

The alarm clock broke into a frenzy of ringing, and Trixie felt the vibrations through her pillow. Scrunching up her face, she threw a hoof across and whacked it into shutting up.

Why do I keep forgetting to turn that thing off? she thought irritably. Rolling over, she tried to fall back into a deep sleep, but bits of her mind were kicking into gear, and despite forcing her eyes shut, she was utterly awake and had no chance of a sleep-in.

Most ponies upon waking up had to ease their way gently back to consciousness, but long years of rushing out of bed to start an early show or to get the heck out of dodge had worn that habit out of her. Throwing the threadbare blanket off of her torso and legs, she rolled over and was rising on four hooves, feeling as though she’d been awake for hours.

Sunlight glowed behind the drawn curtains of Trixie’s caravan. She threw them back, hoping to see blue skies, and was rewarded with endless grey.

The Great and Powerful Trixie began to think.

There were a couple of ponies on the village green, but they were just standing and talking. It didn’t mean much that the rest of the village was cold and still; most country villagers would have slipped out early to start working on the fields or in the orchards, and she’d passed a few on her way towards the bridge last night. Perhaps it was best to get this out of the way.

Neither of the ponies looked up when the door creaked open, nor did they respond when she stepped out of the caravan. A couple of glances flickered in her direction, however, as soon as she made a beeline for them, and their voices dropped once she was actually upon the pair.

“Good morning,” she said, far more cheerfully than she felt. “Know anywhere good for breakfast?”

The mare on the left scowled at her. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Yes,” muttered her companion. “Don’t you usually melt in sunlight, or is it water I’m thinking of?”

“I’m surprised you eat mortal food. Are the elven ponies on strike today?”

“Perhaps the demons will give you a stir-fry if you ask them nicely.”

Both of them looked about her age, both earth ponies, and both with calluses on their forelimbs and rather squinty eyes. Possibly, they were farmhands once. May have had foals at some point, judging from the way they stood; there was a certain weariness and drooping of the back, but a slight bracing of legs ready to rush into action. Trixie’s cold-reading mind pointed all this out through sheer force of habit.

“By the subtle arts of divination,” Trixie said, “Trixie has a suspicion that we rather failed to hit it off yesterday.”

“Yes, I suppose the tomato was too subtle a clue. Come, Greensleeves. We’d best be on our way before she curses us. Don’t want a pox on our hooves or our legs to drop off.”

Trixie didn’t bother chasing after them. No one that resistant to common courtesy was going to be of much help whatever she did. Besides, the Mermaid Tavern was almost certainly the only establishment this place possessed.

She turned to look at her caravan, and yes, there was the graffiti dribbling down the side like an old friend. It said, “Go home, Witch” and was accompanied by a surprisingly straight-lined pentagram. Despite herself, she nodded. Someone had a steady pair of front hooves and a good eye for proportions. She only groaned when she realized they’d covered the three-headed dog. That sigil had been expensive.

Fall Bridge, Fall Bridge… Have I ever been here before?

If so, then it must’ve been way back when she was starting out, because her memory could see any village she’d visited on a whim, and this one was doing nothing for it. Even that possibility seemed unlikely. Back then, she’d focused on the big towns and cities that her classmates from Canterlot always talked about, and she didn’t remember coming this far west. Hick towns had been later, when she’d run out of anything better and had learned to avoid the biggest cities.

Trixie sighed and leaned down to nibble on a few grass blades. She could still smell the rotten egg smell of the fountain, but a village green was prime estate for a travelling performer. Ponies – and therefore bits – gathered on village greens.

Forget it, she thought irritably. Obviously, the eldritch witch look was not going down a storm here. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like Coloratura…?

Jolting herself on the doorway, she went back inside and fished out of the trunk a vinyl disk player. She wanted to check something.

Her old disk collection spilled out as soon as she lifted the second lid. Idly, she wondered if they were due a tidy-up. They used to be alphabetized, once upon a time. Among the printed faces of Sapphire Shores, the Party Poopers, and the Royal Canterlot Orchestra, she hit upon a few of Coloratura. A flick of the sleeve produced the disk.

She adjusted the needle, closed the lid, and listened.

The first synthesizer beats zipped from her left ear to right ear. A second set of tones jumped in at just the right spot to feel they were building up to something big. And then Coloratura began to sing, autotuned and moderated and with a weird echo until she sounded less like a pony and more like a snide machine that had just figured out speech.

Trixie winced – it was too early in the morning for this kind of aural mugging – but there was a style there. She could already feel the energy rushing through her as the beat poured it in and the voice haunted her mind. Whoever the manager had been, they’d known what they were doing; the notes were all over the place, alien and harsh and mechanical, but they came together in a way that had life and vigour. It was better than coffee.

Better still was when she listened to Coloratura. Trixie strained her ears until her pinnae were ramrod straight. Under the echo and the autotuning, there was passion to the voice: the way it danced across the lyrics, the way it punched the eardrums. That said, where her passion last night had been sweet and honest and slightly melancholy, this time her passion was snide and mocking and just shrugged at the idiocies of the world.

Trixie stopped the disk and rewound it. This time, she listened to the actual lyrics.

“Take your kicks now; it’s just a show,
“Life’s a party, and then we go.
“Drinks behind you. The food’s for me.
“Don’t complain, kid; I’m VIP.”

It was hardly poetry from the Great Bard, but it got the job done.

Some sort of explosion hit her brain at this point; this was where the music stopped jabbing playfully at her head and started the knockout for real. This was better than two coffees in the morning.

“There ain’t no host, there ain’t no host to this party-ty-ty!
“It’s the shindig, it’s the shindig of anarchy-y-y.
“You wanna reach the top?
“Well, you might as well just drop.
“‘Cause I’m the Queen, yeah I’m the Queen of Revelry-y-y!”

Immediately, it devolved into what Trixie thought of as the crazy bit: random bursts of foreign lingo, word salads that sounded good up until you tried to decipher them, and verses where the echo and vocal modulation were so over-the-top that it was impossible to make out any actual syllables, never mind the lyrics.

Despite a part of her insisting on hearing the whole song, Trixie shook her head and switched the player off. No distractions. She couldn’t afford any just yet. Ideas swirled around in the waters of her mind, and they had to settle if anything constructive was going to come out of this. Listening to loud, raucous music was about as helpful as getting a pond to settle by throwing bricks at it.

Her stomach rumbled, echoing within the confines of the caravan. Oh well, she thought. Duty calls.

Trixie stepped out and made her way towards the Mermaid Tavern. As she did so, she looked over to the right, to the sorry excuse of a bridge and to the wide open plains beyond. There was the dirt track she’d taken up to the village, fringed by hedgerows that kept travellers away from the dirty yellow corn fields and – in the distance – the bent trees of the orchards.

Primeval instincts urged her to gallop towards it, to run with the vast spaces and chomp the swaying blades, but more modern ones pointed out that it wasn’t her primal instincts that’d have to pay for any damages if she tried it.

Faint whisperings reached her ears as she turned the corner. Some mare was belting out a verse, but she was too far away to make out individual words. As she went up the gravel stretch that passed for a street, she stopped and looked up.

The statue was crude, its head alone little more than a bunch of granite blobs that stood in for mane, snout, and ears. It reared up, forelimbs raised to lash out, and the carvings that passed for clothes suggested a harlequin’s suit from the neck down. A crumpled hood lay over its withers; at least, she assumed it was meant to be a hood and not, for example, a gigantic fungus growing out of its neck.

A wooden longbow was slung over its shoulder. This had to be a recent addition; it wasn’t covered with algae, lichen, or distressing white-and-brown streaks. Also, it was made of wood. Yew, she guessed from the slightly grey colour.

Trixie marched on. Her stomach was getting insistent. Besides, it was just a dumb statue with a waste of good weaponry strapped to it. Who cared about crazy folk stuff these days? Really?

That singing was getting on her nerves. Far too chipper for her liking.

When she rounded the corner, she stopped and blinked and waved a hoof in front of her face.

The song ended and was greeted with applause. Before her, the front of the Mermaid Tavern was flooded with fillies, colts, and the elderly, either crowding out the door or crammed around the windows. They were stamping and leaping and whooping.

“Great. Just great,” she muttered. “What is this, Happy Hour for the early birds?”

I’ll try elsewhere, she thought. It’s not like the village green grass was that disgusting. I don’t have to queue for it, anyway.

“Encore, encore, encore, encore!” cried out the crowd.

Trixie tutted and went round to the caravan at the back. If there was one thing Rara didn’t need, it was some dippy country singer rubbing it in her face.

Or maybe she did. Maybe a bit of competition would get her up and kicking. There was bound to be a way she could use it.

Trixie knocked on the caravan entrance.

“Good morning, bright and cheerful!” she said. “It is I, the one and only, the great and powerful, back for a little tête-à-tête. And do I have the guarantee of a lifetime for you!”

Big, broad grin. That was the ticket. Like flowers, she could conjure up an expression from nothing, and this one was a doozy: Earnest Admirer Number Twenty-Six, the Sweet-as-a-Kitten-on-Catnip Edition.

No one stirred. The caravan simply stood there, as it were, woodenly.

The catnip wore off. Trixie rapped the door smartly.

“Aren’t you awake yet?” she said. “Trixie wishes to make a proposition. Are you interested?”

It occurred to her that the Mermaid Tavern had fallen silent. Suspicion crossed her mind. Turning on the spot, she eyed up the back entrance.

Barely had she pushed through when the door pushed back and jammed her neck against the frame.

“Hey!” she said. “What’s the big idea?”

“Shush!” Mister Heads had his hoof up against the other side. “Miss Rara is performing.”

Trixie tried to pull her head free, but the oaf was as immovable as a tank. Grumbling, she twisted as far as she dared so that she could see past him to the stage.

The tavern was packed. Not just every chair, but it seemed every plank on the floor had been filled with soil-speckled ponies of all ages, from babies being bounced on the laps of their mothers to elderly folk craning their scrawny necks to gawp better. The pianist from last night was sitting at the front, and from his coiffed mane to his sleek coat, he stuck out like an ebony cane among a log pile. He too was staring at the performance.

One of the stallions was on stage, and he was twanging at a banjo with a fair amount of gusto. Beside him, wearing a straw hat on her inky cascade of hair, was Rara.

“There was a mare called Filly Fall, she’d got some grit, she’d got the gall,
“To go around, stand proud an’ tall; she was the greatest mare of all,
“Was Filly Fall. That’s Filly Fall.”

Trixie gaped. As one, the crowd went “WAHEY!” Several raised drinks over their heads.

Rara was no slouch; she strutted across the stage, forelegs darting up and out as a whip cracking at the words. She reared up at the word “tall”, encompassed the room with her rising forelimbs, and shot them up towards the ceiling on “mare of all”.

“She’d shoot an apple off yer head, and kept a spare at hand (it’s said)
“In case the Duke, who’d want her dead, sent soldiers sneaking in his stead,
“For Filly Fall. For Filly Fall.”

Trixie clean forgot about the pressure cutting into her neck from both sides. That was it! That was the Countess! Oh, she wasn’t exploding with clothes, and the smile on her face was Rara, but the voice knew darn well what social rank it held. Dimly, she could make out the shadow of Mister Heads, who was staring at the stage, apparently forgetting about his hoof on the door.

She tried to push against it. No budge. So he wasn’t completely stupid, then.

Rara leaped forwards and tugged at an old stallion’s hoof. With a lot of flustered looks and a few “you lucky devil” nudges from his friends, he fumbled onto the stage and waved at a few ponies near the back.

“The Duke he were a mean ol’ thing; he taxed the folk, lived like a king,
“But Filly, with a zip and zing, taxed it right back with her bow and sling.
“Hail Filly Fall! Hail Filly Fall!”

The old stallion frowned down at them and struck a pose, hoof higher than his raised snout. Several of the ponies laughed. Trixie guessed he was supposed to be the mean ol’ Duke, and noticed an apple on the stage next to him.

“She lived inside an old oak tree, deep in the woods with a band of three.
“Her pony posse kept us free, to live in joy and harmony,
“Thank Filly Fall. Thank Filly Fall.

“The bow and statue mark the spot, where Filly Fall was forced to trot.
“The Duke had came to take the lot, and Filly weren’t gonna take no rot,
“Not Filly Fall. Not Filly Fall.

“Back then, the Duke was a mean old gun, couldn’t hold his drink, ne’er had no fun,
“So he took a colt and an apple one, and told her ‘Shoot that off your son.’
“Told Filly Fall. Told Filly Fall.”

At this point, the old stallion lifted the apple and placed it on her straw hat, with her leaning down to make it easier on his creaking old bones. Trixie nodded and hummed appreciatively. It was a fair display of showmareship.

“None but she could’ve made that shot, so she said, ‘Old Duke, here’s what I got;
“‘If the apple’s gone, then you gotta stot, right out of town ‘til your hooves turn hot,’
“Said Filly Fall. Said Filly Fall.

“So the Duke said ‘Done,’ though the town weren’t keen; and the son went white, though her eye did gleam.”

Rara flicked her head up. The apple jumped straight up, hovered for a moment while gravity caught on, and then – while Rara reared up – came falling back, right into her open and expectant mouth with a crunch. A few mares went “wow!”

My goodness! thought Trixie. She’s… she’s got the stuff. How can I even…? No, no don’t think like that. There’s an angle here. Just watch and learn.

Hastily, Rara took the apple out and swallowed the chunk she’d bitten off, throwing the rest to the crowd. Trixie didn’t see, through the mess of limbs and heads, who caught it. All eyes were turning back to the stage anyway.

“She made it clean, but the Duke were mean! So he locked ‘em up, starved ‘em thin and lean.
“Poor Filly Fall! Poor Filly Fall!

“But no treachery could hold her back! So she broke out; led the big attack,
“She saw that Duke, gave his guards a whack; an’ he turned and fled; din’t stop to pack.
“Yay Filly Fall! Great Filly Fall!”

At her playful leap, the old stallion put on an exaggerated expression of fear, which given his wrinkles and stretching skin was not something Trixie wanted to look at. He ducked behind the curtain while Rara turned back to the crowd and winked.

“They say at nights, you can hear her call; the zip and zing where her arrows fall.
“She’s a legend true, and she saved us all; kept Fall Bridge great an’ proud an’ tall.
“So when yer down, an’ yer feel the pall, you jus’ remember Filly Fall.

“She’d got the grit, she’d got the gall, to strut her stuff, standin’ proud an’ tall.
“Good Filly Fall. Good Filly Fall.
“Good Filly Fall, standin’ proud an’ tall; ‘cause she’s the greatest mare of aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllll!”

The banjo capped it off with a perfect dit-dit-dit! Barely had it done so when the tavern broke out into a mass of applause, every single pony standing, stomping, whistling, and cheering. The old stallion emerged from the curtains and, along with the banjo player, took a bow. He tenderly kissed Rara’s hoof and then hopped off the stage, to be greeted with more pats on the back.

“What a mare!” murmured Trixie.

Beside her, Mister Heads woke out of his trance with a shake and rounded on her. “Oh, you’re still here.”

“Bit tricky to leave. Can I have my head back now, please, or are you worried I’ll try to assassinate her with my teeth?”

Growling, he lowered his hoof, but as soon as she stepped inwards, it shot up again and bashed her shoulder against the frame.

“I didn’t say you could come in. Now, get out,” he muttered. “Miss Rara needs a clear exit to her caravan.”

Trixie braced her legs against the frame and glanced across at the crowd. Surrounded by ponies chattering and patting her on the back, Rara had descended to the main floor and was talking to and smiling at the old stallion, who was responding in kind.

“You’d better tell her, then,” spat Trixie. “Looks like she has her own exit strategy in mind.”

“I’ll deal with that. Just get out of my sight.”

When he let go, Trixie had unfortunately picked that moment to try yanking her head out. She flew backwards and rolled once with a bounce before belly-flopping the gravel with an “oof!” Her stomach started squeezing her insides out of protest.

It didn’t take long for her to get back onto her hooves. Getting thrown out of taverns was a rite of passage in the School of Gifted Unicorns, though usually you didn’t do it to yourself by accident. It used to happen from time to time during her travels, as well; bar ponies tended not to be grateful when random magicians generously if grandiosely offered to make their drinks greater and more powerful.

Her mind began to settle, but it had been a maelstrom recently, so that didn’t mean a lot. The Countess Coloratura lived on. Rara still had punch and kick, and she’d just jumped from one genre of music to another like it was nothing…

Well, OK, Trixie was no expert, so this sort of thing probably happened all the time among music-lovers and song-writers. Surely it couldn’t be too hard to master two fields. Trixie herself had managed to be top of quite a few classes back at the school, even if, after the exams, she had immediately forgotten about nine-tenths of it.

Still, the crowd chatted away, though when she peeked around the corner, she noticed mares and foals wandering away from the windows and the door, and one or two pushed front doors open and disappeared inside. From the tavern came the sounds of laughter and the clink of glasses and the tramping of hooves on planks. Last night, this place had been dead.

If I had crowds like that, I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone I wanted to be! I have to get that spark back!

Quickly patting the dust off her coat, Trixie ran a hoof through her mane. She conjured up Cool Indifference Number One, the quiet, confident look, and leaned against the tavern just before the doorway at the back.

As predicted, Rara swung the door back and spotted her instantly.

“Good morning, Trixie!” she said.

The smile hit Trixie like a sudden sunbeam. Her expression began to melt, but she forced it to harden. She casually flicked at her forelock with a hoof.

“The Grrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie,” she said, “was pleased by your wonderful performance this morning.”

“Oh, you were there?” Rara cocked her head daintily, making Trixie fight to keep her face straight. “That’s so sweet of you! I don’t remember seeing you in the crowd, though.”

Mister Heads slammed the door behind her. “That’s because she was trying to sneak round the back.”

“I was not ‘sneaking’,” hissed Trixie. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does not need to sneak. She comes and goes as she pleases. No, she merely wished to speak with Coloratura.”

Rara shook her head; Trixie noticed she still had the straw hat on as it flopped from side to side. “Please call me Rara. We are friends, after all.”

“We are? I mean,” Trixie continued, hoping the squeak hadn’t been too high, “of course we are! The Great and Powerful Trixie likes to think of herself as a friend to all who gaze upon her magnificence.”

“I’ll bet she does,” muttered Mister Heads.

“And it is on the subject of magnificence” – Trixie placed a hoof gently on Rara’s shoulder, and smirked when Mister Heads stepped forwards, only for Rara to shake her head at him – “that Trixie is here to speak with you.” She paused to check her grammar, and uncertainly added, “About?”

She’d expected Rara to gaze at her with awe and wonder. She’d expected the remaining clouds on Rara’s strained face to scatter and make her feel like she was staring directly at the sun. What she hadn’t expected was her own Cool Indifference Number One looking back at her.

Perhaps “about” wasn’t right. Ah well.

“Magnificence?” said Rara.

“Your song!” Trixie gave her a friendly pat in case it helped. “The lyrics, the beat, the choreography! There are professional country singers who’d retire in ignominy before daring to even attempt to rise up to the level you reached just now.”

“Oh, that!” To Trixie’s relief, Rara’s sunshine was back. “Oh, bless you! That was just a little something I came up with last night. I wouldn’t say it was good, but I felt I owed it to the villagers after… well, after my first effort didn’t get it quite right.”

Now it was Trixie’s turn to look blank. “Didn’t get it quite right?”

“No one seemed to like it except you, and I thought about it last night, and in all honesty I’m not surprised. That song wasn’t written for them. It was written for me, for my feelings. It wouldn’t resonate with anyone else. It was selfish of me to do that, and I guess they must have sensed what it said about me.”

“What it said about you? You? Selfish? It was a song about mountains and butterflies and not singing to royalty. How can a song be selfish?”

Rara shrugged helplessly, dislodging the hoof on her shoulder. “After you left, I went out to meander around the village, get to know the place better, and then I found the statue on one of the streets. An old stallion was passing by. I asked him about it, and he told me about the legend of Filly Fall. Not straight away, of course; what he actually said was ‘You know, in all my years no outsider has ever asked about the statue before,’ and then he showed me the little engraving at the bottom.”

Trixie grinned weakly. “And from that, you sat down and wrote a song about…?”

“Filly Fall? Yes. It took most of the night, but I think it was worth it. I wanted to give them something nice, and to show them I’d been listening to them instead of forcing them to listen to me.”

She really believes all that, Trixie thought as she stared at the sunshine. My word. What kind of mare pours their heart and soul into a sad song for a dozen drinkers, and thinks she’s being selfish? She’s insane.

Maybe I can do something with that…

Rara gave a start as though suddenly noticing her for the first time. “I’m sorry. Please excuse my manners! I was rambling about my song again, and you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes,” piped up Mister Heads, who loomed like a monolith behind the singer. “You were saying something about ‘magnificence’.”

“Ahem.” Trixie glanced at the bodyguard, and knew better than to move any closer. “Yes, I was saying. When I saw you playing on that stage – last night and this morning – naturally, my curiosity was piqued. A mare with so much talent and experience, and yet so far down on her luck, is clearly being held back by” – here, she shot a glare at the impassive Mister Heads – “unhelpful elements.”

“Is that so?” he growled.

“What other explanation can there possibly be? Rara,” said Trixie, and she pinned the mare with a knowing smile, “I think it’s about time we put that magnificence to good use. Sweep away those unhelpful elements, and reclaim the throne you have been so wrongly denied.”

Rara’s gaze was putting up a good fight. Her mouth was a thin line, and her cheeks were taut with the effort. Even her eyes were slightly narrowed. Yet there was no hiding the flicker of the pupils. She was interested, in spite of the majority vote.

“I’m sorry,” said Rara as gently as she could. “Believe me, I’m flattered and honoured that you think so highly of me.”

But. There’s going to be a “but”. Barely a twinge of guilt passed through Trixie’s head, but what was another claim to the pile she’d already made? Besides, this wasn’t like the other ones.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie does not ‘think’,” she said, cutting off the “b” that had barely formed on Rara’s lips. “She knows. That’s why she would consider it a high honour if you were to help her charitable cause.”

She watched gleefully when Rara closed her eyes and hummed in thought. Trixie had met types like her before. The “ch” word had a ring to it that chimed with a heart like hers. She could plead humble and small and say as many times as she liked that the Mermaid Tavern was her place, but charity was bigger than any one tavern.

You could do a little favour for a bunch of villagers and maybe some volunteer work, but words like “little favour” and “volunteer work” snuggled up, were just buds that hadn’t bloomed yet, and didn’t want to be seen by too many ponies. “Charity” looked to the horizon and saw it as a challenge.

As well as that much, Trixie could almost hear the hunger rumbling between Rara’s stiffened ears. Something had to remember Countess Coloratura up there.

“‘Charitable’?” Mister Heads snorted. “What charity’s that, the ‘Save the Street Theatre’ fund?”

“Not at all.” Trixie conjured up a condescending smile. “Fall Bridge has been gracious enough to host an open festival on the Week of the Wyrd for more than a hundred years. Is it not time that they were given a little something back? And why stop there? On the road that leads to everywhere, many weary and lonely hamlets lie rotting and forgotten. Trixie is a grand traditionalist; she is, after all, the greatest magician who ever lived. We should be restoring the old ways back to their former glory, or my name’s not the Grrrrreat and Powerful Trrrrixie!”

Rara blinked up at her. “All that?”

“Sooner or later. Given enough time and enough costs covered, naturally.” Trixie stretched a foreleg across the mare’s withers, ignoring Mister Heads’ outraged grunt. “I’m proposing to give you the stage of my travelling caravan, all yours, just so the crowds can hear you sing. No more making ends meet in ragged old bars for a handful of families.”

“Your stage?” Rara tried to back out of what was suddenly an iron grip. “No, please no. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Trrrrixie insists. It would be a pleasure beyond pleasures to help your star shine!”

Here, she let go and held the startled singer down with a hoof on each shoulder. There was no mercy: Rara was getting a full blast of Awed and Devout Believer Number Two, staring-at-the-heavens edition.

“Your star…” She choked as theatrically as she dared. “Your star can never go out. This is the prrrrroudest moment of what has hitherto been an uncertain and strrrrrained existence for me. I cannot begin to express what an awakening it has been, when I first heard you singing on that fateful night! I want you to know that –”

Mister Heads coughed abruptly. The world stopped glowing. The overcast sky came zooming back. The dull grass and dirty gravel roads imposed on her private world. Trixie peeked over Rara’s wide eyes, which were staring at some point beyond the usual dimensions of this world.

“Yes?” Trixie snapped.

“For starters, you can get your hooves off of my client,” he said, shifting his weight forwards. “Secondly: so out of the bottom of your kind and generous heart, you want Miss Rara to sing on your stage for money.”

Trixie removed her hooves and stepped backwards. “For charity.”

“Right. For charity.”

Rara shook herself and the sunshine was once more spreading across her face. “Wow. I had no idea I’d had such an impact on you. Did you really mean that?”

“Yes,” Trixie said at once, and she returned to smirking at the singer. “Of course!”

“And it’s just for charity? You don’t want any kickbacks or perks…” Rara’s eyebrow rose up. “Do you?”

There was barely a second’s pause before Trixie’s smirk faded towards a smile to rival the sunshine. “Wouldn’t dream of such a thing! Trrrrrrrrrixie gives her word, and Trrrrixie’s word is golden.”

“Oh, and I’d like to see this stage. Um, if you don’t mind my asking…?”

“RRRRRRRRRight this wwwwwwway!” In a good mood, Trixie could trill any letter she fancied.

So wrapped up had she been in her performance that Trixie only just then realized the tavern had fallen silent. Whatever spell Rara had cast over the place must have long since faded away.

She narrowed her eyes and, ignoring the growl from her stomach, strode around Rara, past the bodyguard, and round the corner to begin a trek across the road. Her hooves were crunching on the gravel. Behind her, the crunch of more hooves set her at ease.

And a little squeaky voice in her head was going: The Countess wants to see my home! The Countess wants to see my home! Take that, graffiti artists! The Countess wants to see my home!

Thankfully, it hadn’t been burned down or smashed up in her absence. Those had not been good days; the last time, she’d holed up in an abandoned shack on the plains and hadn’t gone on tour for a month. To this day, she found herself flinching at the mere sight of a pickaxe.

Still, she couldn’t help but blush at the way Rara inspected the sigils on the side, if only because the singer acted as though the words “Go home, Witch” weren’t the most conspicuous thing on it.

“Ooh, I like that.” Rara pointed up at the flare cannons on the front. “You must have made such a dramatic entrance with those things.”

Mister Heads grunted, which was the closest he ever seemed to get to a chuckle. “Wooden caravan, fire cannons. I bet your insurance premium’s a nightmare.”

“It’s not real fire,” Trixie snapped. “It’s a magical imitation. They cost a fair bit to have installed…” It occurred to her this was sounding out-of-character, so she added with a coo, “But it’s worth every cent, just to see the looks on the foals’ adorable little faces.”

While Mister Heads raised an eyebrow, Rara tittered into her hoof. “That’s what I used to do too. I’ll bet they just flock to see your show.”

“Yes.” Trixie tried a chuckle. “Flock. Oh, where are my manners? To my living quarters, and backstage!”

After she’d magically swung the door back and graciously bowed towards it, the two stepped inside. Within her own head, the little squeaky voice had suddenly become a lot squeakier.

She was supposed to jump in after them and start giving the tour, but part of her squirmed at the thought. Other performers and showponies were OK from a long way away, but the few times she’d invited them into her caravan had been nothing but trials.

The first time, she’d done it to shut up some heckling little guttersnipe on the streets of Manehattan. He’d claimed she was no real magician, and had turned out to be one himself, with a guild card and everything.

Well, she’d spruced up the place every night for just such an occasion, and every inch of her caravan had been smothered by dark paint, sequins, and display cases. It had been a happy time, fresh from her schooldays, when she could afford that kind of thing. Not a soul could move without coming up against mystic knives, talismanic jewellery, crystal balls, grails, candles, packs of Tarot cards, and an expensive orrery whirring and shifting at the centre of the room. That had been crafted by the elite artists and astronomers of Canterlot. She’d had to scrimp and save for months before she could buy it.

He’d taken one look at the collection, sighed, and with a not-too-sincere smile of pity on his face, murmured something about “trying to hide behind her tools”.

Oh it didn’t sound like much – she had to stomach worse since – but that had not been a good time to be a snotty young mare with an easily shattered dream. Besides, he’d gone on to show her some tricks she’d thought were impossible. That was like stamping on the pieces.

Trixie blinked and glanced about.

There were a few more ponies out of doors now, though still no more than about a dozen could be seen from the green to the distant streets at any one time. They mostly lurched or ambled, the gloom of the overcast sky reflected by their slumped and defeated postures. One or two of the nearest ones flashed glares at her as they passed by, holding them for a moment before their own unstoppable trajectories pulled them out of range.

It occurred to her that she had two ponies inside her home who’d be wondering where she’d gone. At once, she hopped inside.

Both ponies were meandering among the maze of chests and barrels, taking peeks inside the latter and casting their gaze about the ceiling and walls. Rara giggled with delight.

“I’ve never been inside a magician’s home before,” she said. “Look at all these props!”

Sweat began to pile up on Trixie’s forehead. What little bravado she had was standing upright with its forelimbs crossed, waiting for orders.

“No bed?” said Mister Heads.

“I don’t need one,” Trixie said. “It’s bad luck to have a full bed behind the stage. That shows a lack of devotion and a surfeit of laziness.”

“What about if it’s a prop?”

“Um… it doesn’t count, I guess.”

There was barely a smirk when he replied, “I’ll take your word for that.”

Rara cooed and poked her head inside another barrel. “These dresses are fabulous! No! That one’s a Hoity Toity Haute Couture Cut! There were only a few hundred ever made.”

“It was a donation,” Trixie lied quickly. “Um… if you want, you can take them out for a better look.” Please don’t take them out for a better look.

She winced as the patches and frayed ends rose out of the barrel. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed. You couldn’t possibly have missed them. I mean look at them. They were so obvious…

“This would be lovely for a performance.” Rara looked wistfully at the lacy collar and the pleated pinch around the waist.

“Help yourself.” Trixie wiped her forehead on the back of her foreleg. “You can look as pretty as you like. For the sake of the performance, I mean. No point holding back, now is there?”

“Thank you.” Rara draped the cloth with care over her own back and gestured towards the nearest chest. “May I take a look inside?”

“Uh…” An alarm went off in Trixie’s head; she’d almost forgotten about the larder. “Not that one! The one next to it. On the left.”

It contained several rolls of twine and rope, but pushing past all that, Rara soon unearthed a black case. When she flipped the lid back, a golden glow reflected in her eyes.

“That’s makeup,” Trixie said. “I don’t use that particular one on my face. A bit too flashy. But it makes for some grand paint.”

Mister Heads’ eyes narrowed. “That’s Sapphire Shores Liquid Gold. How can you afford that?”

“I told you. It was a donation. Most of the material here was donated.”

Yes, she thought, by young Trixie to old Trixie. Young Trixie had been exceedingly generous in that respect.

Ah well. The tatters and frays and rips can help with the illusion. No one would have difficulty believing these were castoffs, even if they are castoffs from the rich, and we’ll just have to work that into our little script.

“I did say I’d worked in Canterlot before,” she ventured.

“I know.” Rara closed the case, but the gold still reflected from something within her pupils. “It’s amazing what ponies can achieve when they really want to.”

Absent-mindedly, Trixie kicked the chest containing the disks away from her. At least she’d had the sense to pack the kit away beforehand, and it would be tricky to explain what a wandering magician was doing with that much vinyl, most of it first or limited edition.

There was not much future in claiming to use it in a magic act. For a start, there was the issue of royalties.

Rara lowered the lid and hummed to herself. “It’s funny…”

Trixie felt a spasm shoot up her spine. “What? What is?”

“All this time, I haven’t actually asked you… what you actually do.”

For the first time since she’d come in, Trixie smiled. Old habits raised their heads inside her. Right on cue, she reared up and almost felt, for a moment, her old cloak billow and her old hat tilt back dramatically.

“You see this sleeve?” she said, wagging her right hoof.

“What are you up to now?” said Mister Heads with a sigh, but it was nothing – nothing – to her what he thought. This was work. This was where she was Great and Powerful.

“But you’re not wearing any –” began Rara.

“Exactly! The Great and Powerful Trixie has gone beyond ‘Nothing up my sleeves’. She is the mare who performs… with no sleeves whatsoever. Behold!”

Her proffered hoof flexed. A wave oozed up her right elbow, across her shoulders, and with a step forwards, it ended with a flex of her left hoof and the bouquet popped up out of nowhere. She didn’t even need her unicorn horn; this was magic without the magic.

With a whip-crack of her fetlock, she snatched the bouquet out of the air and held the black and white chrysanthemums aloft.

“Ta-da!” she said.

Rara laughed and stamped her front hooves with a rat-tat-rat-tat-rat-tat. Even Mister Heads raised his eyebrows, presumably out of a kind of respectful surprise.

Trixie went back onto all fours, levitating the bouquet and sending it over to the mare. “For you. Fret not; we have many more. And what’s Trixie’s is yours now.”

“So beautiful.” Rara raised the crook of her elbow to cradle the lowered flowers. “Monochromatic, huh? Good choice, though it’s a bit ‘Nightmare Night’.”

“Yes, I imagine the villagers would agree with you,” said Trixie as she shuffled closer. “Besides, it’s not as though I can save them for anyone else.”

As she approached, Mister Heads was back to looming over his client; evidently, he had a proximity trigger.

“Pretty,” he said tonelessly. “So where’s the actual stage?”

“Watch in awe, my fiendish friend!”

At her horn’s command, the chest burst open and ropes slithered out and onto the floor. They hooked onto the bits on the walls and wrapped around metal bulges in the corners. One side of the caravan began to creak.

Rara nodded as the side began to crank back, letting in the glowing grey of the overcast sky. “That’s not bad. How do you manage for wings?”

“Working on it,” Trixie managed through clenched teeth.

Around her, the sparkling ropes lunged and wrapped around curtains and plywood panels. A gigantic work of origami folded and unfolded around them, slicing between the chests, knocking one or two barrels out of the way, scything across the back of the stage. Painted constellations gave way to a picture of a sunny meadow, which in turn was eclipsed by a two-dimensional Saddle Arabian palace. Banners whipped back and forth above them. Around the trio, plywood panels scraped against the boards, sweeping up the stray “furniture”.

It was all Trixie could do not to burst with sweat, but the gasp to her right fuelled the spark. She would have lifted the entire caravan for a gasp like that. It started by raking in the air, and then cracked with the effort when it realized the throat wasn’t big enough, and then rose up into a filly’s squeak.

“Trixie!” Rara said. “It’s perfect! You can do almost anything with this!”

“Can.” Trixie smirked against her own clenched jaw. “And have.”

Finally, the lot clicked into place. Her horn went out. Trixie let out a gasp, having held her breath at some point without realizing. One or two ponies across the green were staring up at them.

“Backstage,” Trixie whispered, glaring back. “We’re not quite done yet.”

“Really?” said Mister Heads, sounding for once as though he was talking to someone with a soul. “You don’t wanna take a break? You look a bit red in the face, to be honest.”

Trixie didn’t bother replying. She just went behind one of the wing curtains and waited until they traipsed through, lifting the bottom up with their hooves.

“Trixie does not need breaks,” she said.

Her horn sparkled. Two more chests burst open, and a dress rose out of each one to flank her, the right one pink and bedecked like a wedding cake, the left one black and simple. Both chests snapped shut. Padlocks clicked into place.

“The cornerstone of any good performance,” she said, idly making the dresses go into orbit around her, “is never to do the same trick twice. Never coast. Never rest on your laurels.”

Both of them tried to follow the two dresses. Trixie whistled irritably until they looked back at her.

“What you’re going to need,” she said, “is pizzazz, flash, lightning. Make ‘em think they’re watching one thing” – the dresses spun faster, almost eclipsing the pair with the blurs – “when they’re really watching another.”

By the time the dresses slowed down, the pink and black had gone. One green frock and one golden ball gown slowed to a stop, the two flanking either side of her instead.

“You pulled them out of the chests,” said Mister Heads.

Trixie let his gaze flick towards the big, padlocked, and so-obviously-shut chests on either side.

“They’re hidden behind these dresses?” said Rara.

Each dress revolved 360 degrees, and then turned inside out for good measure. They zipped behind Trixie’s back and seemingly vanished.

“Teleportation spell,” said Mister Heads promptly.

“With no flash?” Trixie polished a hoof against her chest, and then idly blew on it. “By the way, you got something on your…”

She tapped her mane gently. Rara glanced up, and had to stuff a hoof in her mouth to keep back the giggles.

“What?” Mister Heads patted his head. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Trixie, back to polishing her hoof. “Rainbow quite suits you, though.”

Howling, Mister Heads beat his own locks, trying to pull one down far enough to squint at it. “What did you do? What did you do? Get me a mirror!”

“Relax, sweetheart. A bit of colour never hurt anyone.”

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me! Whatever you’ve done, undo it!”

Despite herself, Trixie allowed herself a little giggle, ruining the calm mystic look she’d been going for. Why not, though? Rara was clearly enjoying herself, and the point had been made. Her horn aglow, she summoned the rainbow out of the bodyguard’s hair, whereupon it circled his face until he swatted at it. The tiny rainbow darted across and spiralled down Rara’s neck and shoulders, making her rear up to watch it progress down to her belly, and then it zipped across and framed Trixie’s head in a psychedelic mockery of a halo.

“I think ta-da would be a bit redundant at this stage,” she said, and the rainbow blinked out. “But… Ta. Da.”

“You’re good, Trixie!” said Rara, coming back down. “You’ve been to a magic school.”

“Not a magic school. I’ve been to the magic school. And it’s all yours now, Count – I mean, Rara.” Trixie coughed and tried a smile. “So… about my proposal?”

Rara barely thought. She opened her mouth wide –

“What about whoever you’re living with?” muttered Mister Heads. He still looked sore at the rainbow gag.

Trixie’s blank stare was genuine. “Pardon?”

“Oh, you live alone?” Rara inspected a nearby barrel, rooting about for any props she could drag out. Several clattered on the floor.

Trixie licked her lips as she watched. Countess Coloratura was staring through those wide eyes, and she knew how to handle someone like the Countess. Props and tricks were just the start, the icing on the cake, the bits that made foals’ eyes sparkle and gleam and had them rushing into the kitchen to bake something. And a Countess was, at heart, just another foal. Perhaps that was how her old manager had snared her to begin with. Really snared her, that is; all that pony-eat-pony, cut-throat codswallop was just there to make a manager seem pragmatic or realistic. It wasn’t glamour.

“One does not ‘live alone’,” said Trixie piously, “when one is beloved by legions of admirers and fans.”

“Beloved by legions, huh?” said Mister Heads, making a big show of looking about them. “I suppose they’re all at work today.”

“In the cities. They won’t come this far afield, not when Trixie seeks new frontiers for her fame and fortune. But in Canterlot, Manehattan, Fillydelphia…”

“I come from Canterlot. I don’t recall ever hearing your name.”

“Oh, you attend magic acts in your spare time, do you? Besides, I went by many names. The Lady of Shadows, Great Equinini, the Diamond of Diomedes, to name but a few. It amused me to vary my performance and style, and thus my identity.”

Mister Heads’ brow creased, and a smile flickered on his face. “Great Equinini? The stallion?”

Nice try, Bucky, she thought, but you can’t kid a kidder.

“I have no idea what you’re gibbering about,” she said with a little flick of her mane. “Perhaps, instead of making jabs at my job, you should concentrate on your job? There’s a good boy.”

This time, there was thunder on his face. Up until now, he’d given the subdued, understated looks of a pony trained from birth to hold emotions back. He’d been almost totally unflappable, even while flapping at the rainbow whizzing around him.

Trixie lowered herself ever so slightly.

“A word outside,” he growled, and it wasn’t just a colourful description; he actually growled, his words inflected with the harmonics of a tiger threatening a lunge and a bite. “If you please.”

The shadow loomed past. Followed by an apologetic smile from Rara, Trixie trudged after him.

Once out on the grass, he rounded on her so fast she flinched. “Now you listen to me, Little Miss Magic,” he hissed. “I don’t know what kind of hustle you think you’re pulling –”

“Hustle?” said a brief bout of flame from her chest. “Sir, I assure you –”

“Miss Rara might trust you, but I sure as sugar don’t. You won’t always have my client around to speak up for you, even if she seems to buy into your ‘charity’ story.”

Trixie felt flecks of spit on her muzzle. She began backing off; she was painfully aware of how much sky he was taking up with each word.

“Miss Rara has not had a good year,” he continued. “And now you’re trying to offer her false hope.”

“Not a good year?” Trixie repeated faintly. Sweat trickled down into her eyes, burning like acid.

“None of your business. And your story better ring true, Sparky, because if this blows up in her face, then mark my words; there will not be so much as a crack in Equestria where you could hide from me, and you’ll need to hide from me, blue-eyes, because I will hunt you down and snap that horn right off your criminal head.”

Trixie bent back so far she felt the grass tickle the back of her head. She was surprised her spine could bend so far back. It still wasn’t far enough from that glare.

“Do you,” she managed to say with a weak smile, “have a crush on her or something?”

“I am a Canterlot bodyguard,” he said. “Unlike my ‘fellows’ elsewhere, I know what that means. And so, I’d guess, do you.”

She did. Painfully so. One or two of the richer students had been accompanied around the old school campus by Canterlot bodyguards. She’d remembered one such filly, who’d thankfully only been there a few weeks before she was expelled for gratuitous snobbery.

Everyone had called her ‘Princess’ when she was around and ‘That Little Snot’ when she wasn’t. The filly had done whatever she wanted, up to and including talking loudly to herself in Conjuring Class.

Trixie loved Conjuring Class. It was the closest she’d had to a religious upbringing. There were lessons that had changed her life around, including the one where she’d learned – and it had been drizzling outside the window that afternoon – that a well-trained unicorn could not merely ape but match a pegasus when it came to manipulating clouds. Up until then, she’d sighed whenever she’d watched the pegasi shuffling clouds about. How her mind had been blown that day…

So when, inevitably, she’d tried to get her own back on That Little Snot, she’d barely put the sacks of tar and feathers in place before the shadow loomed over her. It had patiently and agonisingly explained why she wasn’t so much as fit to lift a whoopee cushion. They had inventive ways of protecting their clients, and if they couldn’t kick with their hooves they could certainly sting with a few psychologically tailored words.

A Canterlot bodyguard combined the worst of a thuggish colt with the worst of a socially sadistic filly. They took care of the filthy business any well-to-do pony wouldn’t touch with a barge pole, and imbued it with a class and style that was all their own. For a year after that talk, she’d woken up at nights screaming in existential terror.

And they were said to be loyal. Trixie had heard tales; one had been about a bodyguard who kept watch even over the grave of his client. He’d refused to move, and had to be fed by passing strangers.

“Uh…” Trixie tried to remind herself she was several hands and thumbs taller than she used to be, but that was hard when her point-of-view was, if anything, lower than last time. “Y-Yes? Yes. Yes! Of course. Um. Can I stand up now? I think my ribs are… popping out of place.”

He held the looming glare for a little too long, but finally drew back. It took a couple of attempts before she was upright again, and she had to crack the kink out of her backbone.

“Consider this a friendly warning,” he said, straightening his fringe.

“That was friendly?”

“I can do unfriendly, if you prefer.”

“No, no!” she said hastily. “I like friendly. It works for me.”

“Good. Now get back in the shack. And remember; I said there’s nowhere you could hide. That is not an idle boast.”

Trixie let him step indoors first. She didn’t want a Canterlot bodyguard to see her shaking. Rumour had it they could smell fear.

Besides, she took a petty pleasure in imagining herself shooting a spell at his back. Not so long ago, when she’d had that corrupting amulet, this petty pleasure would have graduated from fantasy to reality. At times like this, she found herself wondering if it was worth looking for the thing again.

Rara was opening up a few more chests and scooping more clothes out of the barrels. As soon as she looked up, she said, “What was all that about?”

“Oh,” said Mister Heads, “we were just, er…”

“Discussing plans for the show,” said Trixie at once. “Seating arrangements, audience management, security, you know. And does your stallion have some plans for us!”

“Do you?” said Rara with keen interest. The bodyguard’s ears turned red.

“Oh yes,” continued Trixie remorselessly. “I think we can have things ready for the second night, but first of all, we’re going to need some inspiration from the locals.”

Yes, she thought, because if the signs are anything to go by, I’m going to be leaving this village at speed with an angry mob on my tail. I’d prefer to leave with a bit more dignity than I usually get.

That means, first of all, building up a reputation. Reputation precedes performance. And it would help if I could build it with some of your bricks. After all, you’ve got enough to build a mansion, and you’ve already made a decent start. The locals would probably help you with the mortaring.

Trixie licked her lips. She was hungry now, and it was not just for the breakfast she’d missed. Not this time.

The Countess and Her Inspiration

There were farmers out in the fields, and Trixie and her posse traipsed between the hedgerows separating the carrots from the green beans. Farmers pruned the fields or trimmed the hedgerows with their shears. Farmers watered the furrows along the dirt, making the leaves shake under the downpour. Farmers flushed out the critters – mostly rabbits and crows – hiding among the crop and shooed them away.

Farmers, in short, did farmery things, which was about as much as Trixie cared to notice.

She glanced up. The pegasus teams had shifted the overcast sky, and under the blinding blue and the way the greenery shone, it wasn’t much of an improvement. She could feel her back melting under the cloak, and her pointed wizard’s hat was drooping over one eye. Even the mystic sigils on them were turning crispy.

Up ahead by a pony’s length, Rara seemed totally unaffected. Then again, her hair had already been a sleek mess under the straw hat, so it was hard to tell. There were no sweat patches on her green frock, though.

While Rara prattled on about this, that, and the other genre, and Mister Heads brought up the rear silently, Trixie scribbled on the notepad hovering before her. Occasionally, she stared up at the apple and orange trees on the horizon and tried not to yawn.

Rara was prattling to the old stallion from the show, who’d fallen into step alongside her. She’d found him outside the tavern, and he’d been so busy not believing his luck that he had now, apparently, become part of the group.

Trixie hadn’t paid much attention. He’d given his name as Wheezy, and then she’d lost interest and whipped out the notepad. Her mind was buzzing with sequins and light filters and how to make a piano score sound “mystical”. There was no room in there for “I remember when I was a lad…” or, worse, “Why, back in my day…”

They were only out and about in the first place for “inspiration”, or so she understood it. Putting on a show was second nature to Trixie, but singing was new. Magicians had their hooves full just making sure the ponies at the back could hear them, and she had no intention of adding such complications as “being deaf-tone” to the deal. Perhaps this was how singers usually started.

Inspiration, she thought. Pur-lease. We’re on farmland. They sow seeds, grow food, and tidy up afterwards. The only thing we’re gonna get out of a farm is lunch.

“Let’s take a walk in the country,” she says. “We’ll see something and have this nailed before lunch,” she says. Well, the sun’s going down, and I’m sure as heck not eating lunch here. Even if they offer those carrots. Those who like vegetables shouldn’t see what they’re grown in.

Trixie grimaced and tried to wipe her hoof on her chest. Soil and dust all over the place! Yeuch! She’d hoped walking on the grassy patches would’ve helped her to avoid it.

She’d also hoped, after the first half an hour, that there’d be some statue or some story they could pick up and run with. But it was an hour down a road that frankly looked the same every step of the way. There must be better ways to waste one’s time.

No mysterious craftwork, no art, no nothing, unless you were a fan of pastoral idyll. Nice in its own way, Trixie thought, struggling not to grimace, but it’s not a story. It’s just a thing ponies do. It’d be like singing about brushing your teeth.

She was starting to wonder if they should just hang the “no repeat” rule and do “Filly Fall” again. This was less out of a sense of pragmatic showmareship and more because her stomach was mugging her brain for menaces money.

One skipped meal was one too many. Besides, it reminded her too much of the uncomfortable times, not too long ago, when she’d had no choice but to skip the odd meal.

Her eyes drifted to the green beans. At least they grew out of reach of the dirt, held up by the planted sticks that she presumed guided their growth. Either that, or some plants were too dumb on their own to figure out which way was up.

Reluctantly, her starved mind began picking scraps out of the conversation ahead.

“Oh look! Magpies,” said Rara. “Those black-and-white patterns would make a snazzy design, don’t you think?”

There were indeed three magpies. They were sitting on the top of the hedge to their left, blinking and twitching after the walkers. Wheezy stuck his chin out.

“You wanna steer clear of them foul beasties,” he said in his wheezy voice, and then he broke off and began a hacking cough that rolled through the conversation like a boulder down a hill. “Them’s nothin’ but thieves and spies. Evil spirits and demons use ‘em as familiars.”

He didn’t stop glaring at the birds until the group had passed well by, and then he shook himself so viciously that his jowls flapped.

“Wrote a book about it once,” he went on, stopping to clear his throat of an industrial-sized blockage. “Wrote lots of books about all kinds of things. Only thing keeps a magpie away is rusty horseshoes. It’s the iron. Repels evil, iron does. Wrote a book about it once…” He chewed over his next words, and then suppressed a cough with a noise like a backfiring car.

Trixie hummed under her breath, but the few drops of inspiration evaporated under the heat. Magpies… they’re demonic spies… iron hurts their beady little eyes…

“This is a joke,” she whispered.

Rara glanced back while the old stallion rambled on. Her ears were drooping. Obviously, she was having about as much luck as Trixie was, and from the pleading look in her eyes, wasn’t getting what she wanted out of the ramble either.

I’ll bite, Trixie thought. Aloud, she said, “So… Weasel, wasn’t it?”

“Wheezy,” snapped Wheezy without looking around. His shoulders stiffened.

“You’ve written a lot of books. What were they about?”

Wheezy exploded into a hacking cough, and once it had passed, he said, “Oh, all sorts of things. Carrot varieties and how to cultivate ‘em. Bean varieties and how to cultivate ‘em. Where to get the best clover. Uh… Clover varieties and how to cultivate ‘em.”

Trixie growled and mentally dropped out of the conversation.

“Any stories?” Rara tried. “Like the Filly Fall? That kind of thing?”

“Oh, that’s what you meant! I wrote loads,” he said. “I’m fascinated by folklore. Around here, we keep alive all kinds of legends and tales from way back when. Here, I’ll show you something special in a minute. Just a little further ahead.”

Trixie allowed her gaze to wander back to the fields, but now they were leaving the green beans behind, and the edge of a patch of birch woodland was coming up. Crouched at the roots of one of the bleached trees was a pony wearing a grey shawl and a brown tunic, the face hidden behind a white bonnet. The pony was scraping at the soil.

As Trixie watched, another two ponies in the same dress stepped out from behind the white trunks and trundled over to the first. They had woven baskets on their backs.

“What’re they doing?” Rara said, nodding towards them.

“Hm?” Wheezy followed her gaze. “Oh, them. The shorter two are grandchildren. That,” he said in hushed tones, “is someone special. That’s the Cunning Mare. Quick, look away. Pretend you haven’t seen her.”

Rara obeyed him at once. “Is she shy? Or is it rude to stare? I’m not familiar with country customs.”

“It’s just common respect. Everyone gives the Cunning Mare a wide berth around here. She can do all kinds of things: cast protective spells, mix up special potions, see into the future, and…” here, he leaned forwards and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “they say she can fly, even though she ain’t a pegasus pony and she ain’t got no wings!”

“She’s a witch,” said Trixie irritably. “We get it. Woo.”

She almost walked into Wheezy’s jaundiced glare. The old stallion shuddered, either through outrage or through an attempt to pre-empt the wheezing cough.

“She ain’t a witch. Witches are evil and wicked and malicious and cruel!”

Trixie tried to rally; it was hard when faced with a stare shaking so much. “But she does witchy things. Casting spells? Mixing potions? Seeing into the future?”

“That’s just Cunning Mare stuff. She protects us and looks after us and tells us our future. She and her granddaughter and grandson there; they’re keeping the craft alive. They do NOT do dark magic or nothin’. They ain’t witches! We ain’t had no witches here in a hack’s age! They’re Cunning Mares! Got it?”

“I got it, I got it,” Trixie muttered. “Cunning Mares, not witches. Yeesh.”

Wheezy forced himself to shuffle onwards. Besides him, Rara shrugged and carried on walking. Trixie tried to ignore the sound of Mister Heads sniggering.

“Like it matters,” Trixie whispered.

Inside her head, she joined the dots and gave a little “aha”. Perhaps that was why she’d been greeted by tomato yesterday. These types have a thing against the occult, or at least those parts of it that looked witchy, and she’d looked plenty witchy last night. She filed this under “Potentially Interesting” and glanced to her right, beyond the carrot fields to the towering hills coming up.

“What’s that?” Rara pointed, and the four of them stopped to stare.

“That?” repeated Wheezy.

It looked, at first glance, like someone had taken coal pieces and dropped them onto a green lump. They ran up and down the hillside, and a circle of them enclosed an area near the top, where two pointed ears stood up. From here, they looked vaguely like a picture of a dragon’s head, but with spikes only on its crown.

“Oh, that! That’s the Horse with the Long Face!” he said happily.

Trixie’s rolled her eyes. “Really? ‘The Horse with the Long Face’?”

“That’s its name. Don’t wear it out.”

“What a name! Of course it has a long face. It is a horse.”

Wheezy snorted at her, and she shuddered at the heat rolling over her face. She was getting the impression he didn’t like her very much.

There was a gap in the hedgerow on the right. Creaking and wincing and coughing as he went, Wheezy shuffled over to it and unlatched the gate.

“Come on, we can get a better look, but you’d better not touch anything! It’s centuries old.”

As they strode along a flat, raised path that cut across the sea of furrowed earth and spiky carrot leaves, Trixie raised the hem of her cloak and grimaced. There was way too much nature here for her liking. Mister Heads had overtaken her in order to walk behind Rara, who in turn walked behind Wheezy, as the path was so narrow that anything other than single file guaranteed muck on the hooves.

“This place we’re going to,” said Rara. “Is it magical?”

“As magical as it gets!” Wheezy gave a spit of a cough and continued, “The Horse with the Long Face –”

Trixie tried not to giggle, and he shot a glare back at her.

“– is said to contain an ancient and powerful creature born from the heavens above. It’s sleeping at the moment, but one day an evil force from beyond will invade the town, and when no one else can drive out the darkness, whoever is the Cunning Mare of the village will come up to the hill – just as we are doing today – and awaken the beast. Then, it will rise up out of the stones and drive out the invading force with its celestial fire.” He paused to chew the inside of his mouth. “Or it’ll destroy the world. One or the other. Depends which story you listen to.”

His hacking laugh broke down into a hacking cough as they approached the next gate. He held it open for Rara and Mister Heads, but Trixie had to rush through to stop him slamming it on her. Another hacking laugh accompanied them as they made their way across a wooden panel bridge towards the hill.

Now that they were closer, Trixie could make out the individual stones of the head.

“Wow,” said Rara, eyes drinking in every detail. “I’ve only ever heard about these from ponies who went on vacation.”

“Hmm,” said Mister Heads. “Aren’t they some kind of solar calendar?”

“Hmph,” said Trixie. “Look at all the weeds. And that is nettle! Who’d want a calendar that could sting you?”

Wheezy strode right past them and stretched a forelimb like a bar. “Come no further, fellows! You mustn’t pass beyond the standing stones lightly. Strange things happen to ponies who try.”

Trixie peered around him. The grass flowed up their hillside, passed right through the stones, and then came out the other side to continue its rush towards the peak. There were dandelions dotted among the blades, and flatter patches of blotchy moss. Even the larks were darting in and out as though it were nothing.

The only difference between the standing stones’ patch, and the rest of the hillside, was that it had standing stones in it.

“Yes,” said Trixie. “They get stung by nettles. If it’s so important, you could do a little weeding up here every now and then.”

“We’re not due a Scouring of the Horse,” growled Wheezy, lowering his forelimb, “for another couple of years. Excuse us if not all our folklore arrangements suit your timetable, Miss.”

Rara stepped forwards and reached for the nearest stone, but then drew back a hoof and glanced across. At Wheezy’s friendly nod, she touched the ragged surface. Red flakes drifted down to the grass below.

“Rust,” she said. “This is iron ore, isn’t it?”

“Well spotted, Miss Rara!” Wheezy patted the stone next to it. “Amazing metal, iron. The magpies don’t dare come near here, and neither do any of the other dark creatures. Legend tells that they used to be a troupe of ponies who loved to dance and sing and play music together, all day and all night, whether rain befell them or sunlight shone on them. That’s why we call them the Dancing Stones.”

Spotting Rara’s eyes lighting up for the first time during their walk, Trixie began scribbling furiously on her notepad. It’s a promising start – I’ll admit that much – and anything, she thought, is better than hearing a list of books about carrots.

“My goodness,” said Rara. “So what happened to them?”

“Well, they set out one midsummer’s night, as was their wont, and they began to sing and dance and play. And then… A curse! An evil curse, sent by the dark witches! Boom! Bam!” Wheezy threw his forelegs over his head. “They were hit by the dark magic like a meteor-thing crashing through the sky. My granddad said his cousin’s granddad said that the ponies back then saw a great light coming from yonder that night when he was sneaking out to meet his buddies at the tavern. And when the magic dust cleared, the troupe of ponies had all been turned to stone…”

Trixie glanced up at the stones. They were… pony-sized, granted. And, if one were generous, a couple had slight carvings that might, if she tilted her head and squinted and asked a lot from her imagination, have looked like a deformed pair of eyes with a lopsided mouth, albeit one wrenched out of shape by too many emotions fighting for space. Apart from that, they resembled ponies in the same way that, oh, say… teeth resembled hand-crafted pony figurines made of china.

“Also,” said Wheezy with a wink, “they can’t be counted.”

“What does that mean?” said Rara, now rearing up to look at the carvings more closely.

“Just what it sounds like. Anyone who tries to count the stones will never get it right.”

“Oh, come on!” said Trixie. “That can’t be true! Look at them! You can see the whole lot right here, right now. I could count them in a couple of minutes.”

“Ha. I’d like to see you try, Miss.”

“Gladly.” With quick jabs of her pen and some muttering, she began picking out stone after stone, occasionally stopping to scribble something down on her notepad. At one point, she had to turn to the next page.

“Ninety two… Ninety three… Ninety four…” she muttered, coming back to the one Rara was examining. “Ninety five… and ninety six. There. Ninety six. What’s so hard about that?”

Wheezy hummed and grinned at her. “You included the ones that make up the eye? That circle up there?”

“Of course I did. I’m telling you; it’s ninety six.”

“Good, good. Now try counting the other way.”

Trixie growled. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d been hoping he wouldn’t say.

“To what point and purpose?” she said. “I’ve already counted them.”

“Then it can’t hurt to do it again.”

“Very well. If it pleases you,” she said with a mock bow of the head.

Once again, she jabbed her pen and muttered under her breath and scribbled notes on her pad. As she approached Rara again from the other side, she felt the frown crawling back onto her face.

Wheezy grinned at her. “Problem?”

“No,” she lied. “Hold on, I think I missed one back there.”

“Just the one?” he said.

“I’ll count them again.”

They waited patiently until she’d done so, but now Trixie could feel the heat rising in her head. Lunch was starting to sound like a good idea. Lack of food. That must be it.

“Seventy two,” she said to him.

“Is that including the ones making up the –”

“Yes, that’s including the ones making up the eye! This is ridiculous! Rara, don’t move. Here, you hold this.”

She shoved the notepad towards Mister Heads, who scrabbled to stop them falling onto the grass, and strode along the stones, tapping each one she passed with the nub of her pen. There must have been a mistake somewhere. Maybe she had missed the eye ones and not realized it. She was careful to keep all the stones within her sight at all times.

As she drew level with the ears, she used the corner stone as a point of reference and stopped to count the eye stones. A dozen. Nowhere near enough, but she continued anyway. There must have been an error somewhere further along. She continued counting, and it occurred to her she couldn’t remember either of the numbers she’d gotten the first two times.

Finally, she drew level with Rara and said loudly, “One hundred and twenty six.”

Wheezy burst out into a fit of laughter. Rara smiled nervously.

“Um,” she said.

“For the love of…” said Trixie at once. “Did you move at all?”

“No! Not an inch!”

“Then it’s a trick of some kind. You’re moving them, or there’s a hiding place being used whenever I pass.”

Wheezy coughed his way back to normality. “I saw you looking out the whole time. I think you’d notice if one of them started moving about, wouldn’t you? And how am I supposed to hide a big, heavy stone like it was nothing? Trapdoor, hidden behind the bush that isn’t there because we’re on an open hillside? No, it’s just the nature of the stones, Miss. Best to leave ‘em alone –”

“I’m not going to be beaten by some ruddy rockery! One more time!”

Trixie set off back the way she came, burning and trying not to kick the stones as she passed and tapped them. Chunks flew off with each hit. Again, she stopped at the ear to add the eye stones to her count.

She could hear the smirk in the silence as she came back round. Wheezy looked like Hearth’s Warming had come early this year.

“Riddled it out, yet?” he said cheerfully. “Got the final number?”

Trixie glared at him hard enough to set fire to the air.

“So… what was it?” asked Rara nervously. “Ninety six, or seventy two, or one hundred and twenty six?”

“Or-ee oo,” mumbled Trixie to the distant road.

“S-Sorry?”

“I said it’s forty two.”

“It’s completely different, isn’t it?” said Mister Heads.

“It’s forty two! Forty two! For Pete’s sake! You don’t have to rub it in.” She rounded on Wheezy. “I will get to the bottom of this, you mark my words!”

The old stallion just shrugged. “It’s your funeral. Forty two’s a new low, though. Those stones must really like you.”

Trixie glared back and tried to focus on all the stones at once. There must be some kind of trick. For ease, she narrowed it down to the eye stones. Thirteen. There. At least that established…

Wait.

She counted the eye stones again. Eighteen.

Biting hard enough to crack teeth, she counted and counted and got every number from eight to thirty six. It didn’t make sense, because nothing moved at all, and she could’ve sworn she could see them all in one gaze. But as she focused on any one stone, now she tried to snatch glimpses into her peripheral vision, and she noticed a slight flicker, a haze where there should’ve been a shadow. Aha…

“Is she ill?” said a voice in front of her. “Or does she always stick her tongue out like that?”

Trixie’s gaze shot down to the bonneted pony standing in front of her. Hastily, she sucked her tongue back in and rearranged her face into something less objectionable.

To her surprise, Wheezy had bowed his head and was staring at the grass beneath him. “Um,” he said, “afternoon, Miss Biddy.”

“‘Biddy’? Your name’s ‘Biddy’?” Trixie stared at the mare’s dark brown face, which had the stubby, bulbous muzzle and the big, round eyes of a mare still a few months from leaving fillyhood. Despite her height – she was still eye level with Trixie – the mare had to be younger than she was.

“Well, every old pony has to start out somewhere, eh?” said Biddy with a grin.

Trixie winced. She’d never met a gaze so penetrating from a pony. It seemed to be staring through her eyes right to the pink brain pulsing behind it. Trixie’s own eyes began to water as though punctured.

“She was just counting the stones, Miss Biddy,” said Wheezy to his hooves.

“Ah. She’s faring better than most, then. I see her brains aren’t leaking out of her ears.”

Unsure if the grinning mare was joking, Trixie fixed her with a stare beneath a raised eyebrow. Grey shawl… brown tunic… white bonnet… woven basket on her back, full of what smelled and looked like mushrooms of various colours and flavours and diseases.

“So you are one of these Cunning Mares I’ve been hearing so much about?” Trixie said carelessly.

“And you are the, ah, ‘witch’ I’ve been hearing so much about.” Biddy grinned even more widely and winked at her. “You gotta be careful what words you use around here, then. Don’t want to awaken an old curse by accident, now do we?”

Mister Heads nudged Trixie. “You want these back?”

She levitated the notepad from him without breaking eye contact with the Cunning Mare. Beside the white bonnet, Rara was staring with her mouth wide open, and Wheezy was glancing nervously from one to the other.

“Who are you tormenting now, Sis?” said a male voice behind her.

It was another Cunning Mare, but where the first looked like a mound of soil patted into shape, this one was dazzlingly white like a beam of light given shape. He had a far more triangular face than usual, pinched at the front so that, at a glance, he could’ve been mistaken for a slender mare. Trixie vaguely remembered tales of Elven Ponies that had been swapped among the first-year students, and now she seemed to be looking right into the goldenrod eyes of one.

His grin was the twin of the other pony’s, though. Trixie’s mind drew a card.

“Brother and sister, by any chance?” she said, head still turned to face him.

“Of course,” said the male voice behind her.

She turned back, and had to blink. Where the mare had stood, now the stallion was watching her serenely. Rara laughed and stamped her front hooves in appreciation.

Certain magician’s instincts waved at her mind for attention, but Trixie barely needed them. When she looked over her shoulder again, Biddy was waving cheerfully at her.

She felt her eyebrows rising on impulse before she caught them and sent them back down. No rewards went to a parlour trick. No one who tried the old switcheroo double-act on her was going to get anything better than a smirk. She’d mastered that trick before the first semester was over.

Very cute, she thought, and is that all you’ve got?

“And this…” crooned Wheezy, gesturing with a flourish towards the stallion when Trixie returned her gaze, “this is Master Early Bird, the second Cunning Mare.”

Early Bird inclined his head, but the grin remained fixed in place. It was starting to scrape across Trixie’s nerves like a file on a rusty saw.

Her eyes narrowed. “But he’s a –”

“He’s a Cunning Mare,” said Wheezy at once. He was making frantic gestures behind Early Bird’s back, which looked to Trixie like he was having a seizure. “Understand? It’s a high title, OK? Or a name anyone can take up and start acting out. The Cunning Mare. It’s a job. Yes! Got it? Look, all you need to know is that he’s a Cunning Mare.”

Trixie remained resolutely unsurprised.

“We see you’re enjoying the Horse with the Long Face,” said Early Bird brightly.

“Wheezy’s giving you the grand tour, or so we gather,” said Biddy, if anything, even more brightly, and she stepped around Trixie to join her brother. Side by side, they looked more like day and night; Biddy’s eyes were midnight blue.

Rara was rubbing her chin, pouting in apparent thought. Her gaze zipped from one Cunning Mare to the other. Both of her ears were cocked towards them.

“Oh yes,” said Mister Heads casually. “Stoned dancers, buried guardians, uncountable rocks… Looks like this place has a busy schedule.”

“It is also,” said Biddy, “a place where true romance can be discovered between ponies.”

Trixie hummed in feigned nonchalant interest while inside, her gooey core began to leak out. A slight blush escaped her hardened face. Treachery as it was, she had a soft spot for this kind of thing.

Not that she was interested in it, at all. Not personally, anyway. But a mare could enjoy romance novels without actually being romantic, couldn’t she? After all, Daring Do fans didn’t have to raid tombs to enjoy reading about a tomb-raider.

“When two souls meet at midnight within the stones,” said Early Bird.

“They will know for certain whether or not they are truly soulmates,” said Biddy.

“Many happy marriages have begun here. But the magic only works if they both go.”

“It’s a hallowed custom, dating back many centuries. Most things do around here, you’ll find.”

And to Trixie’s surprise and relief and fascination, the pair softened their grins into two small smiles. Their eyes – two suns, two new moons – began to moisten. With ease, the pair reached forwards and placed one hoof each on one shoulder, Early Bird’s on Trixie’s, Biddy’s on Mister Heads’.

“Welcome to Fall Bridge, fellow travellers,” they said in unison.

“Uh…” Mister Heads glanced at Trixie for help.

“Th-Thanks?” said Trixie. After a few seconds, she started to squirm.

“Don’t mind my brother,” said Biddy. “He likes to mess with ponies’ heads.”

“So does my sister,” said Early Bird. “It’s her way of saying hello. And it’s fun.”

As they walked back down the road, Rara cocked an ear towards the farmers still out in the fields. Words wafted in the wind, so as they drew closer, the party glanced left and right to watch, and swivelled their ears to pick up the tune. On the hedgerow, seven magpies had landed and were watching the work with keen interest.

The farmers were singing, each one picking up a line where the other stopped.

“I fear the maggot-pie, my child!”
“For out beyond the forests wild…”
“And watching through those beady eyes…”
“The evil Witch wants pony pies.”

“Maggot-pie?” muttered Mister Heads.

“It’s just an old name for the common magpie,” said Early Bird with a shrug. “Listen and learn.”

“I fear the maggot-pie, my flesh!”
“For she’d prefer to catch you fresh.”
“So says the hag when seeking meat…”
“At midnight, creeping down the street.”

“I fear the maggot-pie, my sweet!”
“It sees you as a gruesome treat.”
“So death’s a-coming; watch for claws.”
“Tonight, you watch for teeth and jaws!”

“I fear the maggot-pie, my dear!”
“For it’s a spy, a beldam’s seer.”
“So throw a stone to scare away…”
“That beast, and live another day!”

“They wouldn’t actually do that, would they?” said Rara in alarm.

“Of course not,” said Biddy. “It’s an old song. But it’s best not to say anything nice about magpies, just in case.”

As they made their way back along the road, Trixie fell into line alongside Rara, who was staring at the two Cunning Mares with her head cocked to one side. She was humming the tune to herself while the farmers broke out into song again, taking it in turns to tackle the lines.

Swell. Folk music, Trixie thought. This is too easy. Way too easy. All they sing about is stuff like lovers and seasons and what a “jolly ol’ life” it was to muck in the mud all day. She’s never going to draw a crowd at that level.

That said, the tune of “Filly Fall” echoed within her mind, and Rara’s voice overwhelmed the lot. Perhaps none of that mattered. No one was going to pay attention to the lyrics once they heard that singing.

Except… Trixie’s mind drifted back to the first night at the tavern. But that had just been a ditty for a dozen dullards; who was to say it wouldn’t work for hundreds, thousands, even hundreds of thousands of other ponies anywhere else? A few hicks from a sleepy village weren’t going to matter very much, at least not in the long run. Not when they’d been dead to the world in any case.

Then again, at this stage Rara probably had a point. For now, cater to the small crowd. Make ‘em feel important. And then, when this thing gets off the ground, stop acting like a tailor and start investing in a clothes chain.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” said Rara suddenly.

Trixie shook herself back into a stifling, aching, and over-bright reality. “Hm?”

“We’d need to bring in a couple more singers,” continued Rara, “but it’d be a neat compromise. We want to move on from the small scale of the ‘Filly Fall’ song, but not so far that we jump too soon to the ambitious material.”

“What do you mean ‘ambitious’?” said Trixie.

“I figure, if we’re going to make it big, then we’ll need to rise to a climax, and that means a steady build-up. It’s like building tension in a story. You don’t just jump to the great spectacle. You ease into it.”

“Makes sense to me. So what’s the plan?”

Only then did Trixie notice the bonnets on either side of them. Hastily, she looked up to Early Bird’s cocked ear.

“Ahem,” she said.

“That’s a sore throat you got there,” he said cheerfully, devoid of shame from his tone to his smile.

“We’ve heard of you,” said Biddy next to Rara. “You’re the mare who sang this morning.”

“And brought new life to old traditions,” said Early Bird.

“You were amazing! The timbre, the pace, the range!”

“So what’s your next plan? We’re dying to find out!”

Trixie glared at him. She was sure the sudden rotting compost smell was coming from his mouth.

“That,” she said huffily, “is private. Now, if you’d be so generous as to grant us –”

“Some assistance?” said Biddy, almost squealing. “We’d love to!”

“It would be a tremendous honour,” said Early Bird, “to assist with the lovely mare…?”

Rara giggled. “Please, call me Rara.”

A flare from her horn caught their attention; Trixie stopped on the road and waited until they turned to face her.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but that stage is for Miss RRRRRRara’s exclusive use as of this moment in time. The Great and Powerful Trixie does not let just anyone jump on like it’s a free-for-all buffet.”

Both Cunning Mares hummed with interest and took steps closer. They weren’t, she knew, any taller than she was, but they had a certain loom to their features that would’ve rivalled even Mister Heads’. Her cold-reading kicked in: they were used to getting their way, they believed themselves to be lord and lady around here, and they had the smug, cheery confidence of the chronic hustler.

“And,” she said, flicking at her hair and pretending not to notice them, “don’t think you can ‘persuade’ me either.”

Immediately, the looms became cheery bobs. Both ponies seemed to be bouncing on the spot with sheer manic friendliness.

“Goodness me, we meant nothing at all!” said Biddy. “It’s certainly not our business to force or cajole you.”

“It would be remiss of us,” said Early Bird, “if we didn’t help you out, and that includes respecting your wishes.”

“Like warning you about the Mayor,” continued Biddy, and the simper quivered on her lips. “And his efficiency and quickness.”

“Such as making sure no unregistered caravans are left lying on the village green,” finished Early Bird, and he sighed at the ground.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Trixie said. “I am a travelling mare! I’m always allowed leeway whenever I need to set up for my act.”

“Oh we believe you,” cooed Biddy. “It’s just… well, you know how mayors are, right?”

Trixie rolled her eyes. That was their angle. Of course there was an angle. There always was an angle. From the moment they’d been leaning in to listen, their bodies had radiated with interest. She didn’t need cold-reading to peg them as nosy parkers and busybodies.

Unfortunately, they’d found a good angle. Mayors were worse than mobs. Mobs were easy to handle so long as you slept light and had a quick set of hooves, and at least they only went for you after seeing the show. A mayor, though, could stop a show before she’d even rolled into town, and all with a polite cough and an unfurling of the scroll. In their hooves, the rolled-up document was mightier than the pitchfork. They also squabbled like vultures, and that usually just led to more coughs being polite and more scrolls being unfurled.

“But,” said Early Bird, “we have some… influence over the Mayor. Give us a chance to smooth things out with him…”

“And you can leave your caravan exactly where you want it to be.” Biddy peered across at the rows of carrots and the crisscrossing of the farmers. “The show will go on.”

Trixie narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that kind of you… and so, shall we head back to talk to him, or would you prefer to keep talking here?”

Early Bird gave her a wounded look. “Talk about what, pray?”

“Are you offering us a chance to let our voices be heard, then?” said Biddy with faux surprise.

“Is that what I’m doing?” said Trixie coldly. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does not worry about mere fiddle-faddle like bureaucratic bumbl” – hastily, she glanced at Rara, realized how she was going to sound, and added – “bureaucratic ponies.”

“Can you sing?” said Rara, voice snapping like a whip. “I could invite you, if you think you have the skill to handle it.”

“Excuse me,” began Trixie, and then she cut herself off at the sight of Rara’s raised eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Early Bird, bowing his head to the singer. “We’re Cunning Mares. The villagers trust us and our judgement. If we just turn up to listen, everyone will turn up.”

“And we’ve had some practice,” said Biddy, and she tittered. “A bit of rhyme every now and then helps bolster mystic acumen.”

“‘Cause nothing says ‘ye good ol’ witch’ like conj’ring verse without a hitch.” Early Bird winked at his sister.

“It takes five beats and a lightning mind, and our technique has been refined.”

“By dear ol’ Gran, the Cunning Mare.”

“So we make quite the tuneful pair!”

Early Bird went down on his knees and raised his front hooves in supplication. “Just give us a chance to prove our skill!”

Biddy lowered herself to the ground as though hailing a queen. “Tonight… we’ll bow to your good will.”

Rara smiled and nodded to them. “Not bad, but it’ll take more than quick-witted poetry to make it as a singer. Biddy, you’d make quite a good contralto with that deep voice of yours. And you, Early Bird… I think you’d fit in as a baritone. Now, a tenor should complete the set…”

Both Cunning Mares straightened up and frowned. “Pardon?” they said in unison.

“Contralto?” said Biddy.

“Baritone?” said Early Bird.

“Tenor?” they said as one.

“Those are different vocal categories,” said Rara, “based on pitch and range. Contralto is the lowest pitch for a mare, and baritone is about the middle range for a stallion. But we’d need a tenor for the highest pitch, or a soprano…”

Beyond the chatting heads, Trixie noticed Wheezy stumbling back for them, having walked some way without noticing. The small party stopped and waited for him to stop trying to gasp his lungs out.

“S-Sorry,” he wheezed, and Trixie winced at the way her ears split under that shriek-of-a-voice. “Sorry. Din’t. Think.”

He gradually became aware of their stares.

“Can. Can I. Help you?”

Rara’s smile widened. “Mister Wheezy, I understand this might sound like a silly question, but do you sing at all?”

“Hm?” Wheezy had gone cross-eyed with the effort of breathing in. “Oh. Singing? Yes. Loads of. Loads of s-singing. Folk songs. In bath. Out in fields when. When I were a colt. Yodel.”

By this point, Trixie’s ears were shutting down through sheer abuse. Like this, his voice was a knife.

“You must be joking,” she said.

“But he’s been so kind,” said Rara. “And I don’t suppose you’d mind, would you Mister Wheezy, if I asked you to join me on stage again for my next performance?”

At once, the wheezing stopped. “N-Next performance? Me?”

“Singing tenor?” she said. “It would be the least I could do, after the warm welcome and generosity you’ve been showing.”

“Me? Singing? In front of… In front of…”

He went cross-eyed again, and Trixie knew he had been ensnared. She could see the stars dancing in his eyes, though it might have just been because he was about to faint.

“Tenor?” he said, frowning.

“Means singing the highest pitch,” said Early Bird.

“Apparently,” added Biddy.

“Oh, I can sing on any kind of pitch,” he said with a dismissive flap of his wrist. “I used to yodel from the mountains once. Well, not mountains, ‘cause the land around here ain’t big enough, but the hills were almost mountain-sized. Why, I can sing higher than tenor, you know!”

“You mean countertenor and falsetto?” said Rara.

“Yeah,” he said. “Them. Sung from mountain-sized hills. That were the highest of all.”

“Great! I think I have just the thing. I just need a little longer to work out the details.”

Once they began walking again, Trixie shot forwards to walk alongside her.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she whispered to the singer. “They’re not professional standard, you know.”

“They’ll do. Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, eh?” Rara winked at her.

“How noble of you.” Trixie grimaced. The words “And when were you going to ask me for permission?” wanted to jump up her throat, but she didn’t know how to respond to a glare, a pitying look, a shocked look, a disappointed droop of the ears…

After a few silent minutes, she settled for: “So what is your plan, may I ask?”

“If we’re going to be a band,” said Early Bird, “then don’t we need a name?”

“We’re not technically a ‘band’,” said Rara. “I think actual musicians would have to be involved for us to be a ‘band’. We’re a ‘quartet’ for now.”

“OK,” said Biddy. “What will we call our ‘quartet’, then?”

“Does it need a name?” said Trixie.

“Of course!” said Early Bird. “Names are important. How about…”

“Um,” said Wheezy, “how about the Four Reasonably Good Singers? Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” He stuck his chin out defiantly.

“A bit too prosaic,” said Rara. “But I remember an old nicknaming trick I used when I was a filly. Just take the identifiable bits of a long name, and use them for a contraction.”

“But there are four of us, with four names,” said Wheezy.

“It might be tricky, but I think I could make the principle work when applied to all of us at once.”

“And…?” said Biddy.

Rara hummed for a while. “OK, uh… how about… Early… Biddy… Wheezy… Ra?”

She smiled apologetically at the silence.

“Early Biddy Wheezy Ra?” said Biddy.

“Me neither,” she said quickly.

“What about something exotic and earthy?” said Early Bird. “Like Yak Zits.”

“What!?” said Trixie.

“Well, yaks are exotic. And there isn’t much that’s earthy like a zit where you don’t want it to be.”

Trixie smirked. “You had some unhappy teenage years, didn’t you?”

“Everyone does.” Early Bird’s ears went pink.

“Listen! Rara is the star of my show on my stage, so clearly the name should be something like ‘Rara and the X’s’. All you need then is something with a bit of punch or kick to it. Say, ‘Rara and the Cunning Mares’, or ‘Rara and the Country Colts’. Something old-timey but classy.”

“How about ‘The Cross Stitch’?” said Biddy. “Your cloak’s starting to split at the seams.”

“Very funny,” said Trixie. She murmured the words to herself, though. “So… ‘Rara and the Cross Stitch’?”

They shrugged, even Mister Heads who had been trailing behind them a yard or so. Trixie nudged Rara in the ribs.

“So, what’s your plan?” she said. “What’s the unexpected?”

“Well, we need something low-tech, so an a capella group would make a good starting point.” Rara gave her a wink. “Also, I think we need to get close to a choir, but with fewer numbers so we can manage our resources better, feel our way upwards.”

“You have it figured out, then?” Trixie said, ignoring the clause about a ‘something low-tech’.

“Yeah.” Rara glanced across at the farmers among the green beans. “Have you ever heard of something called… barbershop?”