A Study in Blue

Chapters

Mr. White Collar
The Science of Deduction
The Laurafauston Garden Mystery
What Free Range Had to Tell

Mr. White Collar

“Mr. Collar?”

A single auburn eye opened and sought out the source of the beckoning question. A cyan unicorn mare whose auburn mane was tied back in a tight bun was looking expectantly at the only figure sitting the small waiting area. The ivory stallion rose slowly to his feet, mindful of the weight he was putting on his left foreleg.

His movements were stiff, even after all of this time. According to the doctors upon his release from their care, they would remain stiff for the rest of his life. Understandable, given how little of his limb had been salvageable, given the extent of the burns. Tendons and ligaments had been moved around to compensate for their missing compatriots, at the expense of the range of motion he had once enjoyed. At least he could walk at all.

A bleached cape fluttered around the leg as he walked towards the mare. Occasionally, the mangled flesh was visible as the fabric billowed. The stallion noticed that the mare's eyes didn't leave his own face as she stepped aside to allow him into her office. She was a professional, and comported herself as such. Not that he would have held it against her if her gaze had been drawn. Most looked. The majority had the courtesy to pretend that they hadn't.

White Collar's eye passed over the contents of the office as he stepped through the door.

A bookshelf was built into the wall to his left. Most of the titles were illegible from this distance, but he could at least identify the telltale plastic bindings of dissertations and studies. The rest of the leather-bound volumes were labeled with a typeface that tended to be reserved for reference materials. Meant to simply convey the title and author, and not draw the eye of a perspective leisure reader.

A few of the books looked to have been recently read, their spines not lined up perfectly with their brethren. Either the mare frequently reread them to keep up her craft, or she had done some specific research for his case in preparation for their premiere session. In either case, it showed that she genuinely cared for her patients.

His gaze slid to the far wall of the office, directly in front of him, and the assorted certifications that hung above a maroon sofa. Two bachelors, a masters, and a doctoral degree. Along with a license for operating a practice in the Trottingham area. Credentials. Typical for the workplace of any skilled practitioner.

Her desk dominated the right side of the room. Mahogany, and functional, though not simplistic in its construction. Designed to show success, while not being overly flamboyant. Several photos were arranged on the surface. White Collar noted that the pictures faced outward, into the rest of the room. They would not be visible if the cyan mare were seated at the desk, but they were angled perfectly to be clearly seen from the massive leather-backed chair near the couch. This 'Doctor Summer Breeze' apparently spent more time consulting with her patients than sitting at her own desk.

“Have a seat on the couch, Mr. Collar,” the mare directed sweetly as she closed the door, “make yourself comfortable.”

White Collar didn't respond verbally, merely approaching the sofa in silence. He noted the schools on the various diplomas, now that he was close enough to make them out. He then mounted the low cushions sofa, wincing slightly as his leg protested the movement. As another consequence of the severe injury affecting his limb, he could not quite tuck it under his chest as he would have liked to. Instead, he leaned slightly on his right side, the leg sticking out awkwardly under the cape.

The cyan mare moved to the nearby chair and sat her haunches down upon it. A notepad and quill became enveloped in a golden haze, matching the glow emanating from her horn. The quill dipped a couple of times into an inkwell before settling to hover above the pad of paper. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, favoring the stallion with a soft smile.

“Have you ever done this sort of thing before?” she inquired politely.

Her words were...soothing. Melodic. If she had not achieved favorable marks in her pursuit of psychology, White Collar imagined that the mare would have found ample employment as a singer somewhere.

“You know I haven't,” he answered, nodding his head in the direction of what he presumed was his medical file sitting upon her desk.

“I only know what's been documented,” Summer Breeze correctly gently, “if you've spoken with a friend 'off the record', it wouldn't be in the file.

“Have you spoken with a friend about what happened?”

Copper Top regarded her with his uncovered eye, “are you talking about last week, or what happened last year?”

“Whichever you'd rather talk about first.”

The white stallion looked at her with a narrowed eye. He hated ponies who were evasive with their speech. Obfuscating. Dancing around the issue did nothing to resolve the problem, “I'm not here because of what happened in some valley on the frontier.”

“Aren't you?”

White Collar seethed inwardly for a brief moment, but kept back the outburst he would have preferred to make, “I'm here because I lost control. I made a mistake. I admit that. I've already apologized, and I'm covering the cost of his treatment.

“It's over.”

“The judge disagrees,” Summer Breeze pointed out. She had made a few notations as the stallion had spoken, “he has some concerns that it could happen again.”

“I didn't realize I was the first pony to ever get in a fight in all of Equestria's history,” White Collar stated dryly.

The therapist smiled sadly, “I'm afraid it's far more complicated than that, Mr. Collar. Have you been following the news recently, regarding returning soldiers from the Frontier?”

“Can't say that I have, no,” he admitted. What was happening in the rest of Equestria had not held much interest for him. He didn't even follow what was going on in the rest of Trottingham.

“Yours was not an isolated incident,” Summer Breeze informed her patient frankly, setting the paper and quill down momentarily, “in fact, there have been fourteen instances of sudden and violent brawls in the Trottingham area alone in the last three months. Nopony has been seriously hurt though. Not yet.

“What these fights all have in common is that they all involve at least one pony who recently returned from a tour on the Frontier where they saw significant action,” the mare went on, “it's a trend that has the mental health community concerned. It has been nearly a thousand years since Equestria had a major war. Whatever techniques ponies used to deal with the stress brought on by combat has been lost to time. We didn't even suspect it was something we would need to address.

“Reality has proved otherwise.”

“So, what? I'm an experiment?”

“The subject of yet-untested treatment and counseling protocols, yes,” the mare admitted with a nod of her head and a wan smile, “so I would appreciate all the cooperation you're willing to give me. This isn't just about you, but your fellow returning soldiers; and helping them to avoid incidents like yours.”

White Collar frowned, looking away momentarily. Admittedly, he had not known all of that. He'd not really entertained the notion that his was a common issue. He hadn't believed that he was the only pony to be dealing 'poorly' with his past experiences, but he hadn't thought that such incidents were actually quite so...prevalent.

He'd assumed that other ponies had a better handle on themselves than he did.

“What did you want to know?”

The pad and quill were glowing once more as they wafted into the air before the mare, “tell me about the fight. Specifically, what lead up to it?”

White Collar kept his head low as he walked stiffly down the street. Why couldn't everything just be delivered to his door? Food, sure. Mail, of course. Clothes? Apparently not. At least, not custom tailored cowls that were intended to conceal the horrific scarring that covered the left side of his face. It seemed that in order to make certain such a specialized article of clothing fit, the tailor needed to actually take measurements of his head and face.

Who knew?

Losing half of your field of vision was disorienting. Suddenly there was this void that had never existed before. His depth perception was completely gone. There was also the matter of his self-consciousness.

The doctor who had treated him had suggested the cape and cowl when White Collar had voiced concerns about the looks of his scars. Of course, in retrospect, the amount of attention the garments drew was nearly as much as the injuries themselves. Though the expressions of nearby ponies were those of curiosity, as opposed to revulsion. So, that was a plus.

Though, once again, there was the matter of the impaired peripheral vision...

Something, or rather, somepony collided with White Collar. It wasn't that hard of a hit, and in a perfect world the white coated stallion would have needed to do little more than stumble to the side in order to remain on his hooves. However, not all of his legs were as receptive to sudden shifts in position as they had once been. Thus, the hit was actually enough to send him to the cobblestone road with a grunt.

He whipped his head around and glared in the direction of the offender. A mud colored earth pony stallion carrying a crate on his back looked down at him, his face showing an expression of mild concern.

“You alright, chap?” his gravely voice asked.

White Collar felt himself tense as he looked up at the larger brown form that seemed to be hovering over him. His heart quickened, and in some distant corner of his mind he heard the faint sounds of screams and the crisp ring of steel striking steel. He closed his eye tightly and pushed the sounds back into that shadowed hollow of his memory.

He was a long way from that place.

“Yeah,” White Collar mumbled as he set about getting his legs back under him, “just, give me a little space...” he didn't like somepony being that close to him when he was on the ground like this. Vulnerable. Defenseless. A figure poised above him...

He wasn't there anymore, the white pony reminded himself once again, more fiercely this time.

“Let me help you up,” the other stallion offered, extending a hoof.

Despite himself, White Collar recoiled from the limb. In his mind, for the briefest of instants, it was no longer a hoof. It was a claw-tipped paw, and there was a spear clutched in its grasp. For just...a single, little, moment...

“I'm fine!” he snapped, for more aggressively than he had intended to. He winced again, though not from pain, “sorry,” he added, “just...back off a little. Please.”

The brown pony grimaced, “whatever,” he lowered the outstretched hoof and took two steps back, more mindful of the ponies walking by. He bent his head down and picked up the cigar that had tumbled from his lips when he'd collided with the cowled pony. Noticing that it was no longer lit after its impromptu meeting with the stone street, the brown stallion fished out a match from a low slung satchel at his side. He drew it roughly along the stones, scraping away the red coating and allowing the phosphorous beneath to meet with the surrounding air and spark to life in a small, brilliant, burst of yellow fire.

Copper Top hadn't seen the majority of the other pony's movements. His focus was on watching his injured leg to make certain that it was positioned correctly to support his weight as he got up. So he didn't notice the match, or the cigar. He heard only the sound of the small flame erupting to life, and then saw the brief flash of light just in the corner of his vision.

Then he was back in that Celestia-banished valley. He was awash in the blood of a young gray mare who he'd only moments earlier dragged to her feet in an effort to vacate the kill-zone of the ambush that had been sprung; only for her to be instantly cut down by a flurry of arrows.

The falcon feather fletched bards hadn't left him unscathed either. One had found its place in his left flank, causing his hind leg to buckle out from under him. White Collar cried out in pain as he proceeded to try and drag himself towards the distant woodline, and the cover it would provide from the enemy's archers. Around him were scores of other screaming ponies. Though with every volley of deadly shafts, fewer and fewer cries remained.

Then he'd noticed the flare in the corner of his eye. It had drawn his attention from the frightfully distant forest towards the rocky mountainside where the archers had concealed themselves before springing their trap. Fires appeared. First a few, then dozens, and then a hundred more. Grey blankets were being thrown back, revealing that what had first seemed to be common boulders were in fact bails of hay. Hay drenched with oil.

All of which were now being set ablaze.

Then they began to roll down the mountainside.

White Collar frantically pawed at the ground as he tried to scrambled out of the way of one of the bails that was rolling directly towards him. He wasn't going to make it.

He held up his left hoof up protectively and screamed...

The ivory stallion was still screaming when he found himself standing over a battered and bloody brown mass.

A broken crate lay nearby, its contents spilling out onto the street. A ring of ponies looked on in stunned silence, none daring to approach the panting stallion that they had just witnessed beat another pony into unconsciousness. Many wore expressions of disgust mixed with their terror. A few foals were whimpering as they clung to their parents.

White Collar's cowl had come off during the fight, and now lay on the ground nearby. Flecks of the brown stallion's blood splattered across it.

He stopped screaming, tears in his eye. He felt his whole body trembling. His left leg ached terribly.

Now the scene finally registered. It wasn't a diamond dog he was standing over. It was a pony. He wasn't in the valley. He was on a market street.

“I...I'm...” the words caught in his throat. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tend to the innocent that he'd hurt. He wanted to.

But he didn't.

Instead, White Collar had merely taken a step back, laid down, and curled up into a quietly sobbing mass. He didn't move when the guards showed up a minute later, alerted to the fight by a mare who'd kept enough wits about her to go for help instead of simply looking on dumbly as a pony was beaten within an inch of his life. He didn't resist when they collected him. He didn't...do anything really. He was listless for most of the next two days while he was arraigned and held until the trial could begin.

It was White Collar's elder brother, Black Tie, who acquired an attorney; having heard about the incident from a bystander later that day. It was the first time the two of them had seen each other in months, despite both being Trottingham residents.

“If it hadn't been for Black Tie,” White Collar concluded, “I would probably be awaiting Reformation, and not in counseling.”

“It's a good thing too,” Summer Breeze added, making a few final notes about his recounting, “this isn't the sort of thing a Reform Spell can fix, I'm afraid. It's not a problem with the pony's core behavior. It's a...malady. An injury.

“It needs to be healed.”

“...How do you heal a memory?” White Collar asked softly. Talking about what had happened, both with the brown stallion and on the Frontier, had stirred some...unpleasant sensations within him.

“That's the trick isn't it? I don't know. None of us do,” Summer Breeze admitted, “we haven't seen this sort of thing in centuries, like I said. We're not even sure what to call it! I think the two biggest contenders are: 'Traumatic Stress Disorder' and 'Post-Wartime Aggression Syndrome', though 'Veteran's Fatigue' was popular for a time...”

White Collar shook his head and snorted, “naming it is the big concern?” he intoned dourly.

“No,” the therapist stated firmly, “treating it is the biggest concern. However, we need to be able to identify it too. To be able to say to ponies, 'look, this is a real thing; and the ponies who have it need our help, not Reformation'.

“And as far as treatment...” the mare sighed, “I'm afraid that we don't really have one. Not yet,” she amended, “I want you to keep that in mind if we switch tracks suddenly between sessions. I'm afraid the closest to this that I've dealt with is phobia cases; but I know that's not what this is.

“You're not afraid of ponies standing over you, or of fire. They just trigger traumatic memories. They make you anxious, and for a very justified reason.

“My concern,” Summer Breeze continued, “is that you are thinking about those memories too much...”

“I don't think about them at all,” the ivory pony insisted vehemently.

“Oh? Then what do you think about?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested. White Collar was silent, averting his eyes. The therapist pressed the issue, “who do you talk with frequently? How do you spend your time? Hobbies? Work?”

Silence.

“You see my concern,” Summer Breeze pointed out, “I think, that with nothing to occupy you, you don't have a means to...distract yourself—you're mind—from those memories. So they fester. Grow. Consume you.”

“You're getting rather dramatic there, Doc...” the ivory stallion said dryly.

“Perhaps. In any case, I want you to find a way to occupy yourself more. I don't care how.

“I noticed in your file that you ran a private investigation business before you were conscripted. Perhaps take on a case or two?”

White Collar leveled a sour glare at the mare. She merely regarded him pleasantly, though he saw the quill jerk over the pad momentarily as she noted his expression.

“I'll think about it.”

“Please do, Mr. Collar.”

She glanced up at the clock above the door, “I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today. Same time next week?”

* * *

Insightful and Scrupulous Private Investigations

I.S.P.I.

“I think it's cute,” a voice from the past echoed in the cowled stallion's mind as he stared at the large window pane that dominated the front of a small brick building. It might be easily overlooked, nestled among the much larger structures to either side. It was significantly narrower than most of other business on the street, and could understandably be mistaken for merely being a part of one of its neighbors. The only thing that set it apart was the writing on the frosted glass.

“Acronyms that sound like words are memorable! And we want ponies to remember our business!”

White Collar had thought it ridiculous at the time. It hadn't even been spelled correctly. Granted, synonyms for 'investigations' that began with the letter 'Y' were rather rare. Yet, to his chagrin, the idea had borne fruit. They had been far from the only private investigation service in the city, or even the largest, but they had still acquired and maintained a lucrative client base for years.

Once upon a time, anyway. They'd closed when White Collar's conscription notice arrived. Hard to run a PI business when the only PI isn't there anymore.

His salary in the military had been enough to maintain the payments on the building at least. It hadn't covered much else, but that was alright. As long as they were able to tread water until his service was up, that was all that they had needed. Then he would come back and they could pick up where things had left off.

The best laid plans of mice and ponies...

White Collar pushed the door open and slipped inside. He'd been back for nine months, and this room looked exactly like it had when he'd left nearly three years. A little dustier perhaps. Sheets were draped over a couch, coffee table, and a desk. A few nick-knacks and a stack of old magazines served as visible mounds beneath their alabaster coverings. His eyes lingered on the desk for a brief moment, and his chest tightened. Again.

A closed door was set into the wall beside the desk. 'White Collar, PI' was embossed upon the wooden surface in brass letters. His old office lay beyond, where he interviewed clients in private during cases. He knew that sheets still protected the furnishings in there as well. He'd gone into his old office his first day back, briefly. The intention had been to carry on with the initial plan that they'd agreed upon for his return: getting right back into the old routine.

That ambition had been short lived though. He'd made it as far as gripping the sheet over his desk in his mouth before his eye fell to a small protrusion on the desk. He'd known what it was even through the sheet. A picture frame. One that contained a photo of a very special pony.

The sheet had fallen from his lips then, and he'd left the office. The door had remained closed ever since. Three year old plans suddenly seemed...pointless.

White Collar unfastened the clasp of his cape and hung the garment upon the coat rack near the door. It draped along side two similar capes, one black and one blue. You never knew what the occasion would call for, after all.

The stallion made his way up the nearby stairs. They took him to the small apartment that existed over the office. It didn't contain much. A decently sized bedroom, a kitchen, a closet. Meager accommodations perhaps by some standards. 'Efficient' had been his word to describe them. 'Intimate' had been hers.

As...cozy, as the apartment had been when he'd left, these days it felt too large somehow. The second seat at the table in the kitchen seemed superfluous. The closet appeared almost empty with only his few sets of clothing hanging within. The bed, once only just wide enough to sleep a pair of snuggling ponies, now made him feel like he was a foal sleeping in an 'adult-sized' bed.

He still slept on the right side. 'His' side. He'd tried sleeping in the middle those first couple of nights. It had felt...wrong. Like those few nights when she'd been away for one reason or another. Back then, those nights had been unbearable. He'd counted the minutes until she'd return.

She wasn't going to return this time though. But, White Collar had found that if he just stuck to his side of the bed, he could pretend. For a few minutes, just long enough for him to fall asleep, she wasn't gone anymore. She was simply late to bed. Staying at her desk, finishing up an invoice, or filing away a closed case. In a couple minutes, she'd be coming upstairs, and he'd feel the mattress shift as she climbed in and cuddled up to him. Her feathery wing would drape over his side...

For a fleeting moment...she was there.

And when he woke up the next morning, he would forget why she wasn't. 'Oh,' he would say to himself, 'she must be making breakfast.'

Then everything would come crashing back to reality like a dropped piano, and another day would resume its tedious march into oblivion.

Maybe Summer Breeze had been right, the ivory stallion supposed as he removed his cowl. A distraction might do him some good. He didn't like what he felt whenever thoughts of the past wandered through his idle mind. It was all tightness and dread and regret.

Unfortunately, so much of what he had once done to pass the time accomplished only the exact opposite of what the therapist desired for him. His job served only to remind him of what he'd lost. His friends, the ones who were still alive anyway, only brought back memories of the valley. His family...

His father was dead. His mother was...somewhere—Bullgaria? Or was she in Moscow by now? And his brother, Black Tie, was three years further along with his own life than he had been when White Collar had gone off to the Frontier. Black Tie had been single and still studying at the university when White Collar had left. Now he was working, married, and a father to boot. A stallion like that had too many obligations for White Collar to impose yet another on him. The chemist had better things to do than foal-sit his younger brother.

So, since anything to do with his old life was out of the question, that left only something new. What that was, he had no idea. Yet. Perhaps a walk through downtown Trottingham would permit something to catch his fancy. As long as he managed to keep himself more collected this time...A second incident, on the hooves of the first, was unlikely to be quite as favorably received as the first had been.

White Collar laid the cowl on the nightstand and crawled onto the right side of the mattress. He turned his head and glanced behind him at the empty pillow.

“This is a big step for us,” the sandy-hued pegasus mare grinned as a pair of unicorns floated the bed up the narrow stairs towards their apartment.

White Collar glanced back at her and quirked an eyebrow, “this? It's a bed. I think we've taken quite a few 'big' steps already, don't you? Like, you know, buying a house together? Among other things...”

“Pfft,” the mare waved away, “lot's of ponies have lived in this place before. But that's a whole new bed! We'll be the first ponies to ever sleep in it through a whole night!” she proclaimed in a tone that suggested she either did not realize the two delivery ponies were within earshot, or that she didn't care. The pegasus leaned in close to him and batted her eyelashes, “we'll also be the first to do...other things in it...”

White Collar feigned considering her point, eying the two unicorns with an appraising eye, “I'm not so sure,” he stated, rubbing his chin in mock speculation, “those two looked pretty familiar with one another; and it did take them a bit longer than it should have to travel six blocks from 'Beds and Paper'...”

For a moment, the mare's jaw went slack and her eyes wide as she looked up at the unicorns as they vanished into the apartment, “you mean they-” her words halted abruptly as she caught his coy smile, suggesting that his supposition had been made in jest, “oh, you are horrible!”

“And you, my dearest Meadow Lark, married me...”

White Collar lay his head down and closed his eye.

“Goodnight, Love...”

The Science of Deduction

“Designer saddle bags! Don't miss out on your chance to pick up the latest in Plota's new summer fashion! Only sixteen hundred bits!”

White Collar's eye was drawn to the stall at the vendor's cry. He noted the dark cobalt dyed leather and shook his head with a wan smile. With a color like that, they were clearly not a summer line. A winter one, perhaps. Likely not even the previous winter's if the vendor was willing to...embellish the truth that much in the first place. Grossly overpriced in either case. Doubly so in both. The number of zeros on the tag didn't seem to discourage every shopper though.

Part of the fun in a bazaar was the battle of wits played out between the merchant and buyer as both vied for the favorable bargain. Of course, in the end, the vendor always won, to a degree. They weren't going to sell anything at a loss after all. It simply came down to a matter of how closely to a Pyrrhic victory you could whittle them down to.

He was generally rather good at the game. His practiced eye was well versed in identifying flaws and inconsistencies in the product being haggled over.

Yet, that was not why he was out and about in this place today. He wasn't looking for trinkets and baubles. What White Collar was after was a distraction. Some novel activity that wouldn't remind him of his past and could distract him from the pains those memories stirred.

His saddle bag was brushed by that of another stallion who galloped through the crowd at what was undoubtedly a rather careless amount of speed for so populated an avenue. Still, he seemed aware of this, as the verdant pony called out what seemed to be an endless stream of apologies and warnings as he barreled along. A bundle of sealed scrolls protruded from one of the bags, suggesting both his occupation, and the likely reason for his haste.

The ivory pony bit back an annoyed outburst. The nudge had been unintentional, and minimal besides. Plus, White Collar was pretty sure that at least one of those apologies had been directed at him. He was mostly out of earshot anyway. Enough of his other victims were voicing their displeasure at the moment to make his own moot.

“Thief!” a familiar voice rang out above the din, “Stop! Thief!”

White Collar narrowed his eyes back in the direction of the saddle bag vendor he'd passed. His mind idly wondered if the merchant was making a comment on the prices of his own wares. The genuinely distraught look on the maroon face suggested otherwise.

A pair of piercing whistles cut through the air, prompting the milling ponies in the street to shift to either side. A pair of steel-clad guards displaying the blue and gold livery of the city authorities sprinted through the parted crowd, the tin cylinders in their mouths blaring harshly to warn those ahead to move aside. When they were past, the assembled citizenry looked on for a few seconds before resuming their previous wanderings or haggling.

White Collar did likewise. Once upon a time, a perpetrated crime might have held interest for him. Even one as mundane as petty theft. But today was about finding a new distraction, not falling back into old patterns. The local authorities looked to have things well in hoof anyway.

Or so he had thought...

A block further in his travels, White Collar happened upon a ring of ponies surrounding the pair of guards who had run by earlier. They had an equally familiar green coated stallion pinned beneath them. A dusting of scrolls, bits, and small squares of yellow paper lay scattered about, buffeted by the flapping wings of one of the guards. A glowing ring of violet surrounded the prone stallion's hooves, matching the glow of the unicorn guard's gray horn.

“Stop resisting!” the azure pegasus guard—a mare, by her voice—commanded of their captive, “you are being detained under suspicion of shoplifting!”

“But I didn't take anything!” the green stallion insisted, a note of fear in his voice.

“If that's true, then we can sort it out at the station,” the mare declared.

“But-but...” the prone pony protested feebly, his eyes darting to the nearby scrolls.

Something brushing under him drew White Collar's gaze. He noticed a little yellow earth pony filly slipping beneath him on her way through the gathered crowd. His eye fell to the blue bags across her back. With a sigh, he quickly reached out and clamped a hoof down on her chestnut tail. Understandably, the little pony gave a sharp yelp, drawing the attention of several nearby onlookers.

“Ow! Hey, get off!” The filly protested, tugging fiercely at her trapped tail.

Eventually, the attention of the guards was drawn to the high pitched protests as well, and White Collar found himself now the focus of the pegasus mare's dour gaze. Exchanging a look with her partner to confirm that he had their suspect well in hoof, she fluttered over to the new disturbance.

“Is there a problem here?” she inquired, her violet eyes darting between the cowled stallion and the little yellow filly whose tail he had pinned. The lingering stare she focused on him hinted that she already had an idea of whom the trouble-maker in this situation was.

White Collar kept his expression carefully neutral, “I caught your thief,” he stated simply.

The filly's blue eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as she finally noticed the nearby guard. She jabbed a hoof at the caped pony who had caught her, “nuh-uh! I didn' steal nuthin'! He's...he's foalnapping me!”

The ponies surrounding them took a step back, a fervent murmur spreading among them. Even the unicorn guard and his prisoner were staring now. White Collar kept his expression impassive beneath the cowl, “I assure you, this filly is the thief, and your suspect is innocent; and I can prove it.”

The mare regarded him coolly, “let the filly go.”

White Collar considered a moment. Of course, if the filly bolted, it would only serve to lend credit to his own case. He lifted his hoof. To her credit, the filly did not run; likely suspecting that the opportune time to make her escape was not while under the watchful eye of a hovering pegasus guard. Satisfied, the mare nodded, “let's hear it.”

“Firstly, the pony you have there is a courier,” White Collar began, matter-of-factually, “he wasn't running because he was trying to make off with some stolen goods, but because he probably invokes some sort of time-sensitive discount to attract clients.”

“Half an hour or it's free,” the green hued pony confirmed, nodding his head vigorously.

“And how's that working out for you so far?” White Collar asked drolly, “have you caught on yet why every other courier service in Equestria no longer advertises those sorts of gimmicks?” the stallion grew silent.

“That's an awful lot of bits for a courier...” the pegasus commented.

“That's an awful lot of receipts,” the white coated stallion countered, indicating the yellow slips of paper spilling out of one of the bags, “I'd wager that they account for every coin.

“Now, on to our little friend here,” White Collar continued, earning a scowl from the filly, “that's an interesting set of bags you have there. Plota, aren't they?”

“My mother bought them for me last year!” the filly insisted vehemently.

“You have a very generous mother,” he remarked with mild amusement. He had to award the little pony points for her commitment to the charade, “although, I have to wonder why she couldn't find you a set of bags in your size...” he prodded a hoof at the pair of blue dyed leather satchels which were nearly as large as the filly herself.

“She says I'll grow into them,” was her answer.

“...and why she bought you bags styled for a stallion,” White Collar finished, a prompting look on his face.

“I...” the filly's words caught, but only for a brief moment, “...don't hold to those gender things. I like 'em this way. Who cares if they're 'fer colts'?”

Credit where it's due, the white stallion conceded. The filly was determined to go down clinging to this story with all hooves, “I see. When did you say your mother bought them? Last year?”

“Yup,” the filly dared, nodding her head.

“How did she get her hooves on this winter's new Plota line?”

“They're this summer's new line!” the little yellow pony countered smugly, proud at having corrected the stallion confronting her.

White Collar turned his gaze to the pegasus, his lips cracking a small smile, “my mistake. She is correct. They're for this summer; and she got them last year,” he moved his hoof and flicked up a little square of paper on one of the bags, “and still with the tag, after all this time...”

The mare's eyes widened, as did the filly's. But, while the pegasus' expression was one akin to saying, 'Well, I'll be banished! He's right!', the filly's was one of, 'oh, horse-apples!'

The little pony decided that now was the moment to cut her losses and hope for the best. She bolted.

Or rather, tried to anyway. Her legs flailed furiously in the air for a good ten seconds before she finally noticed that she wasn't making any headway. A violet glow surrounded her, holding the filly's body off the ground, while simultaneously relieving her of the purloined bags. The courier was back on his feet, now free of the magical binding. He was busy collecting his property, and that of his current clients. He didn't even wait for the guards' apologies before taking off at a gallops once more, resuming his string of warnings to the throng of ponies in his way.

The unicorn guard floated the now panting filly over and began to question her, though not nearly as roughly as they had been interrogating the courier. Meanwhile the pegasus mare returned her attention to White Collar.

Her eye's darted to his cowl, the stallion noticed, but only for a second; then they held his own gaze, “we appreciate your help, mister...?” she prompted.

“Collar. White Collar,” he supplied with a shallow nod. He turned away and resumed his progress along the road, bidding her a, “good day,” as he departed. There was nothing else for him to do there. He'd caught their thief for them, and recovered the stolen goods. Not that he had really intended to.

Not that he'd really had to, either. He could have opted to let the filly go on. It wasn't his job to catch shoplifters. They would have found out the courier was completely innocent back at the station once they seen he had no stolen material, and that the receipts accounted for the bits in his bags. He'd have been late for all his other deliveries, but that wouldn't cause any lasting harm. And given what the saddle bag merchant was pulling on his customers, he could stand to have one or two items stolen. Call it karma for one thief to be the victim of another.

But he'd stepped in anyway. He always stepped in. Even before securing a contract. The number of times Meadow Lark had been forced to negotiate payment from a 'retro-active client' because he'd solved their case before actually being hired on to investigate it...

He'd never done it for the money. It was just...fun. He enjoyed it. A puzzle that needed solving, no different than a crossword, or a cryptogram. Meadow Lark had been the driving force behind turning his talent into a business. Otherwise, he'd have still been following his mother around from one diplomatic function to another, pointing out all the various little bits of intrigue that he notice between the other delegates for her to use in negotiations.

White Collar shook his head. New hobbies! He had come here to look for new hobbies!

With a cleansing breath, he cast his gaze about at the surrounding shops and kept walking.

* * *

Technically this was a 'new' hobby, White Collar thought to himself as he snapped another of the little cardboard shapes into place. He'd never actually tried his hoof at solving a literal puzzle before. He could see why, too.

Unlike political intrigue, suspicious spouses and lost merchandise, he knew exactly what he would have when all of these pieces were finally put together. There was a picture of it on the box that he was looking at. It...sort of sucked the fun out of it. Knowing where he would end up for all of the effort that he was putting in.

Maybe if he just blindly picked up a random box next time and never looked at the cover?

White Collar sighed as he put the last piece of the border into place. Maybe. He'd at least give it a try...

A knock at the door drew his attention, and a frown. He wasn't expecting any deliveries today. Certainly nopony would be coming by seeking to hire him on; not with the rather obvious 'Closed Indefinitely' sign sitting on the windowsill. White Collar glared at the offending portal and rose from his seat on the still-covered couch. He reached out to pick up the cowl sitting beside him, and then hesitated.

Unexpected guests got unexpected surprises.

The scarred stallion approached the door and pulled it open. Whatever his visitor had been about to say died a violent death on their lips, coming out instead as a gasp so forceful that it sent them tumbling onto their haunches.

It was somepony he recognized, White Collar noticed as he finally got a look at who it was that had come to see him. The guardsmare from the market. Surprised by her own reaction, the azure pegasus at his door flushed with embarrassment. She reached up to brush several stray wisps of golden mane from her eyes and cleared her throat. She remained seated on her rump, however, her assumed posture insisting that she had meant to sit down so abruptly.

“H-hello, Mr. Collar,” the mare began, her words catching briefly as she got over the last of her flustered state, “I don't suppose you remember me-”

“The guard from yesterday,” the stallion interrupted in an even tone, “What do you want?” She shouldn't have needed any sort of statement. Shoplifting was not the sort of transgression that warranted a trial, especially when it was a foal which had committed the infraction.

In fact, now that he thought about it, White Collar didn't remember giving out his address. Only his name. This guard would have had to do a fair bit of asking around or combing through records in order to have found him. Her steel plated barding was absent, as was her livery. The pegasus wasn't on duty, so this wasn't anything official.

“I wanted to thank you,” the mare ventured, her eyes favoring the door frame and nearby frosted picture window, “for what you did yesterday...”

“You're welcome,” White Collar responded simply, “good bye.”

He started to close the door when the azure mare shot out a hoof to halt its progress, “...and to ask for your help!”

The stallion hesitated. He looked at the pegasus. He had not missed the note of desperation in her voice at her last words; and he could see similar apprehension played across her features. She met his gaze now, her eyes no longer looking away.

Taking his hesitation as a good sign, the mare continued, “I...looked you up. I've only been with the Trottingham Guard for a few months, so I didn't recognize your name; but my sergeant did. He told me about how you used to help out with tough cases.

“I need your help now,” she begged, “please...”

“We should help the Guard whenever we can,” a voice from the past played out in his mind, “they'll mention ISPI in the paper. It's like free advertising!”

He wasn't interested in getting his name out there anymore. It wasn't his responsibility to aid the Guard in tracking down elusive crooks and thieves. It was exactly what they were all paid and trained to do. Besides, it was directly counter to his intended course of action. He wasn't supposed to be doing things that would remind him of his past loss.

“I don't take clients anymore,” he replied, jerking his scarred head in the direction of the window, and the sign that it contained. Once more, he began closing the door.

And once more, the mare stopped it with an outstretched hoof. Now White Collar was beginning to feel annoyed. If this mare thought that her position as a member of the city guard entitled her to pester him even after he'd clearly dismissed her; the pegasus had another thing coming. It'd been years since the last time he'd joined the Trottingham Guard on one of their cases, but the stallion was willing to bet his past reputation would still carry some weight when it came to recommendations on what to do with some upstart guard that was overreaching...

He'd almost said as much before the mare spoke up again, “lives are at stake!”

White Collar paused, his intended reproachful comments going unsaid. He stared at her in silence for a while.

“Screw the 'puzzle'! This is somepony's life we're talking about! Don't you dare tell me that doesn't matter to you!”

It had mattered back then. It mattered now.

“Please...”

White Collar sighed and stepped back from the doorway, turning and walking deeper inside. The door remained open, an unspoken invitation for the mare to enter. She did so, casting a cautious eye in the stallion's direction for any indication that she had misread his actions. She watched as he scooped up a white swath of fabric from the sheet covered couch. The stallion bowed his head and pressed the fabric up to the left side of his face, wrapping a pair of dangling straps around his neck and muzzle. She heard a couple of metal clicks as his hooves passed over the straps and then he turned around.

The scarred side of his face was now completely covered by a cowl whose color nearly matched that of his coat. Though it did nothing to hide the stretch of gnarled pink and reddened flesh that extended down his left foreleg and most of his side. Still, it was nice to be able to look at his face and not feel disgusted with the horrific sight; or the overwhelming shame she felt when she couldn't keep from looking away.

According to her sergeant, he had not always had those scars. He certainty hadn't had them the last they'd met on a case. Supposedly, according to one of the other veteran guardsmares the pegasus worked with, this stallion had been quite handsome. Looking at the right side of his face, and mentally mirroring it, the mare decided that she would have agreed with that assessment. Once upon a time, the white earth pony had been handsome.

Now, he was just...dour; and he was staring at her expectantly.

The pegasus slipped a wing into one of her saddle bags and drew out a large envelope with her pinions. She held it out to the stallion, “I think there's a serial killer in the city.”

White Collar took the offered parcel in his mouth and set it on the coffee table, atop the unfinished puzzle. He flipped up the unsealed flap and slid the contained dossiers out with his hoof, spreading them out. His eye scanned the cover pages briefly, which contained little more than basic demographics about the victims. What puzzled him was that none of the files was flagged as being an equicide...

“You 'think'?” the stallion prompted as he flipped open one of the dossiers; an older peach hued stallion.

“It's hard to say for certain,” the mare winced slightly, “the style is...unusual...”

“Distinctive styles are typically a firm indicator of a serial killer,” White Collar pointed out as he delved deeper into the file, looking for copies of the investigating officer's notes.

“I know,” the pegasus agreed sourly, “but this pony is being extra unusual...”

White Collar found the page he'd been looking for and skimmed over the appraisal of the scene and deposition of the body. Then his frown deepened and his eye shifted back up to the mare. She winced away from his expression, as though she could already sense what he was going to say to her. The stallion imagined she had heard the same appraisal before.

He put the file down and picked up the second. The picture of a pink mare on the cover. He quickly found the report he was looking for and read through it as well. He didn't bother to read the third.

White Collar turned to look at the pegasus, “I'm certain that you somehow find this all very amusing; but I don't. Take your things and get out, and I probably won't even bother to report this harassment to Gold Peak,” he growled at her, dropping the name of the current captain of the city's guard, whom he had had personal dealings with in the past.

The pegasus blanched, her eyes widening in fear and desperation, “it's not a joke, I swear!”

“You said this was the work of a serial killer,” White Collar snarled, jabbing a hoof at the scattered files, “run over by a cart? Drowned in the river? Those aren't murders, they're accidents! How did the third one die?”

The mare winced again, “his arm was torn off by a millstone...” she admitted.

“An accident,” he snorted. He glared at her once more, “get out.”

“But...but look at the dates!” she insisted. White Collar kept his disapproving gaze on her for a moment longer, but finally relented and looked at the dates of the incidents. His scowl shifted slightly when he saw them, “the second of the month,” the pegasus confirmed, “for the last three months. Within an hour of each other.”

The stallion paused. Admittedly, that was...odd. However, it was hardly any sort of 'proof' that they had all been murdered. The causes were all pretty clearly identified as having been mere accidents. Each report contained at least two eye-witness accounts that confirmed the events as the investigating guard had appraised, and none of those witnesses were the same pony. The idea that so many unrelated ponies would all be conspiring to give false reports in order to cover for what seemed to be obvious accidents...it was too unlikely to seriously entertain.

“Were these the only ponies to die in accidents in those three months?” he inquired, suspecting the answer.

The pegasus bowed her head, “...no,” she looked up then, and cut off what White Collar had been about to say, a shaky certainty in her voice, “but these were different; and I don't just mean because they happened on the same day.”

White Collar raised a curious eyebrow, inviting the mare to elaborate, “the stallion who was crushed by the cart? He was a lumberjack, and the cart was full of logs. The mare who drowned? Two time medalist in the Equestria Games, quarter-mile freestyle. The dismemberment? A miller.

“All three of those ponies died on the same day of the month, in the span of the same hour, and they all died in a manner that was...ironic.”

“I don't think that's what 'irony' means...” White Collar corrected.

“Then whatever it is when a lumberjack is killed by the trees he cut down that morning,” the mare amended in exasperation, “or a champion swimmer drowns.”

“I think it's just called 'tragic',” White Collar said in a bored tone. He was suddenly beginning to think that the mare wasn't trying to play some obscure joke on him. More than likely, she was just another example of a new guard trying to prove that she could handle the more prestigious assignments by cracking a 'case' that nopony else had caught on to. It wouldn't have been the first time an overeager guard had seen conspiracies where there were only misunderstandings.

“It's not a surprise when a pony dies in an accident associated with how they spend a lot of their time,” the stallion explained in much more even tones, “lots of lumberjacks are killed by falling trees. Lots of sailors die at sea. Lots of miners die in collapses.

“Accidents happen.”

“But within an hour of each other the day after the Bazaar?” the guardsmare insisted, sounding almost desperate, “and only after Trottingham began participating in the Bazaar at all?”

This got White Collar's attention, “Bazaar? What Bazaar?”

“The Equestrian Merchant's Bazaar. It's a new initiative thought up by the Trade Ministry,” the pegasus explained, sounding a little surprised that the stallion knew nothing about it, “it's held on the first of every month in Trottingham, Manehattan on the eighth, the Empire on the fifteenth, and Canterlot on the twenty-second. Then it starts over again. It's supposed to help encourage more trade between within Equestria.

“And ever since it started up, we've been having those 'accidents' the next morning,” it was clear from the emphasis on the word that the mare was more than a little doubtful of how apt a label it truly was.

And, given that new information, White Collar found himself giving the files a second, closer, look. Accidents were one thing. Accidents at similar times was something...odd, but explainable if it was a time that saw a lot of general activitry among the ponies of the city anyway. After all, it wouldn't be considered suspect if a lot of ponies tended to choke on something they were eating during a time when meals were commonly served.

However, throwing in a large event on the previous day...an event that would see a lot of unfamiliar ponies arriving in town for a couple of days. White Collar looked at the details given for the witnesses once more. Addresses had been recorded, in addition to the names. They were all local. It was possible that they were fabrications, and that maybe the names were false too. There were no pictures of the witnesses in the file after all, and the investigator had been different each time. A couple of ponies staging murders and then passing themselves off as bystanders? It was possible...A stretch, but not a difficult one.

Easy to check though. All he'd have to do was swing by the addresses listed and make the acquaintance of the pony that lived there to see if the names matched...

The stallion shut his eye and shook his head. No! He wasn't going to let himself get sucked into this. He was trying to find something new to occupy his time. Getting back into investigating was just going to remind him of how things would never be again.

“Verify the witnesses are who they claim,” White Collar said allowed, addressing the pegasus, “go to the addresses, make sure they live there and that they were the ones who saw these accidents happen.”

The mare nodded vigorously, looking relieved to have gotten at least some small bit of help in her investigation. Then a pensive look flashed across her face, “and if they are?”

White Collar shrugged, “then unless you can come up some actual evidence: these were all just accidents.”

It obviously wasn't what the guardsmare had wanted to hear. She deflated back to her previously frustrated state, a deep frown on her face. She shook her head slowly, “it's just too much of a coincidence,” she complained, “the timing is just too...they have to be related.”

“Timing isn't enough,” White Collar reminded her, “you're going to need more than that. Some way that these ponies were physically or socially connected; and I'm not seeing that in these files. Without that connection, you don't have a case. Just a few curious accidents with freak timing.

“Now, if there is nothing else...” the stallion shuffled the files into a neat stack, slid them back into their envelope and passed them to the pegasus mare.

“Right,” the azure flier took the parcel under her wing and sighed, “thanks. I'm sorry I bothered you with this. I just...I feel like something is wrong with this. I can't explain it.”

“You're a guard,” White Collar observed, “ponies are dying, and you want to do something about it.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, offering a meek little smile, “I guess that's it. I'll check out the witnesses. If nothing pans out, well, the next Bazaar is next week,” she shrugged, “I'll wander around, see if anything stands out.

“If I do find anything,” the mare began hesitantly, “can I bring it to you? My sergeant said you were the best,” she regarded him hopefully.

The room was silent for a long while. Then, “I don't do this anymore.”

New things, White Collar reminded himself. He was trying to do new things. Running around Trottingham with a pegasus trying to crack a nigh-impossible case was hitting dangerously close to some old wounds that he'd just as soon leave well alone. Besides, there wasn't really much of a chance of a case existing anyway. It'd be a waste of both their time.

“I see,” the mare deflated even further. She left without another word.

White Collar stared at the door after it closed in the pegasus' wake. His eye went to the scattered cardboard shapes, and he briefly considered resuming the effort. However, there was zero desire remaining within him to do so. A pity there wasn't anything to the mare's case. A puzzle like that would have been fun to solve.

The Laurafauston Garden Mystery

“And how have you been doing, Mr. Collar?”

“I haven't beaten anypony else to within an inch of their life so far,” was the stallion's wry reply, “so I guess that's progress,” at least the therapist was kind enough to smile at his little joke, “other than that...not well actually.”

“Oh?” Summer Breeze sat up a little straighter in her chair, the quill poised over her pad, “is everything all right?”

“Nothing's right,” the stallion sighed, “I've spent the last week trying to find something, anything, to distract me, and all it does is remind me of how much I miss doing what I used to. If anything, I'm thinking about how things were even more often.”

“The fighting?”

“No, before that,” White Collar corrected, a frown tugging at his lips, “it hurts almost as bad though.”

“I saw in your file that you're a widower,” the unicorn mare prompted, “is that what you're referring to?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I'm supposed to, right?” the cowled stallion said with a wan smile, “that's how this whole thing works?”

“This isn't an exact science,” the unicorn cautioned, “it works differently for every pony, in different ways. Granted, I've dealt with far more grieving spouses than returning veterans, so I feel I can probably offer you a little more help in this area if you need it.”

“It's okay to talk about this stuff, right? The judge isn't going to mind that we aren't talking about the Frontier?”

“Everything we discuss is covered under patient privilege,” Summer Breeze assured the stallion, a serious expression on her face, “nopony but you and I ever hears a word that's said in here. All I pass on to the judge is a small report with whether or not I believe you are making positive progress.”

“And am I?”

“It's only our second session, Mr. Collar. I won't having anything remotely relevant to report until after our third or fourth,” she readied her pad again, “now you were saying about your wife?”

“Right,” the stallion leaned back on the couch as comfortably as he could, “it was her idea to start the investigating business. I just liked noticing things, putting the pieces together into the story they told. Meadow Lark was the one that figured we could monetize it.”

“You didn't want to be a private investigator?”

“I wouldn't put it like that,” White collar frowned slightly, “it's not that I didn't want to, per say. I just...never saw a reason to. I just did what I did because it was fun.”

“So how did you make your living?”

“I followed my mother around,” at the therapist's raised eyebrow, the stallion elaborated, “she works for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Her job is go around to all these different countries and talk with the other ministry types there to see what sort of tariff deals she can work out, and stuff like that. She'd bring me along so that I could tell her about whoever she was about to talk to.

“I'd point out who was cheating on their spouse, so she could use little threats as leverage. Or who going to try to cut an under-the-table deal with another country so she could get Equestria in on it. Stuff like that. I got to live an easy life hopping from one party to the next, and Mother became the doll of the Ministry who wrangled the sorts of treaties that nopony else could.

“Win-win.”

“So I take it you met your wife at one of these parties?” Summer Breeze deduced, indicating for her patient to go on with his story.

White Collar nodded, “A little gala in Jennyva. Mother was there to see about setting up an annual fashion exposition between Equestria and Mulan. Build some stronger cultural bonds or something like that. Meadow Lark and a friend of hers were crashing the party, passing themselves off as Equestrian models displaying example ensembles for such an exposition.

“I caught them.”

“Hmm,” the therapist smiled slyly, “got them thrown out, did you?”

“No, nothing like that,” he shook his head, unable to help but smile a little too at the memory, “I just saw them for what they were: a couple of ponies looking to have a good time at a swank party they'd never get an invite to.

“You see, I can read ponies like most read a book. You can learn a lot about somepony from such little things. I'm good at noticing those things. Meadow Lark was good at reading those things too, to a degree. But where she shined was in her ability to mimic those ponies.”

“She copied them.”

“No, she copied their style,” the stallion corrected, “that pegasus could spend two minutes listening to somepony and then walk up to them and have that pony convinced they were from the same hometown and knew all the same ponies. Heck, she could have you convinced she was a Bullgarian native!

“She tried that on me. Didn't work.”

“She tried to convince you she was a minotaur?” the unicorn mare smirked, “I can't see how that failed.”

“No, she tried to convince me she was from the same town I was. Trouble was that I'm not from any one town. As much as I'd been traveling with Mother, there was no single culture that I'd really adopted,” White Collar reflected on the first conversation he'd had with the golden pegasus, and how awkward it had been as the mare suddenly found herself mixing slang that even she could instantly see shouldn't go together, “I think she was intrigued. It kept her talking to me longer than she should have.

“It gave me time to correctly deduce that she was from Dodge Junction. She hated that I knew so much about her, but she knew nothing about me.

“It got us to talking though. One thing lead to another after that.”

“What brought the two of you to Trottingham?”

“It's where we took our honeymoon,” White Collar said simply, “My brother was working at a ski lodge nearby to pay his way through university. He got us a good deal. When the honeymoon was over we just...never left. Neither of us really had anywhere special in mind that we wanted to go, so we set down roots here,” a frown darkened his features, “a year later I was conscripted.

“She died while I was away.”

“It must have been hard, getting that news while you were away like that.”

“That's just the thing,” White Collar said bitterly, “I didn't. Apparently they'd been having trouble with the mail that whole time. So many ponies away from their families at one time, the mailmares couldn't keep up. Letters lagged behind. They think that there was something like an average of a two month delay near the end.

“I found out about Meadow Lark when her parents came to visit me at the hospital in San Anponio,” the next words were saturated with vitriol and nearly spat out, “I got their letter telling me about her death a week later. She'd been dead for three months by then. Apparently, the letter had gotten held up at the regimental HQ when my battalion was wiped out.

“At least I found out why she hadn't come to see me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why? It wasn't your fault.”

“That doesn't mean I can't empathize, Mr. Collar,” the mare pointed out. Her pad was down now, and her amber eyes were locked on the stallion as she leaned forward, “you lost a lot in a very short period of time. I won't pretend I know what that's like personally. I don't. But I have met many ponies that did, and they have sat on that same couch, and I have helped them, I promise you.

“The death of your wife, it wasn't the end of everything, even if it seems so. It has been over nine months, and it's perfectly fine to still be hurting. You will hurt forever, and that's okay. Healing those sorts of scars isn't about removing the pain, it's about learning to carry on in spite of it.

“And that's what I want you to do, Mr. Collar. I want you to carry on, and do exactly what you would be doing right now if Meadow Lark was alive.”

The stallion shook his head, “I don't know, it...it hurts, Doc.”

“I told you: it's alright to hurt. But it's more important that you live.

“You said you enjoyed solving all those puzzles when you were investigating, right?” White Collar nodded, “then experience that joy again. It was something you found fun before you even knew Meadow Lark. She was not the key to that part of your life. You will still be reminded of her by it, but I believe that it is more important that you do what has always brought you joy.”

The stallion seemed unconvinced at first, but he slowly nodded, “I see what you're saying, Doc. I'm not convinced, but you're the expert. So, I'll give it a shot.”

“Excellent!”

* * *

Taking down the 'closed' sign in the window had been easy. Removing the sheets and exposing the entirety of the reception area for the first time in almost three years, that had been hard. Especially Meadow Lark's old desk. Seeing her little bronze name plate sitting there, and knowing that the she'd never need it again...Could he ever bring himself to hire somepony to fill the position? Maybe someday, but certainly not any time soon.

Of course, he needed to do more than take down some little old sign to make it clear to passing ponies that he were open once more. The little business had sat idle for years. Ponies that passed by it frequently had trained themselves to hardly pay it any attention anymore and trotted on by without a second look. The clients they'd once served regularly had found other investigators to handle their affairs. Maybe White Collar could track them down and get them back if he really wanted to, but he wasn't certain how to handle such a conversation so that it wouldn't feel awkward.

“Hey, I'm the stallion that told you your husband was cheating on you that one time, remember? Want to pay me to do it again?”

Ugh...Meadow Lark had always been the one that spoke to their clients. She just had such a way with ponies...

The truth of the matter was that White Collar still wasn't feeling entirely comfortable with Doctor Summer Breeze's idea. He'd never done this sort of thing on his own. There had always been somepony else at hoof. Before Meadow Lark, it had been his mother. Somepony that he could solve the puzzle for. Now it'd just be him, and that felt very weird.

Perhaps if he tracked down where his mother was right now, he could go back to helping her sniff out diplomatic intrigue?

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. There should have been no deliveries coming today. A client? Feeling just a little trepidation, White Collar donned his cowl and went to the door. Jump in hooves first, solve the client's problem, and see if he felt any better about the whole idea, he supposed.

The stallion took a deep breath and opened the door. He balked at the sight of the pony that had come to call on him.

The azure pegasus guardsmare was wearing her armor this time. She was panting, out of breath. At the sight of him, a look of the barest relief flashed across her features, but it was clear that she was upset about something.

“There's been another one, in Laurafauston Garden,” she gasped between breaths. That was right, the Bazaar had indeed been yesterday. A fourth accident, on the heels of the Bazaar. Interesting. White Collar glanced at the sun and noted the approximate time. It coincided with what he recalled from the reports that the mare had brought by during her previous visit. A pattern did clearly seem to exist which related the deaths to one another, but it was such an obscure connection...and with only that and no other clues, it would simply be impossible to come up with any viable solutions.

“This one's different,” the mare continued, “she left a note.”

Now that...was interesting. A note? The victim of a tragic accident left a 'note'? This, White Collar had to see, “show me.”

* * *

A small crowd was still gathered at the scene, being kept back by a trio of armored guard ponies. In the middle of the ring of ponies was the prone, striped, form of a zebra mare. A pair of ponies were standing over the body, one of them brandishing a tombstone on their flank. A coroner, perhaps, White Collar decided. There was no sign of any other medical ponies nearby. If treatment had been attempted, it had come of nothing. The other pony was a gray unicorn stallion who wore no armor, but was still attired in the blue and gold uniform of a Trottingham guard, though with the addition of a purple sash. A sergeant. The pony in charge of the scene.

His pegasus escort lead White Collar to the perimeter. She'd told him what she could of the scene on their way over, but it hadn't been much. Apparently, there had not been much to tell, as all of her information was coming from the accounts of a few witnesses who hadn't really known what to make of what they'd seen either. According to what the ponies had all reported, the zebra had stumbled into view in a bit of a panic. She was fighting with the stopper of some bottle or other, mumbling about something being wrong. She finally got the bottle open, drank the contents, and them promptly went into a fit on the ground.

She was dead in less than a minute. No marks on her, nopony near her. She had simply drunken the elixir she was carrying, collapses, and seized on the ground for a brief period. Honestly, this case sounded very different from the others. The timing not withstanding, it didn't appear at all that much like an accident. Perhaps the scene itself would yield more clues.

The guardsmare's progress was unhindered as she passed the other ponies securing the scene, but White Collar found himself stopped by the outstretched hoof of one of them, “no civilians.”

“He's with me,” the pegasus insisted urgently, “he's a consultant.”

The other guard frowned, but lowered his hoof and allowed the white stallion to pass. The brief commotion drew the attention of the sergeant however, who turned a critical eye to the pair, “a 'consultant'? Sundancer, who authorized you to bring a consultant in on this?” the irate stallion stepped closer, his stern gaze jumping between the now apprehensive pegasus and the cowled earth pony with her. His gaze narrowed slightly when he finally got a good look at the newcomer, “wait...I recognize you. White Collar, isn't it? You're a PI.”

The cowled pony nodded, “I am. Miss...Sundancer here asked me to come a take a look at the scene. She seems to think it may be related to some other incidents.”

The frown on the sergeant's face deepened and he favored the azure pony with a cold stare, “Oh, those. I see. We'll have a talk about that later, guardsmare,” the pegasus winced. To White Collar, he added with a sigh, “well, you may as well look around now that you're here. I don't know about being connected to anything, but it is certainly a curious incident.”

“In what way?” White Collar pressed, following the other stallion nearer to the body.

“Well, by all appearances, she poisoned herself,” the gray stallion stated, “which is odd, because that's not the sort of thing that most ponies do in public. Suicides aren't that common, but when it's a mare doing it, they do tend to go the poison route. But they do that in bed or sitting in a comfortable chair at home. In public like this, that's odd.”

“Why do you think it was a suicide?” White Collar asked. They'd reached the body now, and the white stallion looked down at the mare. Her eyes were still open, staring off in shock. She'd been foaming at the mouth when she died. Her limbs were slightly contorted, and there were a myriad of grooves carved into the ground around her. The zebra's hooves were badly scuffed as well. She had indeed seized quite violently before dying. Nearby, he spotted the bottle that witnesses had reported her drinking from. He bent lower to look at it more closely.

“Seems pretty obvious,” the sergeant said, “she died right after drinking that stuff, whatever it is. We can't read the label, probably some zebra language. Who knows what sorts of things they mix up.”

White Collar poised a hoof over over the bottle and looked back up at the other pony, “may I?” he was given permission to disturb the scene. Apparently, they'd felt that everything that could be learned from its disposition had been. He rolled the bottle in order to get a better view of the label. He grunted as he read the words upon it. He then picked it up and sniffed at the opening. A frown creased his features. He upended the bottle onto the back of his hoof, splashing a couple of the remaining drops onto his coat, which he then lapped at with his tongue, prompting a terrified look from the other nearby ponies.

“What are you doing?! That's poison!” the sergeant cried out in alarm.

“It's grape juice,” White Collar stated dryly, turning the bottle over in his hooves once more, to look at the label.

“Grape juice?” the sergeant echoed, his face contorting into a look of confusion, “how does grape juice kill somepony?”

“She probably has a grape allergy,” the white stallion ventured, “not her fault. She thought this was Jennadryl. Which is an allergy medication,” he tossed the bottle to the startled guard sergeant and went back to looking over the body once again.

“You can read zebra?” this asked by the azure mare, Sundancer, who sounded a little impressed by the revelation.

“I can, yes,” White Collar replied without looking up from his examination, “but that's not zebra. It's donkey. My guess is that there's a small pharmacy run by a donkey in the direction this mare came from.”

“There is, yes,” the sergeant confirmed in a slightly bewildered tone as he looked over the bottle himself. Then he shook his head, “wait, so you're saying this mare had an allergic reaction to an allergy medicine?”

“No,” White Collar corrected with a frown directed at the sergeant, “she had an allergic reaction to grape juice. She just thought it was an allergy medicine. That bottle was grossly mislabeled.”

“So,” this time it was the pegasus who spoke, “she was trying to treat her grape allergy?”

“Why would she?” the stallion asked with a pointed look, “she hadn't drunk any grape juice yet. No, she was trying to treat some other allergy. She thought she'd ingested...something that she was going to react badly to. The question is, what...” his words trailed off as his eyes fell to the ground near the zebra mare's right foreleg. There were gouges in the ground here too, but these seemed deeper and more orderly. He drew his head back slightly to get a better look at the entire image. A glyph.

He pointed at the spot on the ground, looking at the pegasus mare, “the message?”

“We think so, but none of us can read it,” Sundancer answered with a nod.

“Actually,” the sergeant interjected, a smug expression on his face, “I took a year of zebra in school,” he stepped over and pointed a hoof a the glyph etched into the ground, “it says, 'tart', but I think she wasn't finished. If you put a couple more lines over here like this...you get, 'tartarus'. She was apparently convinced that something in Tartarus wanted her dead,” he regarded the two of them with a satisfied expression.

White Collar frowned silently at the sergeant for a moment, “I'm sorry, what's your name?”

“Sergeant LeTrod,” the gray stallion said.

“Sergeant LeTrod,” the white earth pony echoed with a nod, “no. I'm afraid that's wrong. Zebras write their glyphs from the top to the bottom. She wouldn't have skipped those lines if she'd died halfway through writing it. She'd have skipped these,” White Collar pointed at the bottom of the etching, “she was writing, 'tart'.”

“Why wold her last message be a pastry?” Sundancer asked.

“I don't know,” White Collar admitted, his eyes looking over the scene once more. A smile started to tug at the corner of his mouth, “but I can't wait to find out,” he regarded the sergeant once more, “you said that there was a donkey-run pharmacy just up the street?” the gray pony nodded, “I'm going to go pay him a visit. I also want the names and addresses of the witnesses,” he then focused his gaze on the coroner pony who who thus far been watching the exchange with quiet interest, “you'll need to do a full autopsy on her. Pay close attention to her stomach contents. She thought she'd eaten something that didn't agree with her, and I want to know what it was. Send a copy of the full report to my office. The Guard has it on file.

“Come on, Miss Sundancer,” he glanced back at the pegasus mare, the smile broadening into a grin, “we have a suspect to question!”

He didn't wait for the mare to acknowledge his statement, the cowled stallion merely took off at a stiff gallop. The guardsmare gaped for a few short seconds, then smiled sheepishly at her sergeant and the other gaping guards, “I should, uh, got keep an eye on him,” and then she fluttered off after the pony she'd brought onto the case.

What Free Range Had to Tell

Free Range Pharmacy. A tidy little apothecary nestled between a hardware/clothing store—Nails and Bows—and a kitchen/lawn emporium—Plates and Patios. Beneath the sign displaying its name, the drug store's owner had scrawled out what he had no doubt presumed to be a rather clever slogan to entice customers: 'I got the pills for all your ills!'

White Collar stepped through the door, activating a little bell that was hung above it, and found himself in considerably tight quarters. Boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes littered the floors around the shelves. It was nearly impossible to make any progress through the aisles. Fortunately a path had been cleared out that lead to the store's counter.

“Hold on,” a voice called from somewhere in the store, “I'll be right there!” this was immediately followed by the sound of something heavy and fragile crashing to the floor and a stream of curses. The cowled stallion exchanged a look with the armored pegasus hovering at his side as a series of explicative and crashes grew ever closer to the counter. The noise soon culminated in a very haggard looking donkey with a red mane and beard bursting out of the back room behind the counter. He threw a final parting glare at the offending portal and then smiled pleasantly at the pair of pony customers.

“Good morning! My name is Free Range and I run this fine establishment!” he greeted them pleasantly enough, “how may I help you fine ponies?”

“We're here to ask you some questions about a customer you had earlier today,” White Collar began.

The donkey immediately frowned, sensing that he was unlikely to see a sale resulting from this encounter, “I'm sorry, it's against my policy to discuss my customers' conditions with anyone who isn't their physician,” his eyes darted to the hovering blue pegasus, “even the Guard.”

“I just need you to confirm that a zebra mare came in here earlier,” the stallion continued, “perhaps just an hour or two ago?”

“Uh...yeah,” the donkey supplied hesitantly, “a zebra did come in here. She made a purchase—confidential, mind you—and left,” he paused for a moment, “why?”

Sundancer found her way into the conversation now, slamming a hoof down on the counter, “are you aware that fraud is a serious crime in this town? Especially when it comes to selling fake medicine?” she glared at the pharmacist.

“Woah! Wait, what?” the ginger donkey through up a hoof to fend off the accusation, “hey, all my medicine is completely authentic. It's all certified for sale by the Equestrian Drug Administration,” he glared at the pair of them now, “why, what's she telling you? If she's not satisfied with her purchase, then all she needs to do is come back and return it,” he ducked behind the counter for a moment. He emerged with a small slip of paper, which he put on the counter, “I offer a seven day return policy on all my stuff. I even still have her receipt. She didn't take it with her.”

White Collar drew the piece of parchment nearer to have a closer look at it while Sundancer continued with her questions, “you sold her grape juice,” the pegasus said, scowling at the pharmacist, “but you labeled it an Jennadryl. That sounds like fraud to me.”

“Huh?” the donkey balked, his eyes wide, “no, that can't be...” he turned around, facing a large stack of shelves. His hooves frantically plied at several of the bottles on the cluttered horizontal racks until he found what he was looking for. When he turned around again, it was with a rather obviously embarrassed look on his face and an unmarked bottle held in his hoof, “oops. I, uh, wondered what happened to that.”

“What do mean?” the guardsmare demanded.

“I, um, may have accidentally given her my breakfast,” the donkey admitted wanly. He set the bottle on the counter and sighed, “I've just been so distracted this morning, I must have put the label on the wrong bottle when I was getting it for her. That's never happened to me before, and I'm really sorry about it,” the donkey rubbed the back of his head, looking up at the hovering guard, “she didn't have to get the Guard though. Tell her to come in and I'll give her a full refund and a gift card.”

White Collar and the pegasus exchanged looks, and the cowled pony spoke up next, “you say it was a mistake?” he reached for the bottle on the counter and removed the stopper. The odor that wafted out was clearly pharmaceutical. This was indeed the Jennadryl.

“Well, yeah,” the donkey confirmed, “I've just been so busy trying to get all this sorted,” he waved an annoyed hoof in the direction of the assorted creates and boxes, “I guess I wasn't paying as close attention as I should have.”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” the white stallion prompted, “you seem to have a lot of inventory...”

“A delivery order got screwed up. I asked for a couple bottles of some stuff yesterday at the Bazaar, and this morning they delivered a dozen crates of every drug I carry! Where am I supposed to put all of this?!” the donkey was very clearly frustrated by the situation.

“Why didn't you send it back?” the pegasus ventured.

“I tried! The delivery mare said that she didn't do returns, and that they couldn't have somepony out her until tomorrow,” he snorted at a nearby pile of boxes, “so now I'm stuck with this stuff all day. I can barely get around my own store! I didn't have anywhere to put my breakfast, so I set it on the shelf for a bit until I could clear some space, and that's when this zebra bursts in, screaming about being poisoned or something and asking for the strongest stuff I got-”

“Poisoned?” Sundancer jumped on the word, flying right up into the donkey's face as she cut him off. She took hold of him by the withers, leaning in close, “she said she'd been poisoned?!”

“Ah!” was the pharmacist's startled exclamation at the sudden invasion of his privacy. He took a half step back and cleared his throat, “okay, well, no, not exactly. But you'd have thought it by the way she was acting...”

White Collar reached out and drew the pegasus mare back the to their side of the counter and looked calmly at the donkey, “what did she say, exactly?”

Free Range frowned and thought for a moment, “that...she'd eaten something very bad, and it felt wrong. She was asking me if I had all these weird herbs and leaves, but, like I said: I only carry certified stuff. I asked her if she'd eaten something she was allergic to, she said, no, but that it was doing bad things to her. So, I gave her the best stuff I had for a food allergy, just in case.

“It has minimal side affects,” he defended, “why, is she alright? It's not my fault I don't speak zebra and her equestrian wasn't that good. I tried to help as best I could.”

“She's dead,” White Collar informed him.

The donkey's face grew pale as the blood drained from his features, “what?! No, that's not possible! Jennadryl has no side affects that bad, and it's been ruled safe for zebras!”

“She had a grape allergy,” the stallion supplied. He pointed at the bottle on the counter, “you never sold her the Jennadryl, remember?”

“Grape...? But...” the donkey slumped to his haunches, his face a mask of sorrow, “...it was a mistake,” his eyes went to the guard still hovering near the counter, “it was an accident! I didn't mean for that to happen! How was I supposed to know she was allergic to grapes? I meant to sell her the Jennadryl!” he was in near hysterics by the end.

White Collar put his hoof up, “it's alright, Mr. Range. It was an honest mistake, you're not being accused of anything. We're just investigating,” the pharmacist seemed to calm done slightly, but he was still clearly upset by the revelation of having inadvertently contributed to the death of the zebra mare, “another guard will be by later to take a statement from you. Tell them exactly what you've told us, and anything more you can remember about the mare.

“Relax. You're not being accused of anything,” the donkey looked up at the pegasus, who slowly nodded her own confirmation of White Collar's statement, “thank you for your time,” he turned to leave, and then paused for a moment, looking down at his left leg. His eye went back to the pharmacist, “I don't suppose you have anything for joint pain?”

Once outside, Sundancer landed beside the cowled stallion as and kept pace with him as they strode back through town, “you really don't think he had anything to do with this?”

“He didn't mean to kill her,” White Collar supplied, “you heard him, she came into his shop because she'd already believed she'd eaten something questionable. The grape juice was an accident.”

“How can you be sure?” the Pegasus asked him, skeptical, “he's a pharmacist. He'd know about the allergies of his customers. Maybe he meant to give her grape juice, knowing it'd kill her.”

“Have you ever smelled Jennadryl?” the stallion inquired, “it doesn't smell anything like grape juice. In fact, nothing smells anything like grape juice. If you had such a severe allergy to something, you'd know exactly what that thing smelled like in order to avoid ever accidentally eating or drinking it.”

“Well, obviously that zebra did drink it,” Sundancer pointed out.

“She was panicked, because she had already believed herself to be in danger. Multiple witnesses saw her fighting with the stopper of that bottle in the garden. Whatever it was that had her so anxious, it happened before she went to the pharmacy,” the stallion thought for a brief moment, his eye darting about as he searched his mind for further clues that they'd encountered. There was a case here, and some malevolent force at work. Somepony had set this in motion, while managing to make it look like an accident. But that zebra had sensed something was amiss. She'd noticed something.

What had she noticed?

“We need to know where she'd been,” White Collar concluded, “her personal affects. Where would they be?”

“Probably at the garrison by now,” the pegasus said.

“Then that's our next stop.”

* * *

This was going to be harder than White Collar had thought. He had hoped, in vain as it turned out, that he would find something among her varied possessions that would connect her to a member of the community. Most murders were committed by somepony that the victim knew. Once they discovered whom she had ties to, they could start working backwards to find links with the other victims. Unfortunately, it seemed that was not going to happen here. The zebra mare's possessions amounted to some jewelry, receipts, a little bit of money, and a train pass.

“She was supposed to leave this afternoon,” White Collar noted, looking at the ticket, “and it seems that she only arrived the day before yesterday. She was only in town for the Bazaar. Nopony here knew her,” the stallion deflated slightly, feeling that he'd hit yet another wall in what was turning out to be a rather frustrating case.

“That's a long way to come for a little shopping,” Sundancer noted, looking more closely at the various receipts. White Collar had already combed through them.

“Trottingham's relatively close to Zebrica, all things considered. You said yourself the Bazaar features merchants from all over Equestria. If you were looking to get Equestrian goods from all over the nation while keeping your trip as short and as cheap as possible, then it only makes sense to come here,” the cowled stallion looked at the ticket once more. Round trip, one passenger. She hadn't been traveling with anypony, or anyzebra.

“The good news,” he noted with a grimace, “is that we know which merchants she dealt with at the Bazaar. Unfortunately, none of them are here any longer.”

“I wonder if she was a florist,” the pegasus mused aloud, noting the purchases.

“A botanist, if anything,” the overwhelming majority of the zebra's purchases had been plants, “only a few of those actually flower, and I think at least one of them is just a root,” which further corroborated the purpose behind the mare's visit. Plants from all over Equestria acquired with just a single visit.

He was staring to believe that it indeed had all just been an accident. Perhaps the mare had managed to mistakenly eat something toxic which freaked her out—one of the plants she'd bought, perhaps? Then a flustered pharmacist had passed her a drink she happened to be allergic to, which she had drunk without thinking—who genuinely expected to find grape juice in their just-bought bottle of medicine? A series of unfortunate events, with no true malice behind them...

...that coincided with a time of death that just happened to be predicted, almost down to minute, by the pegasus sitting beside him.

That was what galled him so much. If this had been an isolated case that somepony had passed him out of the blue, White Collar would have laughed in the pony's face. It was obviously just a convoluted accident. But that Sundancer had been able to predict that somepony would die the morning after the Bazaar in such an odd fashion: an allergic reaction to what she'd hoped was an allergy medicine—which, he supposed, may actually have been truly ironic.

It had to be orchestrated. It couldn't be, but it had to. If White Collar ever met the pony responsible, he resolved to shake their hoof and profess his admiration. It may be completely reprehensible, but their methods were truly brilliant, whatever they were.

“At least we know who to talk to when the Bazaar comes back around next month,” the pegasus pointed out, nodding to the receipts that she was still looking at, “maybe we can retrace her steps and learn something.”

White Collar frowned, “asking a group of merchants if they remember a single customer from a month ago that they may have only dealt with for two minutes?” he shook his head, “they'll be no help by then.

“We need meet them in Manehattan. You said that there was a Bazaar there on the eighth, correct?”

“Yeah,” the guardsmare confirmed.

“Will the same merchants be there?”

“I don't know,” she admitted, “maybe.”

“It's worth checking out,” the stallion decided, “I'll buy the tickets tomorrow for the seventh. It'll give us time to get settled in before the Bazaar. Make certain that you bring copies off all the other reports. The victims have to be connected somehow, and maybe that means that some of those merchants recognize them as well. Make certain the coroner doesn't forget to send me that copy of the autopsy.”

“Woah, wait,” the pegasus put the receipts down and regarded White Collar, “'us'? You want me to come?”

“It's your case,” the stallion shrugged, “the whole reason we're even doing any of this is because you saw the pattern. Why shouldn't you come?”

The mare rubbed the back of her head, considering the proposal, “I guess I can put in for some leave or something,” she certainly wasn't going to be able to cite taking this trip for the purposes of furthering the investigation. They still had no firm evidence that the zebra's death was anything more than a tragic accident, to say nothing of connecting it to the other deaths in the past three months. Sergeant LeTrot was hardly a fan of her theory.

“Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make certain that I clear this trip with my therapist, as it will cause me to miss our next session.”

* * *

“Two weeks into your court-ordered therapy, and you already want to get out of a session?” the unicorn's tone was rather stern, matching the content of her words. However, the amused glint in her amber eyes suggested that she was willing to at least entertain any reason that White Collar might give.

“I'm hoping that I can postpone it,” the stallion said, “something's come up, and I need to be in Manehattan next week.”

“Something personal?”

“A case actually.”

This got Summer Breeze's attention, and she sat up a little straighter behind her desk, “you're working again already? That was quick. I must admit that I'm impressed. My patients rarely act on my suggestions so quickly.

“Is it anything you can talk about?”

White Collar thought for a moment. Normally, the answer to such a question would be an obvious, 'no'. Cases being worked on by the Trottingham Guard were confidential until Captain Gold Peak or the Mayor issued an official statement. However, in this instance, there wasn't an active case. Sundancer's sergeant had decided that none of those deaths were anything more than mere accidents. Which meant that White Collar could discuss any details he wanted with whomever he wanted to.

“I'm helping a guard who feels that there's a serial killer in Trottingham.”

“Oh my, I hadn't heard anything about that,” the mare seemed genuinely concerned.

“There's no real evidence at the moment,” the stallion assured her, “it may be nothing. But that's why I need to go to Manehattan. I don't want to skip the session entirely, I can see you on the tenth.”

Summer Breeze thought for a brief moment, “it should be fine. You're abiding by the treatment I suggested, so I suppose it would be contradictory of me to keep you from going. I'll put you down for the afternoon of the tenth.”

“Thank you.”

“Investigating a murderer seems rather ambitious for your first case in nearly three years,” the unicorn's tone danced between concern and respect. In retrospect, perhaps such a case was rather much to take on, given that White Collar hadn't engaged in such work for years. Even when he had been actively working, violent cases were very rare. This may even have been the first serial killer he had ever tried to track.

But, it did occupy his thoughts almost fully. Memories of the valley ambush and his dead wife hadn't bothered him all day. Whether a case came of his visit or not, the pursuit was accomplishing what it was supposed to so far. And it was fun.

“A tough puzzle is the best way to see how rusty I've become,” White Collar assured the unicorn with an easy smile.

“I'm just worried that you'll get discouraged if you don't make the kind of progress you're used to.”

The cowled stallion's smile broadened, “I don't get discouraged; only more determined.

“If you say so,” she didn't sound entirely convinced, but Summer Breeze was also reluctant to stand in the way of one of her patients following her advice, “enjoy your trip,” the therapist said with a warm smile, “and good luck.”