Quills and Sofas
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Night Light held the fraying quill over the waste basket and plucked his favourite pocket knife – a Victorinhocks he'd been given as a colt by his grandfather, an ex-guardspony who believed a young colt should always be prepared – from his saddlebag in a soft glow of amber magic.
He'd taken his grandfather's lessons to heart and carried it with him everywhere since then. It slit envelopes, it sliced fruit, it cut twine, and, of course, it had resharpened many thousands of quills over the years. It had even saved him and Twilight Velvet on their first date, when they were attacked by a large vegetarian sausage that had been accidentally animated by some clown experimenting with the come-to-life spell at Canterlot University. Initially, he had feared the wurst, but a few solid thrusts with the blade of his trusty Victorinhocks had settled its hash – and provided a tasty snack for later. Who would have guessed that Twilight Velvet had a slightly disturbing lust for Glamaregan sausages? In truth, he didn't mind them, although his mild lactose intolerance meant that he had learned to approach them Caerfilly.
A quick stroke of the blade, worn thin through decades of sharpening, sent the broken end of the quill tumbling into the waste basket, but closer examination revealed that it had split a considerable way up its length. With a sigh, he let the rest of the quill join its severed fragment.
“Is everything all right, Dad?”
His daughter – and incidentally, Equestria's newest princess – looked up from her side of the enormous desk in what the locals were calling the Crystal Castle, where he had been helping her to answer her mail and official correspondence. It was quite bizarre how both of his children had ended up – one in a Crystal Castle, the other in a Crystal Empire. Hmm. Crystals.
Of his children, Shining Armour was clearly the happier of the two. As for Twilight, however, just when she started getting to grips with her world, it would go through yet another upheaval. Leaving Canterlot and settling into Ponyville, she had to deal with making friends and living independently and becoming one of the newest heroes of Equestria. Then suddenly she sprouted wings and found herself with unexpected duties and responsibilities and sky-high expectations. Mainly her own, to be fair, but living up to your own expectations was often one of the hardest things to do in life. And now, just as she was starting to become more confident in that role, her beloved tree-library had been destroyed and in its place was this highly-magical construct which cut off the last ties with her old life. Well, except for her family and friends, of course, but the loss of her old home clearly troubled her. He often caught her when lost in thought staring forlornly out in the direction of the old oak tree. In fact, she had been doing just that when he had started to resharpen his quill.
He was reluctant to disturb her, but cleared his throat and asked, “Sorry, love, do you have another quill? This one's had it.”
She blinked, and tore her eyes away from the blasted stump. “Sure, no problem.” The lid of a well-worn wooden box on her desk opened in her aura, and a handsome purple quill drifted its way over to him.
“Thanks.” It was a very familiar shade of purple, and he shuffled his hooves uncomfortably. “Err, this is one of yours, isn't it?”
“Hmm? Yes, I wanted to add a personal touch to my letters, and what's more personal than using my old discarded flights to write with?”
“It's a very nice feather, but... do you have something else? It feels a bit weird to be using my daughter's bodily parts to write with.”
She chuckled briefly. “Okay, I can see your point. Let's have a look.”
She summoned her quill box and upended it on the pile of papers in front of her. A rain of purple feathers spilled out, together with a lone mottled feather that was covered in tan-and-white bars. “Hmm...just the one left. Pheasant, I think? Will that do?”
“I'm sure it will be fine. Are you only going to use your own feathers in future? I know you do a lot of writing?”
“Don't worry, Dad, I'm not going to pluck myself bald! I just need to restock, but I haven't got around to it yet. I was meaning to ask Spike, but I keep forgetting.”
“You have a local supplier? I could do with some new quills myself, actually.”
“Well, if you feel like a break, you could always pop out to Quills and Sofas. Davenport has a fantastic selection.”
“Quills and Sofas?”
“Yes. It's very well-known in these parts.”
“Quills and Sofas?”
Twilight frowned, looking up at the ceilings of the room. “Is there some sort of delayed echo in here?”
He let that pass, and focussed on his point. “How does that even work? Why those two things, out of everything?”
Twilight shrugged. “I don't know – I've never asked. If you're in Ponyville and you want a quill, go and see Davenport. If you want a sofa, Davenport's your pony. Is that really so hard?”
“Well, no, but doesn't it strike you as a bit odd?”
“Around here? Not really. It's a small town, so by doubling up he can make a living and the town gets a service it might not otherwise have.”
She had a point. “You know what? I'm intrigued. Whereabouts is this place?”
Twilight's directions led him into the town and across the main square. Ignoring the charred remains of the old library, he spied a sign overhead showing a quill and a sofa. Must be the place. As he got nearer, he could see bulky, fabric-covered shapes through the windows.
A bell jangled as he stepped inside, and when his eyes adjusted to the light he saw a tan Earth pony walking towards him, a smartly-dressed stallion in shirt and vest with his brown mane neatly styled.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you with anything, or are you just browsing?”
The stallion's cutie mark, perhaps unsurprisingly, was a fluffy white quill arched over a blue sofa, and he jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Hi there! You would be Davenport, correct?”
Davenport made a small bow, “That's right, sir. I am the owner and operator of Quills and Sofas. Whether your needs are seating comfort or writing excellence, I aim to please.”
“Quills and sofas, huh? That's not a combination you see everyday.”
“Perhaps not, but I have been meeting Ponyville's requirements for both for nearly twenty years.”
“So, just sofas? I mean, what's your position on recliners?”
The immaculately-dressed pony shuddered. “My position would be climbing off it so I can trade it for a solid, sensible sofa, like any rational pony.”
He nodded sagely, trying not to laugh at the flamboyant disdain in his answer. “I see. And what about futons?”
“A patchwork beast that is neither fish nor fowl, and shall never darken my doorway.”
Brilliant! “Chaise longue?”
“A fancy, frou-frou Griffonian affectation that doesn't bear the comparison with a traditional sofa.”
This is kinda fun! “Récamier?”
“Please!” the stallion scoffed, his ears flicking impatiently, “The Prench are responsible for many fine things in life. That, however, is not one of them.”
He decided that he'd gone far enough. Twilight had to live in this town, after all. “I'm sorry, I can see that I'm upsetting you. It's just that I see a number of settees and I was wondering how far the definition of 'sofas' went.” Good grief, am I seriously having this conversation?
“Indeed, the settee is a stout and long-standing member of the sofa family, as is the chesterfield and, my personal favourite, the davenport.”
“I guess that makes sense. I mean, I'm assuming that's what you were named for?”
Davenport smiled dreamily, “When I started this place, I did consider calling it Davenport's Davenports, but that would be neglecting the equally-important quill side of the business. In the end, I opted for its current name; simple, straightforward, and to the point. Until now, I had considered there was no opportunity for misconceptions.”
It was time to beat a retreat. “Just checking. In fact, I was here for some new quills.”
Davenport visibly relaxed, safe once more on comfortably quill-and-sofa-based ground, and gave him a professional smile. “We have all the best quills here, sir. Eagle, falcon, and migratory goose for airmail letters, all the way through to ostrich feathers all the way from Zanzibaa for your express ground services."
Wait, is he serious? Of course he is. “I have to say, I've never considered my choice of quill in relation to the mail service I'm using,” he admitted. Davenport's jaw dropped open, as if he had just confided that he liked dressing up in his mother's girdles in his spare time.
“Never consid... what, you just snatch up any old quill?”
“Mmm, pretty much, yes.”
Davenport did a fine impression of a goldfish for a moment. “Well. Well! It takes all sorts, it truly does, as my mother used to tell me.”
“Was she a quill connoisseur, like yourself?”
“Indeed not, sir, she was one of the finest upholsterers the city of Trottingham has ever seen. Retired now, of course, but she still does occasional work on commission to keep her hoof in, as it were.”
There wasn't much he could say to that. “Good for her.”
Davenport trotted behind a long, glass-topped counter and paused expectantly. “Now then, what sort of quills did you have in mind?”
“Just plain goose, I think.”
“Certainly, sir.” Hooves darting with the sign of long practise, the tan stallion quickly spread a selection of goose feathers across the counter. “Now then – Working grade, Superior, Double-A, or Castle?”
He had to admit, the strange shopkeeper knew his stuff. His Working grade quills were as good as many he'd used in Canterlot – long, fat calamuses and tightly-packed barbs – but, feeling vaguely guilty at making fun of the pony's passion, he decided to spend a little extra. “I'll take a dozen Double-A's, please.”
He had mentally braced himself for the price, and was stunned when the stallion said, “Double-A's are three a bit, so four bits, please.”
Four bits! He'd paid that each in some places in Canterlot! Clearly, he was going to have to visit Twilight more often! He quickly counted out four bits in case the shopkeeper changed his mind. For his part, Davenport wrapped his purchase in a scrap of parchment and tied it with a ribbon, before writing the quill origin, grade, and date on the wrapper with a spectacular peacock feather quill.
As Night Light tucked his package into his saddlebags, he said casually, “By the way, you don't do pencils here, do you?” He knew he shouldn't, but he just couldn't resist trying to work out where this odd pony's obsessions began and ended.
Davenport's ears flicked in agitation, the peacock plume twiddling in his teeth. “Indeed not, sir! Nasty, unnatural, inorganic things!”
“And crayons are right out, I assume?”
“You assume correctly,” Davenport said frostily.
He couldn't resist one more. “I see, I see. Tell me, where do you stand on the subject of fountain pens?
There was a loud crunch and the peacock feather was bitten right through, the iridescent tufts tumbling to the ground as Davenport drew himself up to his full height, his green eyes flashing dangerously. “I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” he burst out, his voice cracking with emotion. “This is a family store, and I won't have that sort of talk here!”
“Look, I was just asking!” he protested, edging towards the door.
“No, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I must insist! I've put up with your peccadilloes in the name of good service and tolerance, but if you're going to indulge in that sort of filth I must ask you not to return. Good day to you, you, you weirdo!”
Bewildered, Night Light bolted for the safety of the street, and heard the door slam emphatically shut behind him. He was still trying to work out what to make of it when he returned to his daughter's castle, where she was folding the last of her letters away.
“Hi, Dad! How did it go?”
Absently, he passed the packet of quills over to her in his magic. “I think that may well qualify as the strangest experience of my life. And coming from somepony who got turned into a cactus once, that really is saying something!”
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Author's Note
Sometimes my brain scares me.
