Cozy Glow Plays Tiddlywinks with Her Father

The Happy Home Fireplace Restoration service wagon jolted as it rolled up and over a crack between the sidewalk and the driveway of its destination. A wooden house lay at the end of the crosshatch pattern of weeds and uneven cobblestone, the light behind its two white-draped windows dull and yellow. Patches of starlight were blossoming in the sky opposite the sun.

Hickory Kindling unhitched the heavy load from his shoulders, and as the buckles slid down his back, he took a few staggering steps to his mailbox. The sight of the empty street made him stop and give its rows of quiet cottages and townhouses a quick inspection. Tin Whistle’s bedsheets rippled on the clothesline next door. The dirt around her dwarf maple was still dark from watering. A black peephole slit between venetian blinds snapped shut as his gaze found them. Down the line, the other mailboxes stood ready for duty.

He sighed. His own little door opened with a creak of metal hinges, revealing its daily surprise.

“Holiday Beach,” he muttered, squinting at the poses of the straight-lace cover mares, all smiles and swimsuits. He frowned and checked the address.

Ms. Citrus Vanilla
101 Teaberry Lane
Fawn’s Meadow, Equestria

Holiday Beach, is it?, he mused. Like Citrus would flaunt her flanks like that. Sirens, the lot of them. He flicked through the rest of the mail: Fireback’s Kiln and Anvil. Bill. Downhill Wagoners. Bill. Busy Bee Apiary. Bill.

All that was left was a scroll, bound with a red ribbon and matching red wax seal. He teased it out with his hoof and turned it over so that he could see the tag.

To Ms. Citrus Vanilla and Mr. Hickory Kindling
From the desk of Princess Twilight Sparkle, Headmare
The School of Friendship Admissions Office
Castle of Friendship Ancillary Academy
Ponyville, Equestria

He sighed again, tucked the post into his saddle bag, and headed up the driveway.

Citrus met him at the door. “Hi sweetie,” she said, giving him a one-hoofed hug. “Any good business today?” Her curtain of a mane swung against his face as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek.

“No. Not really. Got some bills, though. Suppose you can count that as business.”

Citrus shrank back, letting him step inside and doff his hat. He spat the stack of letters onto the lampstand they used for late nights, when he got home after Cozy was in bed. The scroll fell with them, batting against the wall.

The rhythmic rapping of uncut claws on the floor announced his second nightly greeting. A jiggling mass of fur and jowls romped out of the kitchen and jumped at his chest. “OK, OK. Go find your bone, Chester,” he said, pointing back the way the dog had come. Chester, still wagging, almost somersaulted to obey.

“Oh, is that what I think it is?” asked Citrus. She grabbed the wax seal of the scroll between her teeth and pawed at the end to crack it.

“Yeah,” Hickory sighed. “It’s from the School of Friendship. Time to see if Cozy made the cut. So. Fireback wants his money for that load of bricks I bought last week. What am I supposed to tell him? ‘Sorry, the job at the dam fell through, would you settle for an I.O.U.?'”

Citrus had paused, and was glaring at him. “She has to make it. She has to.”

He took a step back. Citrus’s tail was limp. A limp tail, he well knew, preceded a tongue lashing more often than not. He kept his mouth shut.

Citrus resumed prying the scroll open, and when it began to uncurl, she drew the bottom end down and read aloud:

“Dear Ms. Vanilla and Mr. Kindling,

Upon reviewing your daughter’s scholastic achievements and special circumstances, as outlined in your application letter and attached doctor’s note, I am pleased to inform you that she has been accepted as a full-time student at the School of Friendship. You should be proud of her academic ability. Please be assured that the staff and I will do our best to instill in her sound friendship fundamentals; the lessons we ourselves have learned over many years of first-hoof experience and trial and error.

Let me add that I was a newcomer to Ponyville once myself, and completely untrained in the ways of friendship, so I know her situation well. Therefore, I will take special care to ensure that Cozy makes the grade!

Warmest wishes,

Princess Twilight Sparkle, Founder and Headmare"

“She’s in, Hickory!” Citrus cried. “Isn’t that great news?” She hugged the scroll to her chest.

Hickory shrugged. “Yeah. Not bad. About time some pony in our family got into one of those princess schools.” He shook his head, visions of his mop-headed daughter toddling through the lofty doors of a schoolhouse under a giant saddlebag of books beginning to take shape.

Leaving his work boots by the door, he made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the fold-out table next to the stove. Citrus followed him in, carrying the scroll in her mouth like she'd unearthed a trophy carrot. A wisp of sweet smoke broke above her head. Chester beamed pure love at him from his water dish.

“She’s finally going to make some friends,” she said, taping the acceptance letter to the cupboard. “No more angry parents. No more trips to—“

“Fireback’s not going to be happy,” Hickory grumbled. “What a dope I am, thinking they would let a small-time outfit like me patch up a dam. Hey, were you able to sell any candles today? Two crates of your Peach Surprise, like we talked about? That would about cover it.” He slid a pair of glossy sheets of paper that had been left on his placemat so he could read what was printed on them.

“Cracked hearthstones?” he posed in his best salespony voice. “Sooty mantle? No problem! Happy Home Fireplace Restoration specializes in curing whatever ails your old chimney. Just call on Hickory Kindling, licensed contractor with over fifteen years of experience in the field, and he’ll fix your sick bricks in no time! Customer satisfaction guaranteed!”

It went on. He looked at the picture of the pristine brick wall and his face inset, and laughed. He pushed the sheets to the side as he read the slogan. “’Happy Home Fireplace Restoration: Home is Where the Hearth Is’. These the new brochures?”

“Yes," said Citrus, "aren’t they nice? They’re samples. See? One says Fawn’s Meadow, and one says Ponyville. Guess now we know which one to order!”

She opened the oven and pulled out a hot baking sheet. A cinnamon haze rose from the steaming spread of oats piled on top. With a gentle kick, she shut the oven door and shook them off of their wax paper into a bowl.

Hickory breathed it in, rubbing his belly. Citrus had, over the years, learned to pinpoint dinner to within five minutes of whatever time he stepped through the door. How she managed it, whether by how late in the evening it was, or by some internal clock, he had never deciphered.

Cozy Glow high-stepped out of the shadows of the hall and curtsied. “Good evening, Papa, welcome …”

She stopped herself when she saw the look on his face.

“Is there something you wanted to say?” he growled.

She curtsied again. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn. I really should mind my manners. Fillies are to speak when spoken to.”

“That’s right. Unless you ask permission.”

“May I ask you a question, sir?” She floated upward on hummingbird wings.

“Yes, go ahead.”

“May I speak to Chester, even if he doesn’t bark first?” She hovered in the air, grinning and hugging the dog’s head.

Hickory blinked longer than he intended. The little cockatrice is mocking me.

The words arced in his mind like lightning at midnight. There were whispers too, and images that came and went before he knew they were there. “No, Chester’s just a dog. Read him the blooming dictionary if you want. And I told you a thousand times: no flying in the house.”

Cozy giggled. “Oh Chester! He’s such a snickerdoodle.” She spiraled to the floor and knelt down so that her face was next to Chester’s smiling, drooling snout, and patted his head. “You’re a good doggie. Papa, can you tell Chester what a good doggie he is?”

Hickory ground his teeth. Chester and Cozy smiled together and waited.

He turned back to his dinner. Citrus had added half of a baked potato to his plate in the meantime. “’Snickerdoodle’,” he grunted. He'd realized it had been a mistake introducing her to the word after she'd used it fifty times last Sunday.

“May I ask you another question, Papa?” asked Cozy.

“If you have to.”

“You seem rather distraught this evening. Perhaps a game or two of tiddlywinks would cheer you up! Would you like to play?”

Citrus set a glass on Hickory’s placemat hard enough to get his attention and filled it with orange juice. “I’m going to make something special to celebrate. How does apple pie sound? Why don’t you spend some time with your little scholar, Hickory? Maybe tell her the good news?” She snatched her apron from its hook and slung it around her neck.

Hickory didn’t miss the twinkle in Cozy’s eyes. It was the weekend, he considered, and he hadn’t really had a moment to spare the past few days. He supposed he could do his fatherly duty, then try to figure out how he was going to pay Fireback.

He took a few mouthfuls of oats and potato. “Yeah, sure, a couple games, maybe,” he said while he chewed. “Then it’s bed time.”

Cozy shot a foreleg into the air. “That’s the ticket! Customer satisfaction guaranteed.” She leapt upward and did a sharp loop before swooping back toward her bedroom.

“No flying in the house!” Hickory called after her.

Citrus stomped out of the kitchen and roared, “Cozy! Hooves back on the floor. Right now!”

Hickory made quick work of the rest of his dinner, gulped down his orange juice, and let free a long belch. Citrus’s tail had drooped again. Tiddlywinks was starting to sound like an excellent proposition.

He made his way into the living room and fell into his spot on the couch, the worn fabric already warm from the fire blazing in the hearth. He eyed the fine brickwork. Five weeks and a month’s pay. Not a smudge of mortar on the faces, he’d made sure. If nothing else worked in his stars-forsaken house, the fireplace was going to be top-of-the-barrel.

The door opened and shut behind him, and in came the sound of wooden game chips rattling against glass. Cozy stopped at the edge of the couch, a jar of colored tiles tucked under her foreleg. “A hoof-ful of fun, coming right up!”

“Alright Cozy. Are we going to start, or what? Papa’s busy.”

“Yes sir, right away,” she replied, struggling to climb onto the couch without her wings. “Papa, may I sit beside you?”

He held out a hoof for her to grab and lifted her onto the cushion next to him. “Sure. Snuggle up.”

She sat back on her haunches, leaning her head against his shoulder. Bits of yarn and paper came out with the game pieces as she upended the jar. Last to fall was a knit bean bag, with buttons and strands of yarn glued to one side for eyes and hair.

“Miss Pretty is here to officiate,” Cozy assured.

“OK, sounds good to me. How’s my sweet lollipop?” he asked, ruffling her mane. He buried his muzzle into the thick pile of curls and inhaled, letting one wrap around his nose. She’d been using Citrus’s mane powder like he’d told her. The teachers at the School wanted to see confidence, he knew, and nothing showed confidence like a well-kept mane. He gave the sweet tangle a kiss.

She nestled her slender shoulder against his. As she wormed closer and settled in, her attention wandered to the fireplace. “A cozier glow you’ll never know …” she sang to the flames.

“What’s that? I don’t recognize that tune.”

“It’s the song of me!”

“Is that so? Well, Miss Glow, you want to go first, or shall I?”

“Oh, definitely you first, Papa! Here’s your squidger. Now don’t you budge: I’ll set up the winks.”

She jumped down from the couch cushion and began sliding her jar around on the floor, tongue curling from one corner of her mouth to the other. When she’d satisfied herself that she’d found the middle of the room, she scooped up the tiles and arranged them into two piles, both an equal distance from the jar.

“Blue for me, lucky green for you!” she said. Checking the position of the piles and jar one more time, she rejoined him on the couch.

Hickory balanced his squidger on his hoof, giving Cozy time to wriggle herself under his free foreleg. “OK, here we go. Are you ready?”

“Yes siree bobkins!” said Cozy, balancing Miss Pretty on her lap.

Hickory cast his piece, aiming for the middle of his pile. The winks scattered apart in a diffuse circle. A few landed within scoring distance of the jar.

“Capital shot, Papa!” Cozy cheered. She bounced Miss Pretty up and down. “She’s clapping,” she explained.

Hickory struggled not to smile. “Yeah, maybe, but too far to squop you just yet. And I thought Miss Pretty was supposed to be impartial. Anyway, your turn.”

Cozy put her doll down and balanced her piece on the flat of her hoof as he had. “She is; she just appreciates skillful play. Now let’s see what I can do.” She played her move.

Back and forth they went, pelting their winks ever closer to the jar. With every set of turns, Cozy hopped away and retrieved the squidgers, each time scrutinizing her father’s face before climbing back into her warm perch beside him. He ribbed her for her missed opportunities at first, ruffling her mane and giving her tail a tug when she overshot the winks completely or landed her squidger under the bookshelf, but as the game went his way, he stopped responding to her misplays and sheepish exclamations. He stared deeper into the hearth instead, mumbling about payments and Fireback and Tin Whistle who wouldn’t keep to her side of the property line when pruning the lilacs. More and more the jar filled with his winks, and before the thinnest log in the fire collapsed into a plume of ash and sparks, all but one of the blue pieces were covered by the last remaining green.

Seeing her impending defeat, Cozy paused in her turn long enough to draw him from his ruminations. “Gee willigers, I wasn’t expecting such stiff competition,” she said, pushing her shocked expression into his face. “Looks like this is my last shot. Pay attention, Miss Pretty. Make sure I don’t engage in any foul play.”

She threw her squidger. The green wink flipped into the jar.

“Oopsie! What a blunder,” she tittered behind her hoof.

Hickory wasn’t laughing. “You did that on purpose. You let me win,” he said, his jaw clenched tight.

Cozy waved her forelegs in a criss-cross motion. “No, Papa, I would never do that. ‘Win fair, lose square’; that’s what you always say.”

He removed his foreleg from her shoulder. “You let me win, and now you’re lying to me. That’s very dishonest, Cozy. Can you tell me how upright folks deal with dishonesty?”

She inched away, setting Miss Pretty down between them. “They chase it away,” she replied, adopting a perfect smile.

“And does it go away easy?”

“No Papa.”

“That’s right. It needs a kick in the britches. A kick and a bite.”

“A kick and a bite to set things right,” she sang. She raised a hoof and brought it down on her hind leg, as hard as she could.

The little clap made Hickory’s insides jump. A piece fell into place; a familiar corner of the puzzle that always fit, no matter what kind of day he was having. Cozy saw it in his face, and her smile grew.

Hickory shook his head. “Cut that out. You know what to do.”

“Yes sir,” she said, giving him a salute. “Right away!”

He leaned back and reflected as she bounded out of the room. It had been Citrus who had convinced him to give the doctors a try. It had gone against his better judgment, but there was no contradicting her when she put her mind to something. The head shrinks had babbled for hours about how sick they thought Cozy was. Borderline this and dark triad that. Not a full-blown wacko yet, they’d implied, but would get there soon if they didn’t give her their top-of-the-line medicine. Once a week. Five hundred bits a pop. First they tried the same kind Citrus used for her major malfunction, but all that had done was turn their angel into a brain-dead vegetable for a month. He would change the diapers, while Citrus managed the spoon-feeding. It all gave Citrus another episode, and that had sealed the deal: no more pills and risk the consequences.

Besides, no daughter of his was going to spend her life a drooling mooch. No, he’d known all along what she needed. The doctors could stuff their journals and case studies and prescriptions.

Cozy needed old-style medicine.