Symphony's usual appletini was as untouched now as it had been every week for the past month, despite her sister's coaxing. Tonight the drink had been waiting on their regular table when they'd entered the bar, and Fiddlesticks' well-trained eye had spotted the glint of bits being passed grudgingly between barcolts when Symphony had rolled her eyes at the drink once again. Fiddlesticks waved a hoof at the impoverished barkeep and two cups of cider were produced with a side of frustrated muttering.

She shrugged off her instrument case and sipped at the sweet, golden liquid. "So whad'ya think?" Her lips cracked a small smile and she stared at her sister across the top of the mug.

"It's certainly tempting... Daunting though." The rapping of Symphony's hoof on the tabletop delayed any response; lips pursed and eyes skyward: she was obviously deep in thought.

Not wanting to rush her, Fiddlesticks contented herself with silence and cider. The other mare hadn't touched her drink yet; the tapping continued.

"I mean," Symphony continued at length, "it's not as if I haven't considered it. Getting out, anyway. Constantly standing in Octavia's shadow isn't as annoying as it used to be but it's still frustrating to know that most ponies think of me as, "Octavia's Violinist" or similar." She stopped tapping and focussed on Fiddlesticks. "But- Well, this is Canterlot, Fiddly. Ponies here might not appreciate your-" The violinist stuttered her way into silence awkwardly, but Fiddlesticks just grinned.

"My apple-fed country ways?" She cut Symphony off as she started to protest. "Ah know your fancy shmancy high class folk won't like me, but what about everypony else?" She raised an eyebrow. "There's a whole lot more simple folks here than lords and ladies and suchlike."

Symphony looked surprised at the revelation. "When did you get so sharp?"

"It's just sense. Besides, there's no room for stupid when you're bartering for bed an' board."

This elicited a nod. Symphony knew, at least superficially, that her sister had been more or less broke when she was on her travels, but nowadays it was easy to forget Fiddly Faddle's adventurous years; her accent was regressing rapidly and most of the mare's country drawl had already been replaced by something that, while far from local in Canterlot, would've been just as far from local in Appleloosa and was rapidly travelling the remaining distance towards the capital.

Thoughts began to form, plans began to grow, and Symphony nodded, ever so slightly.

She left the quartet the very next day. Beauty Brass seemed surprised by the news, and Hugo was as impassive as ever, but Octavia smiled, and offered a hoofbump, and told her to enjoy herself. It made Symphony feel slightly guilty.

Not too guilty, mind.

She was too busy to feel truly guilty; Fiddlesticks' fliers went up the very next week.

----<<<<>>>>----

Worn red letters above the ageing oak of the building's door proclaimed it to be, "The Canter Club", and as Symphony stepped inside she did her limited best not to touch the woodwork. The air was thick with smoke, laughter and the faintly sweet smell of sweat; Fiddlesticks wove her way through the crowd with eerie efficiency and her sister followed in her wake, slightly concerned by the atmosphere. She hadn't set a professional hoof outside a concert hall since she'd been a filly.

The sound of poorly played guitar music permeated the atmosphere and Symphony gradually began to chalk her growing headache up to its grating, off-key notes rather than, as she had first suspected, the smoke. She inhaled a lungful of the blue-grey haze and coughed; it was still unpleasant, nevertheless. Most of the ponies in the club were stallions, and most of them wore nothing more than a shirt, if that; they clustered around rough wooden tables, mugs of cider in hoof, while the scrawny colt on stage wheezed his way torturously towards the end of his, for want of a better word, song. He slunk off the stage, such as it was, but was largely ignored. A much patched and faded curtain provided some semblance of privacy for the sisters as they unshouldered their instruments and began to unpack. Their past few weeks had been spent trying to find common musical ground; it'd been sparse. In the end, it'd seemed easier for Symphony just to write something for the occasion.

After one look, and several questions, she'd written a second copy with the Fillitalian translated into Eqquish; granted, "gradually slowing down" didn't look nearly as good as "poco a poco rit", but at least Fiddly understood it that way.

A few heads turned as they stepped onto the stage, but for the most part nopony cared; they were engrossed in their drinks, their cigarettes, and their chatter. But as the first few perfect notes wove their way through the stale air of the club drinks were forgotten, conversations hushed, and eyes focussed on the lemon-yellow duo on the stage at the far end of the room. A wave of silence flowed through the crowd, and the music followed in its wake; rising, falling, echoing and drawing the attention of the patrons. Even the smell of the smoke seemed dulled; replaced by the scent of the sea, and the dawn, and sadness. Symphony looked out across the field of gazes, mugs held half-way to lips, and smiled a half smile of satisfaction; the light of the stage's lanterns gleamed in the glistening eyes of the nearest drinkers and the violinist closed her own eyes, swaying in the music. She had done it, she knew. The last silver notes faded into the air and were gone, and Symphony fancied that she could hear the pattering of rain of the cobblestones outside before the first watcher blinked, closed his mouth, and began to knock a forehoof on his table with a grin. The storm of banging rose, and Fiddlesticks led her sister off stage amidst the cheers saying that, yes, she knew that Symphony was used to thrown roses, but here she may want to avoid thrown cider mugs, no, it wasn't an insult, just tradition, yes, it is a stupid idea.

The two mares vanished through the back door with their cases to the sound of a series of thumps from inside; they could've been the sound of several cider mugs striking the back wall of the hall, or then again, maybe not. Fiddlesticks had seen the crowd; she knew all about getting out before she was mobbed by drunk, angry or... pushy fans, but escaping before she could be surrounded by adoration? That was a new one; it felt good.

Symphony's mind sparkled; she could feel the crowd's amazement, their awe. Sweet Celestia, She thought, with difficulty. Is this how Octavia feels all the time? The very idea was ecstatic. No wonder she never notices how much more attention she gets; she's too distracted by the fireworks in her head to notice us. The violinist's goofy grin shone under the light of a street lamp, and the sisters staggered back joyously towards their regular bar. One of the few things that Symphony remembered in the morning was that the appletini didn't taste too bad, all things considered.

Author's Note

The author wishes it to be known that he accepts no responsibility for any fires caused by readers attempting to manufacture spotlights from wicker and/or straw.

Not sure why I decided to write this chapter; I thought that this was over a long time ago. Still, I hope it meets with approval; I enjoyed the writing part. I'd rather like a name for the regular bar: if anypony has any particularly interesting ideas then you are free to drop them into the comments below. I wouldn't hold your breath for more, but I shan't say nothing shall appear.

Ta ta, wonderful reader.