Shedding Your Skin

The glade around the Ice Falls was quiet the next morning. The sun had barely breached the tops of the trees by the time that Briar arrived, basket in mouth, to search for sprigs of fennelweed.

Mist still lingered on the ground, drifting lazily across the moss as the first shafts of sunlight wandered through the canopy. The morning birds called to one another from the branches above. Each note pierced through the air like a flash of cold water, rippling between Briar’s ears. As she pushed through the brush and into the glade proper, she gave herself a moment to relax, closing her eyes and flicking her ears as the rush of the Falls filled them.

Then she got to work.

The Sun was high in the sky by the time she managed to find the last of the five sprigs of fennelweed that she needed. It was a rare plant, only growing beneath certain rocks, and she was glad to find the last of it. It hadn’t been a request of Matron’s, but there was a salve that Briar had been intending to make which needed no less than an entire ounce of the crushed plant. She set down her basket, making sure that no leaves fell out onto the forest floor, and made to sit down against a tree.

Something rustled in the bushes. Briar froze.

There was something coming into the glade. It wasn’t a bear—each footfall was too light, too thinly spaced to belong to a grizzly or black bear. It couldn’t be a wolf, either. The rustling came from the lower branches, far too high for a prowling pack-leader to disturb.

The brush parted, and a doe stepped into the clearing.

Briar kept herself perfectly still against the tree trunk. She wondered if the doe had seen her—but no, it hadn’t fled, hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. It took another step forward and stumbled.

Briar’s eyes widened. The doe was limping. As it leaned down, rather unsteadily, to graze, she noticed the cause: A ragged piece of flesh hung loose halfway down its thigh, with three lines slashing from either end. The fur there was tinged red, and each time the doe came back up to chew, it would glance back over its shoulder, as if afraid.

Briar’s eyes went down to her basket and then back up to the doe’s wound. Slowly, she pushed herself away from the tree and got to her hooves.

The doe’s head jerked up. The doe stared Briar down with wide, white-rimmed eyes. In that moment, both were frozen in place, neither able to so much as breathe.

Before the doe could bolt, Briar spoke.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the ground. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She took a step forward. The deer did not step back.

Slowly, carefully, Briar reached down and took the basket in her mouth. She stepped forward again, thanking whatever spirits were listening when the doe failed once more to run from her.

“Just let me take a look at that leg, okay?” she said. “I just want to help.”

She reached out a hoof—and the deer shied back.

“Sshh,” Briar soothed. Her eyes felt warm, and she felt a sudden itch to look up, to glance into the doe’s own eyes and take control.

She shoved that impulse down. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she repeated. “Come on, now. Let me take a look.”

She had to resist a cheer as she reached out again to lay a hoof on the doe’s fur and succeeded. The doe looked almost reluctant, but somehow convinced.

“It’s okay,” Briar said quietly. She ran her hoof over the doe’s torso until they came to the top of the back right flank. “Let’s take a look at that, shall we?”

The deer followed her as she turned toward the pool at the bottom of the Falls. The water didn’t shimmer—the Sun wasn’t bright enough—but it was cool and refreshing. Briar splashed her own face to wake herself up before turning back to the doe, who had laid down on the moss beside her and was watching her face cautiously. Trust wasn’t so easily earned, it seemed.

With a large leaf in one hoof, Briar cupped the other and dipped it into the pool. She splashed water water she could onto the doe’s side and got to work cleaning the wound.

She was happily surprised when the doe stayed, allowing her to clean the wound out. A crusty shell of dried blood had formed around it, and it took some delicate swabbing to make sure that she didn’t actually irritate anything worse than it already was.

By the time she’d cleaned up most of the matted blood, it was clear that the wound had looked much worse than it actually was. It was mainly a superficial cut, with the “ragged flesh” she’d seen merely debris and dirt that had caught onto the open wound and stuck when the blood had dried.

It still must have hurt, though. “You’re lucky,” Briar murmured as she dabbed at the lower edge of the wound. “Whatever was trying to hunt you let you get off with just a scratch. This could’ve been much worse.”

She’d never quite known whether the deer in the Everfree could understand her, but she’d eventually decided that they could, if only to make herself feel better. It was nice having someone to talk to, even if that someone never answered back.

“Now, just hold still,” she said. She reached a hoof into her basket and took a sprig of fennelweed and put it to rest on a rock beside her. “This might sting a little bit.”

Carefully, she picked another rock and ground it against the bottom one, crushing the leaves until they became a lumpy paste. It was a dull green substance with shades of blue, and it felt strangely warm against her coat as she smeared it across her hoof.

“The natural plant isn’t the best thing to use,” she said, “but it’s all we’ve got. Just hold still.”

She reached forward, hoof poised to spread the paste across the remnants of wound—

Something came crashing the bushes, each step a heavy fall that set leaves for yards around it rustling and chattering. Briar barely had time to react as the doe shoved her away and jolted to its hooves.

“Wait!” she cried as the doe reached the edge of the glade. “Wait!”

The doe looked back over its shoulder—just one little pause.

Briar’s eyes began to itch again. Look up, something urged. Look up—just one little glance. It’s for its own good.

She threw her gaze to the ground and squeezed her eyes shut. Within moments, she could hear the doe galloping away, speeding through the brush until the sound faded entirely.

“Was that a deer?”

That voice. She remembered that voice. High-pitched, lilted, and confused—

She turned around and whirled to glare at Ironwood’s chest. “You scared her away!”

“I—”

“She was injured, and you scared her off before I could finish helping her,” she growled. “What are you trying to do?”

“Whoa!” Ironwood held up a hoof. He stood at the edge of the glade, his body half concealed behind a smokebush. A pair of saddlebags sat on his back. “How was I supposed to know that you were trying to help her?”

“Do you just come storming into places wherever you go?”

“I’m not good with forests, okay?” Ironwood said. “I think we’ve already decided that.”

Briar took a deep breath, still glaring at him. He was, admittedly, right that he couldn’t have known.

And it made sense that a pony who would voluntarily walk into the Barrens without a second glance would be the type to make as much noise as possible no matter what. He probably just wasn’t that smart.

She scowled. “What are you doing here, anyway?” She nodded down at his leg. “I thought I told you to stay off of that.”

“I wanted to see you again,” he said.

“Why?”

“To thank you, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve done that,” Briar said. “You’re welcome.”

“I, uh, also wanted to ask you if you wanted to come visit sometime.” Ironwood averted his gaze, staring instead into a nearby bush. “You seem nice enough, but it must get awful lonely out here in the forest.”

Briar was tempted to say yes. An image of Matron’s steely eyes flickered in her thoughts, though, and she shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Come on!” A grin spread across his face. “It’d be fun—you could come visit my parents’ bakery!”

“I—”

“Maybe you can stick around for harvest season—it’s a lot of fun around town then. Oh! I can show you the village square, or Mr. Stone’s woodworking shop, or even Old Hemlock’s little library.”

“Library?” Briar’s ears perked up at that. “One with books?”

“Is there any other kind?” Ironwood chuckled. “There’s not that much to it, though. Just a few shelves of whatever she’s been able to get her wrinkly old hooves on.”

Books! Briar could scarcely imagine it—shelves without books she’d read twenty times before. Books that nopony would tell her to read unless she wanted to. And maybe there’d be new ideas—new recipes that she could use, or new herbs she’d never known about.

“Hey!” Ironwood said, eyes glittering. “Maybe if you come, she’ll let you read or even borrow some.”

She opened her mouth to say yes—but before she could gather her thoughts, she heard Matron’s words echo in the back of her skull.

The words came automatically. “I can’t.”

“Oh, come on!” Ironwood said. “I heard you! You want to!”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I’m not allowed. I’m not supposed to associate with anypony the village.”

“Says who?”

“My guardian,” she said firmly. “And I’m not about to disobey her. So while I appreciate the gesture, I can’t accept your invitation.”

For a moment, she couldn’t help but entertain the notion of trying to convince Matron otherwise. After all, here was a stallion who, while simpleminded, perhaps, wasn’t small-minded. So it seemed, at least.

But then again, she’d have a better chance of coaxing water from a stone than of convincing Matron to change her mind on anything. If anything, Briar might find herself in a heap of trouble if Matron even found out that she had even been entertaining the notion of visiting the village. And how could you she argue for Ironwood if she couldn’t even look him in the eye?

“Oh,” Ironwood said. “Okay.” His shoulders slumped and he turned to go.

“Wait.”

Ironwood stopped in place and turned back to look over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Briar asked.

“Leaving,” he said. “You said that you weren’t supposed to associate with ponies in the village, right? So I guess I’m helping you out.”

She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant that—but then again, hadn’t she said as much? No good, Matron had said, would come from associating with other ponies.

But she knew Ironwood—to a point, at least. And for some reason, as annoying as it was, she almost liked his incessant chatter. It gave her something to listen to.

“I never told you to leave,” she said.

“But—”

“I’m not supposed to go down to the village,” she said. “But Matr—my guardian can’t stop you from coming here, into the forest.”

A slow grin lit up his face. “Oh! I see what you mean.” He offered what was likely his best attempt at a knowing wink. Briar had to snicker at that. “I can do that. Maybe I can even bring you back a book!”

It was an effort to keep the grin off her face. “Maybe.”

“And I almost forgot!” Ironwood smacked a hoof against his forehead. “I brought something for you!”

He turned back and nuzzled his snout into one of his saddlebags. Briar watched with mild bemusement as he dug around for a few seconds, mumbling to himself under his breath.

Finally, he came back up with a small, rectangular parcel in his mouth. Briar’s nostrils flared, and her legs wobbled as a heavenly scent reached her nose. That smelled like bread...but Matron’s homemade cornmeal loaves had never smelt quite this good. Ironwood carefully set the parcel on the ground as Briar’s mouth began to water.

“There’s a pair of loaves in there,” Ironwood said, a grin on his face. “I just baked them this morning—they’re fresh from the oven.”

Briar leaned down to face the parcel. She felt drool building up in the back of her mouth, and swallowed it—the bread smelled even better up close. She prodded the package with her snout.

“Go on—take it.” Ironwood chuckled. “I’ve got more bread than I could ever want at home, and you look like you’d enjoy it.”

“I,” she began, and then paused, not quite sure what to say. Finally, she settled on a simple, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” He beamed at her, and she felt compelled to offer at least a week grin in return.

“I’ve actually got to go,” he said, glancing back to look over his shoulder. “I’ve got a few chores waiting for me when I get home.”

“Me too,” Briar said. “Things to do.”

“Yup.”

Both looked up, but Briar averted her gaze before their eyes could meet. Ironwood licked his lips as his hoof fidgeted with a pebble.

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “Just to say hi.”

“Sure,” she said quickly. “Maybe I’ll be here, too.”

He smirked at her. “Maybe, huh? I guess we can work with that.”

And then he left.

“Hold your hooves straighter. Stop twitching. Don’t stutter!”

Briar kept her eyes squeezed shut as Matron spoke. Briar’s hooves were held clutched to her neck, her lips moving as she pronounced each syllable to produce the light charm. Her necklace was cool against her coat, but as she chanted, she felt a warmth collect on its surfaace.

She furrowed her brow as she searched for the words. Something buzzed in the back of her head and obscured her thoughts in fog, making it a struggle to recall each enunciation. She opened her mouth a little wider and began the next word—

“No, no! Stop. It’s aie-sa, not ee-sa. Open your eyes, girl.”

Briar flinched and opened her eyes. Matron stood across the desk from her, her frown wearing creases into her leathery face. The desk itself was empty, cleared of all materials save for a burning candle and Matron’s heavy book.

“You’re not trying,” Matron said. “You’ve not studied the words.”

“I have,” Briar said. Something was prickling at the back of her neck; she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. “I promise.”

“Then why can’t you perform the charm?”

Briar’s eyes flickered past Matron’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Matron’s frown deepened. “You’re distracted, girl.”

“I—”

“You’re not paying attention. Your hooves aren’t still. Your mind,” Matron said, her voice cutting through Briar’s thoughts, “is cluttered.”

“I’m paying attention,” Briar said. She winced as the buzzing in her head grew. Great. A headache was exactly what she didn’t need right now.

“Don’t lie to me. I know when something is on your mind. Speak.”

Briar glanced down. As her gaze met the surface of the table, she knew what had been keeping her thoughts.

The book. What is the book?

“That book,” she blurted. Oddly, the buzzing seemed to subside at her words. “Why don’t we ever use it in our lessons?”

“That book, as you called it, is not for lessons.” Matron’s eyes narrowed. “It contains magic past your level—dangerous magic. Dangerous especially when you struggle with such rudimentary charms.”

Briar refused to meet Matron’s eyes.

“You are forbidden from touching it,” Matron went on. “I’ve kept it from you this long for a reason—do you understand?”

“Everything that you do has a reason,” Briar said dully.

“Good. Now don’t ask about it again.”

“But what if it’s my special talent?”

Matron stared. Briar shied back at her mentor’s glare, feeling rather like a mouse spotted by an owl swooping beneath a full moon.

“Special talent?” Matron repeated. “What nonsense is that?”

Briar hesitated. “What I’m good at,” she said. Ironwood’s eager words echoed in the back of her mind. “What I’m supposed to do with my life.”

“Bah. Magic? Your special talent? You would only be naturally good with magic if you were to change yourself into another pony entirely. No; you’ll get this book when you’re good and ready—and no sooner.”

Matron scowled down at Briar. “Should you follow my instruction, there can be no doubt that you’ll reach such a point—but a ‘special talent’? Where did you hear such nonsense?”

“A book,” Briar said.

“A book,” Matron echoed.

Briar nodded.

“Are you sure?” Matron asked. She leaned forward, her leathery neck stretching across the desk like an elder crane’s. “Perhaps you heard it from that ‘villager’ of yours.

“And if I did?”

“Then you would be remiss in forgetting my words so easily,” Matron rasped. “Townsfolk bring only trouble and confusion, and their words doubly so. You would do well to remember that and to cast away any lingering doubts.”

Briar stared at the desk. “I found it in a book,” she said.

There was a moment of silence before Matron spoke again.

“I would be very interested in seeing this book,” she said. “Such a work of nonsense in my own library. Should you find it again, bring it to me at once.”

Briar nodded.

“Now,” Matron said. “Let us begin again. Resume the incantation.”

A few days passed. Ironwood came twice more to meet her in the glade, but each visit lasted for only a few minutes. He was busy, he said. He had chores. And she had her lessons.

But today was different.

Briar glanced up at the canopy from her place at the edge of the glade, hoof tapping against the forest floor. Now, if only—

“I’m here!”

She grinned as she turned to look over her shoulder. Ironwood offered a wave as he stepped over a bush and into the clearing.

“What do you know?” Briar said. “I guess you can go someplace without crashing into it like a bear.”

“I’m a regular tiger,” Ironwood said. “Prowling all around—I’ll be you didn’t even notice me getting here.”

She hadn’t, admittedly. Briar rolled her eyes and snorted. “Come on, then, Master Hunter. I’ve got something that I want to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Not telling.”

“Ooh—a surprise.” Ironwood fell in step beside her, his wider hooves padding over the grass. “I love surprises.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“I wonder what it is,” he mused. “Is it a present? Chocolate?” His eyes lit up. “Oh! Is it a pet bear?”

“A pet what?” she asked. “You seriously thought I got you a pet bear?”

“Hey!” he said. “It was worth a try!”

“Sure it was,” she said, pushing a branch out of their path. It swung back behind her and hit a neighboring tree with a hollow clunk.

“Come on,” Ironwood whined. “Give me a hint or something!”

“If I told you what it was, then there’d be no point!” she said. “I thought you said you liked surprises.”

“Well, yeah—but surprises that I know about are even better.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Ironwood said, as she came to a stop. “But I’m—”

He paused, blinking at the large bush in front of them. “What happened? Why’d we stop?”

Briar didn’t answer. Instead, she let her lips curve into a smirk and nodded toward the bush. “Go on,” she said. “You wanted your surprise so badly? There it is.”

“Oh!” Ironwood said. “Uh—”

“Go on, you idiot,” she said. “Or do you want me to shove you through?”

“Going! Going!” he said—and stepped through.

Briar let him stand alone for a few moments. Better to let him see for himself, first. After a wait that she deemed suitably dramatic, she stepped through behind him. The curled leaves brushed against her coat, but parted as she pushed forward.

The warm spring wind blew through her mane, scattering it behind her. Ironwood stood only two paces in front of her, staring out over the valley below.

She took another step and leaned forward to nudge his neck. “Well?” she murmured.

“It’s…” Ironwood began. “...Wow.”

Briar squinted down at the field of color beneath them, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. The valleys and fields seemed to be ablaze with light—and not just white, but red, green, purple, and yellow light of all shades and hues. The flowers glimmered in the sunlight, their petals rustling in the spring wind.

“I found it when I was only eight years old,” she said. “I called it Rainbow Lily Valley. I guess you can see why.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But...how is this possible? Isn’t this the Everfree Forest?”

“It’s a part of it,” she said. She raised a hoof to point over the crest of the furthest hill, beyond which a dark smudge could be seen. “See that over there? That’s where the trees pick up again.”

“And that’s a different part of the Everfree?”

“I like to call it the Cliffs,” she said. “Maybe I’ll show it to you someday.”

Ironwood licked his lips, still staring down at Rainbow Lily Valley. “I never knew that the Everfree could be so...beautiful. I mean, I’ve seen the birds and trees and everything but this is just…”

“Give the woods a chance,” she said with a grin. “Maybe they’ll surprise you.”

Ironwood turned to look at her. “I think they already have.”

With a cry of glee, he took off, galloping into the Lily Valley. Briar stared after him, mouth agape. What was he—

“Catch me if you can!” he called out. “Tag! You’re it!”

“Tag?” she hollered back. “What the hay does that mean!”

“Just chase me! Bet you can’t beat me to the bottom!”

“Stupid villager,” she said—and narrowed her eyes, her grin broadening. In a flash, she was galloping at full speed down the hill, which was a marked increase from Ironwood’s pace. “There’s no way you’ll win!”

“Ah-ha! I’m already halfway there!”

Briar felt something bubbling in her chest, boiling over with each step she took. She threw back her head and laughed, letting peals of pure mirth cry out across the meadow. The rainbow lilies seemed to part before her like a lake or sea, her hooves gliding over the earth below.

Ironwood was laughing too, his hooves thumping into the ground a scarce twenty paces away. Briar felt an evil smile spread out across her face. Just a little bit more—

With a yelp, Ironwood lost his footing. Maybe he’d put one hoof down over the other, or maybe he’d slipped on a bit of mud. Regardless of the reason, he slipped until his hooves had been flung over the top of his head—and soon enough he was spinning down the hill.

Briar stared with disbelief as Ironwood bounced like a ball, his limbs blurring together. It was another moment before she was able to get a handle on her thoughts and follow his path.

“You moron,” she muttered as she ran down after him. “Don’t even watch where you’re going, just like a stupid villager—”

She hopped over a few boulders, sped through the last few patches of lilies, and landed at Ironwood’s side. He’d come to a rest at the bottom, with all of his limbs tangled and his torso belly-up. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and he was laughing.

“Idiot,” she said. “Can’t even run down a hill without falling over.”

“Falling over?” he said between snorts. “Y’mean like—this?”

Briar’s eyes widened as Ironwood’s hoof caught her right behind the knee. She landed with a grunt on the grass beside him. “Hah!” he said.

A playful growl sprang up in her throat. “So that’s how you want to play, huh? Then let’s play rough!”

With a snarl, she leapt onto him, hooves spread wide. He squealed as she wrestled him into submission and began to tickle him mercilessly.

“I yield! I yield!” he squealed, giggling madly. His hooves thrashed as he squirmed beneath her weight. “Surrender!”

“You sure?”

“Promise!”

She let him throw her off this time, landing with a muffled thud on the flowers beside him. The two lay there for a while, coats matted with bright-colored petals of every shape and hue, as any final giggles escaped their lungs.

“This place is incredible,” Ironwood finally said. “There’s just so much color.”

“Yeah,” Briar said. “There is.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you wear that pin in your mane?”

Briar frowned. “What do you mean? It’s just a pin.”

He snorted. “Oh, come on. Even I can see that it’s more than that. It’s way nicer than anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen the way you treat it.”

She glanced away. “Well…”

“Come on,” Ironwood said. “You can tell me, right? I’m your friend.”

Friend. Wasn’t he? Briar remembered that friends were supposed to share stories and secrets, but did she want to tell him this?

He was her first friend, though. A smile crept onto her face. And where was the harm?

“It belonged to my mother,” she said.

She stared up at the blue, clear sky, listening to the birdsong that filtered through the air. She didn’t see Ironwood’s face, then, when she’d finished speaking. By the tone of his voice, though, she could guess.

“Oh.” He sounded quiet—thoughtful. “I guess it means a lot to you.”

“I never really knew my parents,” Briar said. The grasses surrounding the lilies brushed against her ears, whispering in the warm breeze. “They disappeared or died soon after I was born—or at least, that’s what Matron told me.”

“Gosh,” Ironwood said. “I—I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And if you don’t mind me asking…”

She waited.

“Who is ‘Matron’? If you wouldn’t mind saying, at least. You’ve mentioned her a lot, but I haven’t really figured out much about her.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Matron is…”

A few words came to mind, none of them tactful. Briar’s lip curled—was that really what she thought of her? Was she being honest with herself?

Finally, she settled on a more polite word.

“Matron is my mentor,” she said. “She took me in as a baby and raised me. I’ve never known anyone else.”

“I can’t imagine what it’d be like to live without your parents,” Ironwood said. “Mine have always been there for me.”

“Matron’s always been there for me,” Briar said, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. “She just...likes to be in control.”

She closed her eyes. “It would be nice to at least know who my parents were. All I have to remind me of them is this pin, and Matron’s never told me anything more than she needed to.”

“It’s just not enough?”

“I guess.”

She couldn’t see him, but she could picture Ironwood nodding.

“Now that I’ve answered your question,” she said, “you have to answer one of mine.”

“Sure.”

“Why do you like coming to the forest so much?”

It was a moment before he answered, but when he did, there was something new in his voice—something bright and warm.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “It’s a new place—a beautiful place. And it has ponies like you in it. It’s always been my dream to visit something like—what did you call it? The rainbow lily valley.”

“What do you mean?”

“The world is filled with things as beautiful as this meadow,” he said. “Castles, oceans, mountains—I’ve only heard stories from the village bard, but that’s enough to know that someday, I’ve just got to see them. Have you ever heard of Saddle Arabia?”

“No,” she admitted.

“It’s the only civilization known to exist in the deserts of the south,” he said, “far, far beneath the Badlands and the rest of Equestria. There’s sand everywhere—barely a drop of water in the whole country!”

“You’re kidding me. How do they survive?”

“I don’t know! Maybe they’re just that resilient!”

“Ridiculous,” Briar scoffed. She rolled over on her makeshift bed of lilies, facing off into the distance.

“But that’s not the best part—there isn’t even a single pony in the whole country! Not natively, at least.”

“Then who lives there?”

“Horses,” Ironwood said. “They’re like ponies, only taller. Thinner. They’ve got these weird names, too—I’ve heard that they call themselves after the names of the stars. And they wear these special scarves which protect against the sand, and jewels in every saddle!”

She snorted. “And have you ever seen one of these ‘horses’?”

“No,” he said. “But I know they exist. And someday, I’m going to see one.”

“Sure, you will.”

He shot her a grin. “You never know. Maybe you could go travelling a bit as well.”

It was a moment before she understood what he was getting at. “No,” Briar said quickly. “Oh, no. Matron wouldn’t approve.”

“But the Summer Sun Celebration is coming up!” Ironwood said. “It’s the highlight of the year, and I think you would love it.”

“I can’t,” she said. Then, “I don’t know.”

“You can ask around town—maybe somepony will know something about your parents!”

That stopped Briar in her tracks. She sat straight up, a few lingering petals from the lilies clinging to her mane. “What do you mean?”

“In an area like this, everypony knows everypony. Your parents probably passed through town before getting to the Everfree, and a pin like that is a dead giveaway. Nopony would forget something like that. And besides,” he said, sitting up and turning to grin at her, “it may be a longshot, but it’s worth a try, right?”

“I,” she mumbled, her lips moving. “But Matron—”

“Matron doesn’t have to know,” Ironwood said. “A day or two of fun and adventure? Maybe even finding out about your parents? Come on!”

He tried to meet her eyes, but she looked away. “Come on,” he repeated, his voice softening. “It must be lonely in the woods. Get out there and live a little—don’t spend all your time alone.”

She swallowed.

But my eyes, she wanted to say—but Ironwood didn’t know about that, did he? And she couldn’t tell him about it; not now, not here.

And when she got right down to it, did she really have any other reason not to go? She could keep her eyes out of the way—she could manage it. She’d done well enough this far, at least.

She glanced back up.

“I’ll do it.”

Ironwood pumped his hoof. “Yes!”

Before she knew it, Briar found herself grinning. What could it hurt.

She could fly, free of the forest—if only for a day.

“And someday,” Ironwood said, “when I leave the village to travel the world, you’ll come with me.” It wasn’t a request.

Maybe. “I will.”

He held out his hoof, and Briar faltered. “Promise?” Ironwood asked.

Briar paused—and then held out her hoof to meet his. She smiled even wider.

“I promise,” she said.