Chapters Hold Still, You've Got Stars in Your Eyes
The mare was the first customer of the day, Coco Pommel reminded herself. And it was already past noon. Coco sat behind her small wooden desk, trying not to fidget as the other pony inspected her dresses. Coco's boutique was tiny, and she couldn't afford much fabric, so there wasn't a whole lot for the blue-coated unicorn to look at, but the she seemed intent on studying every dress down to the last seam. A small part of rebelled against the idea that her dresses were being judged by a pony who was wearing what, in Coco's opinion, was the most garish and tacky combo of a pointed purple hat and cape. But she was also the first customer of the day, and yesterday there hadn't been a single customer, and there was a stack of unpaid bills in the top drawer of Coco's desk, so Coco struggled to not say anything as the unicorn pushed through one of the two racks of dresses in the shop for the fourth time. But the silence was stretching long and awkward, so she at last cleared her throat.
“Are you sure I can't help you with something?” Coco asked.
“You can help me,” said the unicorn, not turning her head, “in a minute.”
Coco suppressed a sigh, and the awkward silence awkwardly resumed. She was no stranger to the general rudeness of ponies in the fashion industry, but it still made her feel intimidated and uncomfortable. She was also not entirely sure if the caped unicorn was, in fact, a member of the fashion industry. The aloof attitude was certainly there, but even though she was spending an awfully long time inspecting Coco's dresses, Coco was beginning to get the sense that it wasn't with any amount of discernment.
Abruptly, the unicorn turned to Coco. Her expression was strangely intense, and Coco reflexively leaned back a little in her seat.
“I saw your name, Ms Pommel,” the unicorn said, “listed in the program of Hoofloose. It said you were the costume designer.”
“Um. Yes. But I'm don't just do costumes. In fact, most of my designs are for everyday—”
“I'm not interested in that,” interrupted the other pony. “I'm interested in costumes. I'd like to hire you to make the costumes for my new show. My name is Trixie Lulamoon.”
“Oh,” said Coco. Her heart sank a little. The Hoofloose job that Rarity had recommended her for had been her first job as an independent designer. In fact, it had been her only real success so far. The boutique was in the tank, and all of her letters to the Manehattan fashion magazines had gone unanswered. But she didn't want to get pigeonholed as a costume designer, and she thought about just flat-out declining this “Trixie,” who didn't look all that reputable anyway. She glanced at the drawer where the bills waited, though, and a little voice in the back of her head repeated that Trixie was, after all, the first costumer today, and yesterday there had been none, and the day before that...
“Um, what is the show, exactly?” asked Coco.
“It is a theatrical piece of my own authorship,” said Trixie, raising her muzzle in the air and lifting a hoof, “to be performed as the centerpiece of this year's Grand Galloping Gala.”
“The Gala?” Coco perked up at that. Some of the most important ponies in the fashion industry went to the Gala. If she was there, even as a costume designer, she could do some major networking. She licked her lips. “I don't know, I'll have to think about it.”
“Here's what I'm willing to pay you,” said Trixie, and with a glimmer of magic she pulled a slip of paper from inside beneath her hat and passed it to Coco.
Coco's eyes widened when she read the figure. “I—wow. That's, um, very generous, Ms. Lulamoon. I think that, um, that is—”
Coco looked past Trixie, to her tiny shop and her unsold dresses, to the dust on the windows and the notebooks filled with unrealized designs. A peculiar tightness gripped her chest.
“I'm going to be honest with you, Ms. Lulamoon,” said Coco, casting her gaze downward. “I don't think I'm the pony you want for the job. This sounds like an awfully important play, and I haven't had much success as a designer.”
“Oh, you don't have to worry about that,” said Trixie, waving a hoof. “You won't have to make a single decision, just make the costumes how I tell you to. I've looked at your dresses and you're an excellent. What's the word. Seamstress.”
“Oh. Uh.”
“I have complete confidence in you,” said Trixie, already turning to leave. “Meet me at Celestia Square tomorrow morning, let's say 8 o'clock. And pack lightly.”
“I—what? Pack? Where am I going?”
“To Canterlot, of course!”
Coco had a hundred more questions, but Trixie was already gone, the jangle of the little bell above her shop door the only evidence that the unicorn had even been there. Coco blinked, unsure of what exactly had just happened and what she may have just agreed to. But her eyes fell again on the slip of paper still resting on the counter, and on the absurdly high number that was written on it.
For the first customer of the day, it wasn't that bad.
The early morning sun cast long shadows across Celestia Square. Manehattan was always busy, and Coco was used to threading her way through the crowd of commuters and tourists, despite her heavy saddlebags. It didn't take long to find Trixie—the purple hat and cape stood out among the tailored suits and designer dresses.
Coco had considered simply not showing up. The entire prospect seemed dubious, and she didn't know who or what this Trixie character was about. She also didn't like the prospect of picking up shop and moving to Canterlot—granted, business couldn't be any worse there than in her current tiny shop, but she liked a certain amount of familiarity in her life. She had decided, though, that she at least owed it to Trixie to tell her that she had changed her mind. And she had made sure that her store and her apartment were securely locked, just in case.
Trixie waved at her. “Let's get going, Miss Coco,” she called. “We've got a long day ahead of us!”
“Actually,” said Coco, as she trotted up to meet Trixie, “I wanted to talk to you about the whole, um, Canterlot thing. If I'm going to take this job—”
“You're not having second thoughts, are you?” Trixie frowned at her.
“Well,” said Coco, scratching her a hoof against the pavement, “I mean, I looked it up, and the Gala isn't going to be for another three months, is it? Being away from my shop for so long is an awful inconvenience, and—”
“Which is why I'm paying you so much.”
“Right, right. But is it necessary for me to be there so early? I mean, wouldn't it be easier for me to make the costumes here, and then mail them to Canterlot? Or I could even bring them out myself, closer to the Gala.”
“Impossible.” Trixie shook her head. “I'll need you on hoof at all time. This is a constantly evolving show, Ms. Pommel, and you need to be ready to make any alterations as they are needed. Besides, there wouldn't be any way for me to communicate with you on the road.”
“On the—” Coco blinked in confusion. “On the road?”
“As you said, the Gala is in three months. I don't expect that we'll arrive more than a day or two ahead of time. My plan is to take my wagon on the road from here to Canterlot and perform in towns along the way, tweaking the show as necessary, and hiring the rest of the production crew. I was hoping to have found more ponies before we left Manehattan, but time is running short.”
“You're—I—what? Wagon?”
Trixie gestured to a garishly colored wagon parked on the street behind, which Coco had assumed was some street vendor's cart. Now that her attention was drawn to it, she saw that it had the words “TRIXIE THE MAGNIFICENT” written on the side in bold, glittering letters.
“Don't worry,” said Trixie. “You won't have to do much of the pulling.”
“That's crazy,” Coco said, backing away from Trixie. “You're crazy, aren't you?”
“Now see here!” said Trixie, stomping a hoof in anger. A few pedestrians turned to look at the arguing mares. “Do you want the job or not, Ms. Pommel? I'm a very busy pony with a long road ahead of her, and if you're not interested, then stop wasting my time!”
“But—isn't there, I don't know, a more conventional way for you to put on your show?”
“Conventional!” Trixie snorted. “I don't give a hayseed about 'convention'! I am Trixie the Magnificent! I make my own conventions!” With a flourish of her cape, Trixie jumped up and perched on a fire hydrant. She loomed over Coco. “Theater is a living art, and my play yearns to be freed from its confining walls! I mean to speak to the very soul of Equestria—how can I do that if I keep myself shut away from the ponies of this kingdom, scribbling away in some dark office?” A small crowd had gathered around them. Coco was scanning around her nervously, looking for an escape route. “What kind of pony are you, Ms. Pommel? Are you not the kind of pony who loves art, who loves adventure, who wants to grab life by it withers and live it to the fullest?”
Coco didn't think she was that kind of pony at all. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who ran away from Trixie and her crazy cart and her crazy play, and closed the blinds and hid under her covers. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who gave up on her silly plan to become a fashion designer, what was she thinking anyway. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who went and became an insurance salespony, or an accountant, or some other boring, safe profession where you didn't have to deal with mad blue unicorns in purple capes who wanted to drag you halfway across Equestria so you could make dresses for a play that probably didn't even exist.
“I—”
She shuffled her hooves.
“I—”
Trixie squinted her eyes.
“I—”
The crowd leaned forward, holding its collective breath.
“I—I mean, I don't—that is to say—”
But ad she stammered and stuttered and hesitated, a tiny voice spoke in the back of her head. It was a voice she had heard before, just twice. It sounded like her own voice, only it never stammered or stuttered or hesitated. It was insistent, and confident, and brash. It had spoken to her twice before, once when she had left her quiet village to become a fashion designer in Manehattan, once when she had quit working for Suri and struck out on her own. Now, as before, it said just two words.
Do it.
Coco sighed. “Well, okay. I'll do it.”
The crowd erupted into cheers, and then dispersed immediately. Trixie smirked, doffed her hat, and then turned back to her cart. “Hurry along then,” said the unicorn, “we've got a long road ahead of us.”
The sweat wasn't so much dripping down Coco's forehead as it was streaming. The day was not unbearably warm, but the strain of pulling the cart made it feel like she was on fire. She didn't consider herself some dainty city slicker—fashion designer or no, she came from hefty Earth Pony stock, had grown up on a farm, and was no stranger to physical labor. But Trixie's wagon was heavily laden. It seemed that the unicorn's admonishment to pack light had been a necessity due to the fact that there simply wasn't room for anything else in the cart. Coco's came labored as she dragged the vehicle behind her, and the harness chafed against her chest.
“I—*huff*—thought you said—*huff*—that you would—*huff*—be doing most—*huff*—of the pulling.”
“Don't worry,” Trixie's voice called out from the depths of the wagon. “I will be. Inspiration struck, is all, and I just had to get this down before I lost it. Don't worry, you're doing fine.”
Coco had her doubts. The paved streets of Manehattan had given way to a country highway of packed dirt, but the city skyscrapers still loomed close behind them. It was midday, and they had hardly made any progress at all.
“What exactly is your play about?” Coco shouted back at the wagon, desperate for something to take her mind off her task.
“Oh, it's got a little of everything. Adventure. Romance. Intrigue. It's autobiographical, of course.”
“Is it,” said Coco. “So you've, um, done all that stuff, then.”
“What stuff?”
“The stuff you said. You know. Adventure and, all that.”
“Of course!” Trixie poked her head out of the wagon. “I've traveled all over Equestria, and beyond. Why, I bet that I've seen and done more than any pony alive! Except perhaps the Princesses. But maybe even them, frankly. I get the impression they don't leave Canterlot a lot.”
“Really?” said Coco. “Um, so what kind of stuff have you done?”
“It's all in the play,” said Trixie, disappearing into the wagon again. “Don't worry, you'll see soon enough.”
Coco didn't know what to make of that. She searched for another topic of conversation.
“Um. So, the Gala. Do they know that you don't, um, have a play yet?”
“I have a play!” Trixie shouted.
“Okay, but that it's not, you know. Finished. And that you don't have actors. Or a set. Or anything.”
“I have you! And theater is a living art, Ms. Pommel. A play can change up to and through opening night. Really, all it means that the play is wide open to potential. Anything could happen! Doesn't that thought thrill you?”
Coco was more concerned than anything else. She felt out of control, swept up in Trixie's madness. There's still time to turn back, she told herself. Just drop the harness, tell Trixie to find another costume designer, cuddle up with a cup of cider and the latest Manehattan Vogue, and forget this ever happened.
But the thought of the gala beckoned. Did it matter if Trixie's play was a flop? They would be at the gala, and the kind of ponies who went to the gala would see her dresses, and love them, and she would be in with the fashion elite at last. That was the thought that she had to hold on to. She would drag Trixie's stupid cart across Equestria and back for that chance.
By the end of the day, Coco's legs felt like overcooked noodles. Trixie never did make good on her offer to pull the cart; she spent the entire day inside it, or trotting alongside Coco reading passages from the script for her approval, which Coco responded to mostly with noncommittal grunts. She didn't know what to expect in terms of sleeping accommodations, but she could hardly manage surprise when Trixie told them they would be camping. When sunset arrived, she followed Trixie onto the side of a grassy hill by the roadside, unhitched herself from the harness, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.
“That was a good first day!” chirped Trixie. “We've made some quite good progress, I think!”
Coco wearily lifted her head from the dirt. The Manehattan skyline was still clearly visible on the horizon, the city lights shining through the growing dusk.
“Uh-huh,” muttered Coco, then let her head fall back to the ground and closed her eyes.
By the time Coco found the strength to drag herself to her hooves, Trixie was already bustling around and preparing their campsite. She had set up a campfire and was cooking soup in a banged-up metal pot with what seemed like practiced ease. Coco cautiously approached; the soup smelled surprisingly good.
“I've set up a blanket in some blankets and pillows in the wagon for you,” said Trixie, magically stirring a spoon in the pot. “I'll be out here. Don't worry, I'm more than used to it.”
“Mmhmm,” said Coco. “Listen, Trixie, there's something I need to ask you. You, um, said you would be paying me in advance, and if you don't mind—”
“Oh, of course!” said Trixie, promptly trotting over to the cart and jumping inside. There was a good deal of banging and scraping before she reappear, levitating a large trunk before her. “Let's see here...” she muttered as she set it on the ground and opened it.
Coco's eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. The trunk was almost overflowing with golden bits. She watched wordlessly as Trixie began counting out 100-bit coins, dropping them one by one into a cloth sack with her magic. Finally, she tied it off, passed it to Coco, and closed the trunk.
“There you are,” said Trixie. “That settles it, yes?”
Coco let the bag drop to her hooves. She looked from the trunk of bits, to Trixie's rickety wagon with its faded paint, to the unicorn mare herself, who simply looked back expectantly.
“Who, exactly, are you?” asked Coco. “Where in the name of Equestria did you get all of those bits?”
Trixie raised her snout just a bit. “If you must know, it was a bit of windfall for me. I aided the Manehattan police department in a very important operation, and—well, there were some complications, some misunderstandings, but suffice to say I received a very nice reward from the mayor's office.” She knocked the trunk with a hoof. “And I decided that this was fate. I was going to use these bits to make a name for Trixie Lulamoon beyond cheap stage magic and—well, other things. It's all going to towards the show, every last bit.”
With that, Trixie levitated the trunk back into the wagon. Coco poked the bag with a hoof, still not quite sure what to believe.
She stayed silent through most of dinner. Trixie continued her work on the script—her current concern seemed to be a lengthy monologue halfway through the first act, when the main character (Trixie) leaves the home of her “boring” and “conventional” parents for a life of adventure. Trixie (the writer, not the character) kept asking for Coco's opinions on lines like “the irresistible and magnetic wanderlust that springs forth from the depths of my being” and “the desperate need to forsake the stifling confines of my upbringing”. For her part, Coco sipped at her soup and nodded at whatever Trixie said. It wasn't until the end of the meal that she spoke up.
“Did you really say all that to your parents?” she asked.
“It captures the gist of it,” said Trixie with a wave of her hoof. “I certainly told them off, I can tell you that. They wanted me to go to Celestia's school for Gifted Unicorns, but I told them I wasn't having it! The life of the road, that's what I chose!”
“Hmm,” said Coco. “Well, I think that all might be, um, a bit much for the actor to memorize, honestly.”
“Oh, I'm sure I'll have no trouble,” said Trixie.
“You'll—” Coco blinked, then squinted her eyes at the unicorn. “You're planning on playing, um, yourself?”
“Who else is better for the job?”
Coco looked at the sheets of paper that were now littering the ground beneath Trixie's hooves. From what Coco could tell, Trixie's play was little more than two hours of Trixie performing outlandish and implausible feats, from dragonslaying to swashbuckling to seducing nobleponies, pausing only to receive admiration from minor characters and to tell the audience outright how great she was. It didn't seem to Coco like it was the greatest play in Equestrian history. In fact, she thought that it might be the worst play she had ever seen.
“Thanks for the soup,” murmured Coco. “I think I'm going to bed now.”
“That's probably a good idea,” said Trixie, not looking up from her script. “We've got another long day ahead of us.”
Coco's joints cracked as she stood up and dragged herself to the wagon; behind her, Trixie continued to scribble and scratch at her script in the flickering firelight.
Hold Still, You've Got Stars in Your Eyes
The threadbare blanket Trixie had provided for Coco and the hard wooden floor of the wagon had not made for a good night's sleep, and there wasn't much room to stretch out in between the piles of crates and suitcases that rose to the wagon's ceiling. Coco had peeked inside a few before going to bed the night before; they were stuffed full of old costumes and stage props. If the threadbare, moth-eaten dresses she had looked out were indicative of what she had to work with, it didn't bode well for her task as costume designer. Just another worry to add onto her growing list.
She rose groggily, blinking against the grey dawn light that shone in through the cart's tiny window, and stumbled outside with a heavy yawn.
Trixie, it seemed, had laid down right on the ground next to the fire, her cloak pulled around her like a blanket. The scattered pages of her script were still spread around her, and it looked like more than one crumpled page had been tossed into the fire, which was no more than embers at this point.
Coco frowned down at the sleeping unicorn, then turned to consider the Manehattan skyscrapers in the distance. Her mind went to the bag of bits Trixie had given, now safely stowed in her own suitcase. She wondered how easy it would be to just run off the bits, and leave Trixie here sleeping in the ruins of her own play. The unicorn might just accept the loss and keep going; she had certainly displayed a cavalier attitude toward her own stash of bits. And even if she tracked Coco down, or went to the police, it would be Trixie's word against Coco's. It's not like she had made her sign anything.
Her stomach turned over at the thought. Coco wasn't sure if it was integrity or mere cowardice, but she knew she wasn't the type to run off with another pony's money like that. Her lot was thrown in with Trixie's now, for better or for worse. She only hoped that the prospect of the Gala would be enough to keep her going, and that it would be worth it in the end.
She tried and failed to get the fire going again. In short order, Trixie woke up and groggily told Coco to leave it—they would eat on the road. It wasn't long before Coco found herself back in the harness, and the two of them set off down the road once more, the sun peeking over the city in the distance behind them.
“We should try to make Trottingham by tonight,” said Trixie around a loud yawn. “From there we'll head to the Hollows, stop in Filly Delphia, breeze through Baltimare, head to Dodge Junction, and finally catch the train to Canterlot!”
As Trixie said all this, a parchment floated out of the wagon with a glimmer of Trixie's magic and drifted before Coco's face. It was a map of Equestria, with a bright red line drawing in winding, snaking path from Manehattan to Canterlot, passing through all the places Trixie had named.
“What about here,” said Coco, tapping the map with a hoof, “where you have us going straight over the Foal Mountains?”
“Mmhmm?” said Trixie.
“Is there a road there?” asked Coco.
“I know a few shortcuts,” said Trixie with a wave of her hoof, and the unicorn trotted a bit ahead of Coco, humming merrily to herself.
Coco caught the map in her mouth before it fell to the road. She stared down at the long red line.
The road to the gala was seeming longer by the minute.
As they approached Trottingham, the traffic on the highway became thicker and thicker. The lakeside town, two days by hoof from Manehattan and mere hours by train, was one of the premier vacation spots for the city's wealthy and famous. As the sun began to lower in the sky and dirt highway gave way to cobblestone, the two traveller's pace slowed to a crawl. They were forced to maneuver the cart through the crowd of tourists and street peddlers. Coco struggled not to jostle anypony, while Trixie sat atop the cart and helpfully called out directions down to her.
Trottingham was the sort of place Coco always envisioned herself being, once she had made it as a fashion designer. The whole place reeked of money. Luxurious resorts, sprawling private villas, and elegant restaurants lined every street. The utilitarian grid of Manehattan's layout was absent; here, broad boulevards wove their way around gardens and over hillsides. It seemed that everypony here was finely dressed, cheery, and relaxed. The only place she could imagine that might be more glamorous was Canterlot itself.
The part she hadn't imagined was entering the city sweaty, exhausted, and pulling a rattling cart behind her. Trixie's shouting and the colorful wagon drew more than a few stares, and Coco was beginning to feel extremely self-conscious. She hadn't showered since the morning of the day before. She hadn't looked in a mirror all day, but she was sure her mane was a mess. What's more, she was tired to her bones. The day's pulling hadn't been any easier than before, and this time she had been going on the scant sleep she had gotten on the hard wooden floor of the cart. In short, she felt awful, and she was sure she looked it. She did her best to avoid eye contact with the ponies around them.
“That one! There!”
Coco started, then looked up at Trixie. The unicorn was holding a hoof out, pointing at one of the several hotels on the street they were currently traveling. Coco had no idea what drew her to that particular establishment, but she was also far too tired to care. She craned her neck up to take in the place as she pulled the cart up front. The sign over the door proclaimed it “The Honeysuckle Inn.” Two stories tall and built from dark wood, it had a welcoming enough appearance, though it seemed a bit cozier than some of the larger hotels around it.
“Stay right here,” said Trixie, hopping down from the cart. “I'm going to have a chat with the owners.”
While Trixie disappeared into the inn, Coco unhitched herself from the cart with a sigh. She leaned against the one of the carts wheels and sat down. The Honesuckle Inn was on a hillside, and she could just see the glint of the light from the setting sun reflecting off of Trottingham Lake in the distance. Her aching muscles and the scent of flowers and greenery were bringing up memories from the back of her mind of the days and nights she had spent working her parents' farm. When she closed her eyes, she could see it clearly before her—the fields of wheat and barley and hay, the old barn in a constant state of disrepair, the worn farming tools that littered the yard, and most of all her father.
The silence hung between the two ponies for what seemed like an eternity. Roughshod Fields was a mountain of a stallion, his yellow coat and orange mane perpetually dirty from farmwork. He had been bringing in the last of the days harvest when Coco had confronted him and told her of her plans with all of the courage she could muster. And now he simply stared down at his daughter, still hitched to his wagon, his expression grave and unreadable. Coco did her best to meet his gaze, to not back down, even though she could swear that her legs were shaking.
At last, Roughshod let out a slow breath, and moved forward to embrace Coco. She squeaked in surprise as her father's powerful forelegs pulled her close.
“I've been expectin' this,” he said, “but that don't make it any easier.”
“You—you can't make me stay,” said Coco, still confused, still prepared for a fight. “I've made my decision.”
“I know, lass. I know.”
Coco pulled back. There were tears in Roughshod's eyes, but he was smiling.
“The city's the place for you, Coco. I figger'd that out a long time ago, and to be honest, I'm surprised it took you so long to see it yourself. You've got a gift, with those dresses you make, and you'll never shine like you should if you're cooped up here.”
She had been ready to argue, to insist, to yell like she had a dozen times before. Her father and her hadn't seen eye to eye on several occasions, and Roughshod was as stubborn as an Earth Pony farmer could be. But faced with unexpected success, Coco's plans seem infinitely more daunting than they had before. She drew her father back into the hug.
“Thank you, daddy,” she breathed. “I'll write, all the time, and—and I won't forget you, I'll come back and visit all the time, and, and—”
“Shh. I know. You'll make us all proud, my darling.”
Coco doubted her father would be proud of her now, though. In her letters home, she had recently been skirting the truth more and more. Business was great, she wrote. She was making connections, designing beautiful dressed. No, no need to send any money. I know the farm's seen better years. Yes, I'll try and make it home for Hearth's Warming.
She though about her father. Roughshod was not a pony who let other ponies boss him around. If Roughshod saw his daughter now, being ordered around by a mare as pompous and ridiculous as Trixie, he would be fit to be tied. Coco could hear his deep voice in her ears: Is this why you left us all behind? To be a gopher to some silly unicorn who's going to lead you on a wild goose chase?
“We're in!”
Coco was shaken out of her reverie by Trixie's reappearance by her side. Her troubled thoughts were dispelled by the images of a clean hotel bed and a hot shower.
“You got us rooms?” she asked Trixie.
“Of course not,” said Trixie, brushing past her and sticking her head in the wagon. “We're on a tight budget, we can't afford frivolities like that. We're performing!”
“Performing? Performing what?”
“The show, what else?” Trixie had re-emerged with the dog-eared script floating behind her head. “The hotel bar has an open mic night, and I signed up the play for tonight.”
“But their isn't a play!” said Coco.
“I'll have to do all the parts, of course, and the script's still a little rough around the edges, but it's good enough for open mic night, and maybe we'll attract some ponies interested in joining up with the company.”
Trixie began to pull the wagon around the back of the inn, while Coco trailed behind, still bewildered. “But we don't have props, or, or costumes, and we haven't rehearsed, or—”
“Coco, Coco, Coco,” said Trixie, setting a foreleg on Coco's haunch. “You're new to the theater business, so let me explain something to you. None of that stuff matters! Theater isn't about how good your props are, or how big the venue is. If your heart is in it, and your talent is great enough, the audience's imagination will do all of the work! And believe me, my talent is more than great enough to overcome any deficiencies in this production.”
There was a small yard behind the Inn, where several other carts, chariots and carriages were parked. Trixie gave the bored-looking attendant a few bits and pulled the wagon in, and then with a twirl of her cape, strode confidently back into the Honeysuckle Inn. Her unease growing with every minute, Coco followed close behind.
Coco's tea had gone cold a long time ago. She had thrown a few sugar cubes in it and was stirring it more or less continuously, her spoon making little clinks against the cup, but her stomach was too upset for her to drink it. She had been lucky enough to find a table at the very back of the Inn, where she could lurk in the shadows and not have to make eye contact with the rest of the audience.
Open mic night at The Honeysuckle, as it turned out, did not attract the most talented ponies in Equestria. The poor quality of the acts preceding Trixie's initially brought Coco some relief- after the string of awkward stand-ups, off-key guitarists, and one juggler who dropped his balls on no less than three occasions, Trixie's “play” might not look half-bad.
At least, that was what Coco had been hoping.
To Trixie's credit, she was at least throwing herself into the role—or rather the roles, as she was playing multiple parts. She jumped around the stage, made ridiculous faces and even more ridiculous voices, and in general gave one of the hammiest performances Coco had ever seen, all without the aid of props, costumes, or indeed a set.
At first the audience had mostly laughed, with a smattering of “boo”'s and “get of the stage!”'s, but they pretty quickly settled into indifference, turning back to their drinks and their conversations. Trixie plowed on, but before the end of the first act it was difficult to hear her over the noise of the crowd. Finally, the bartender stepped up onto the stage, interrupting Trixie in the middle of a fight with an imaginary dragon.
“Miss,” he said wearily. “Your thirty minutes are up.”
Trixie glowered at him. “I'm not finished yet!”
“Everyone gets thirty minutes, those are the rules. Come on, the next perfomer's waiting.”
Trixie stomped a hoof, standing her ground. “My play is not finished! If you think—”
“Lady, your play sucks!” a mare called out, and all at once the audience erupted with laughter, hoots and jeers. Trixie glared out and them, mouth working silently, while a few ponies began throwing food at the stage, and Coco slumped lower and lower in her chair. Finally, Trixie stormed off the stage, slamming the back door of the Inn behind her without another word.
As the noise settled down, Coco slipped out of her seat and made her way out the door that Trixie had left through. Night had fallen, and the back yard of the Inn was only lit by a few dim electric lights on the back wall of the building. The noise of the Inn disappeared behind her, and as she walked into the shadowy collection of parked vehicles, she just caught sight of Trixie's cape as the unicorn climbed into their wagon.
No, Coco reminded herself. It wasn't their wagon. It was her wagon. She wasn't a part of Trixie's insane scheme. Or, she was, but not really. She was there for the money, and for the chance to get into the gala. She didn't have a vested interest in the stupid play. She didn't care if Trixie got laughed out of Canterlot.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to go check on her. Coco made her way to the wagon and climbed carefully in.
The interior was lit by the soft blue light of Trixie's horn. The unicorn had her back to the entrance, and was sitting on the floor of the wagon. The script was laid out on the floor around her, and she was once more furiously scribbling at it.
“Um,” said Coco.
“I'm fine,” said Trixie, without turning around.
“Are you alright?” asked Coco.
“I just said that I'm fine!” said Trixie, turning and glaring at Coco, who shrank back a little.
“Um, right,” said Coco. “Sorry.”
Trixie snorted, then turned back to the script. She continued writing, and the minutes stretched on, as Coco stood trying to find something to say.
“That, uh,” she finally managed. “that didn't go very well, did it?”
“What an insightful observation.”
“I was just wondering, if, um. If you needed any help.”
Trixie turned her head again, a single eyebrow raised in an expression of disdain. “I'm quite fine. I just need to write a better script.”
“Heh. You can say that again.”
Coco felt the urge to stick her hoof in her mouth as Trixie's expression darkened. The unicorn didn't say anything, though, and turned her back to Coco once more. Still, she gamely tried to press on.
“Um, and maybe it would help if we had more actors?”
“I tried to get more actors,” said Trixie, through what sounded distinctly liked clenched teeth. “I held auditions back in Manehattan. Rented out a theater for a weekend I thought they went well, even. Then nopony showed up for the callbacks, and I was running out of time, so I went on the road. And here we are!”
“Hmm,” said Coco. She picked up one of the script's pages. “Would you like my advice on the script, then?”
“Ha!” said Trixie, finally turning all the way around to face Coco. “Have you ever written a play?”
Coco's ears flattened, but she managed to meet Trixie's eyes with what she hoped was a measure of defiance. “Well, have you?”
Trixie rose to her hooves and took a single step toward Coco, her nostrils flaring in anger. “You—”
A long moment of silence hung in the air as the two mares stared each other down. Trixie's brow was furrowed with barely restrained anger. Coco could feel herself beginning to sweat and her legs beginning to shake, but she kept her ground. The only sound was the slight creaking of the wooden floorboards beneath their hooves.
Finally, Trixie sat back down with a heavy flood. The unicorn almost seemed to deflate. Her head hung down, and one of the script's pages levitated from the floor to float before Trixie's face. After staring at it for a second, she crumpled it with a growl, then burned the paper up with a burst of magical flame for good measure.
“This is should be easy,” said Trixie. “It should be just like a magic trick. You do something impressive, you make it as theatrical as you can, everypony claps and cheers.”
Coco let go of a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. She joined Trixie amidst the mess of papers and picked on up. “I think, um, you have to be a bit more subtle in a play,” Coco began cautiously. “I mean, in my opinion. For example, don't you think that it's a bit, um, egotistical to write a play that's all about yourself?”
Trixie scoffed.
“No, really. Especially when there's so many spectacular events in the story.”
“I've led a spectacular life!”
“But this is downright implausible!” said Coco, sifting through the papers. “Battles with dragons! Single-hoofedly defeating armies of changelings! Magical duels with princesses! There's some pretty wild stuff out there, I admit, but all of this happening to one pony is a lot of suspension of disbelief to ask your audience. Especially when the pony is so unlikeable!”
Anger flashed across Trixie's face once more.
“I mean the character,” Coco said quickly. “Um, and of course you're likeable! But, um, 'Trixie', as you've written her, is, well. She's too perfect.
Trixie frowned. “How can a character be 'too perfect'?”
“She's boring! She waltzes around the world, instantly adored by everypony she meets. She solves every problem she comes across with a wave of her hoof.”
“She's a strong character,” said Trixie, grabbing one of the sheets from beneath Coco's hooves. “Ponies like strong characters.”
“Ponies like characters they can relate to,” responded Coco. “Trixie—Trixie the character—never has any conflict. Nothing bad ever happens to her, and if it does, it's solved instantly.”
Trixie was staring intently at the sheet in front of her. Her eyes moved back and forth over the lines, as if she was trying to unravel some obscure riddle. Coco felt some of the steam leave her.
“Um,” said Coco. “I mean, that's just, you know, my opinion.”
“No,” breathed Trixie. “No, you're right. You're absolutely right. My play needs more... conflict.”
“Um—” Coco began, but a sound from outside the wagon, like a heavy switch being thrown, distracted.
She poked her head out of the cart's back window. The lot was even darker than when she had come out; the back lights off the Inn had been switched off. The majority of the windows were now dark as well.
Coco pulled her head back in. “I think they forgot we were out here,” she whispered, suddenly conscious of the fact that they maybe weren't supposed to be where they were.
“That's okay,” said Trixie, already bent over her script and writing again. “We'll just sleep out here.”
“What if they catch us?” asked Coco.
“Then they'll throw us out, I expect, in case we're no worse off than if we had left.” She looked up at Coco, who was peeking out of the window nervously. “Oh, relax. Here, just go to sleep.”
Trixie levitated the blanket over to Coco, who lay down and wrapped herself up with some hesistation. She fished an old dress out of one of the suitcases for a pillow. As she settled down, the exhaustion of the day coming over her, she watched Trixie working madly on her play once more. The unicorn glanced up at her briefly.
“Thank you for your help.”
Coco nodded in response, then settled herself in her blankets as best she could, the exhaustion from the long day finally overtaking her.
Hold Still, You've Got Stars in Your Eyes
Breakfast at the Honeysuckle Inn was a spread of buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup, freshly baked sunflower biscuits, and imported Saddle Arabian coffee, all served free of charge to the hotel's guests. Coco was having a hard time enjoying the meal, however, due to the fact that she and Trixie were not, in fact, hotel guest. She was constantly looking over her shoulder in expectation of the hotel staff coming to kick them out.
“Will you 'elax,” said Trixie, her mouth full of pancake. “I do thith thort of thing a' the 'ime.”
“This is wrong,” said Coco as she picked nervously at her own food. “I mean, we're basically stealing, aren't we?”
Trixie swallowed. “They're a fancy hotel, they can afford it. Besides, they owe it to me after the positively rude way I was treated on stage last night.”
“Excuse me?” came an unfamiliar voice from behind them.
“I'm so sorry!” squealed Coco whirling around on her stool and practically falling off of it in the process. “We didn't mean to! I mean, it was her idea!” She pointed a hoof at Trixie. “It was all her idea, I swear!”
An awkward silence fell over the dining area. Ponies all around them were staring at Coco's outburst, including the stallion who had interrupted them. Coco felt the heat rushing to her face, and it was only the paralysis of fear that kept her from bolting from the room right there.
“Can we help you?” asked Trixie, completely nonplussed.
The stallion looked uncertain for a second, but then he grinned. It was an unnerving grin, Coco felt. Entirely too toothy. He was a wine red Earth pony stallion, his unkempt mane a dark brown. His expression seemed eager and friendly, but Coco felt the hairs on the back of her neck just looking at him.
“Hi, my name is Brussel Sprouts. I saw your play last night. It was, um, very good. You said you were looking for ponies interested in joining your play, but then I couldn't find you after the show.”
Trixie's face lit up, but Coco was frowning. “Your name is Brussels Sprouts?”
His smile faltered. “Is that a bad name?”
“It's a perfect name!” said Trixie. “Coco here is just being rude. Please, have a seat!” As Brussels pulled a stool over to their table, Trixie leaned over to Coco conspiratorially. “See, I told you we would find ponies for the show!”
“You said you were going to Canterlot, correct?” said Brussels, leaning over the table. “To the Grand Galloping Gala. That's right, yes? And if I'm part of your play thingie, I'll be there too.”
“Of course!” said Trixie, nodding vigorously.
“Um, Mr. Brussels Sprouts, sir,” said Coco. “What exactly do you do?”
“Do?” he asked with a small start.
“I mean, what would you do, if you were in the play? Are you an actor? A musician? A set designer?”
There was a long, awkward silence. Then, his expression strangely blank, Brussels said, “I apologize. I am from a small village in a very remote part of Equestria, and I do not understand these words. Perhaps you could explain them to me?”
Coco and Trixie exchanged a look. Trixie cleared her throat, then said, “Well, um, it's all a part of theater, you know?”
This was met with another blank stare. Coco was staring to wonder if they weren't dealing with some sort of madpony.
“You see,” Trixie tried again. “There's, ah, a sort of thing called a play, where ponies present a story by acting out roles that are—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Brussels, his toothy smile returning. “The play! From last night! You pretended you were a pony you were not, and then they all laughed at you! Yes, I could do that. I would be very good at that.”
Coco was glad to see that Trixie looked as sceptical as she felt. “Listen, Mr. Sprouts,” said Trixie. “I'm not entirely sure if our company is right for you after all.”
“No!” he nearly shouted. “You have to let me join! Listen, listen to this!” Brussels cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted into an Appleloosian drawl. “'Pardon me, ma'am, but could y'all point a feller in the direction of the nearest waterin'-hole?'”
Trixie's eyebrows rose. “Well, that's certainly a fine accent, but there's more to it than—”
“I can do more! I can do all sorts! I can be pretend to be anypony, anypony at all! I could be a pony from Canterlot—” switching to the refined and precise Canterlot accent— “a pony from Baltimare—” the nasally Baltimare accent— “I can be an old pony—” with a rattling wheeze— “a young pony—” with a high-pitched giggle— “I can be the sweetest mare—” with a feminine lilt— “I can be the toughest stallion—” with a distinct roughness— “I can be you—” an eerily spot-on imitation of Trixie's voice— “I can be you—” Coco's own voice coming from his mouth— “I can be anypony, anypony you need me to be!”
Trixie's face had lit up again, and she was clapping her hooves. “Bravo! Bravo indeed!”
“That was, um, very impressive,” said Coco.
“He's perfect!” said Trixie. “He can be half the cast! All we have to do is throw a different costume on him and he can play a different part in every scene!”
“Trixie, can we discuss this?”
Trixie frowned at Coco, but followed her a few steps from the table and out of Brussel's earshot.
“I don't like this,” said Coco in a low voice.
“What's not to like?” responded Trixie. “He's amazing!”
“He seems like he might be crazy.”
“Oh, all actors are a little eccentric.”
“Did you hear that stuff he said about the Gala? It sounds like—”
Coco stopped herself. She had been about to say 'it sounds like he's only interested in getting into the Gala.' But when she stopped and thought about it, wasn't that the main reason she had agreed to join Trixie's “company”? She glanced uneasily back at the table, where Brussel was still grinning expectantly back at them.
“Something about him makes me really nervous, Trixie.”
“Coco, when you're in the theater business, you've got to learn to trust your instincts. And my instincts say that Brussels Sprouts is completely trustworthy.”
And with that, the discussion was apparently over and the matter decided. Trixie trotted back over to the table to finish up her business with Brussels. Coco joined them only long enough to finish her tea, then headed outside to get the cart ready for another long day of pulling.
A changeling couldn't have asked for a more perfect opportunity.
When Zaprax had been sent on the most honorable—and most dangerous—of missions, the infiltration of Equestrian society, his highest hopes had been to find his way into some local government's office, to find some scrap of strategic information that he could report back to the Hive before he was inevitably caught and executed. But to have found a way to the Grand Galloping Gala—in Canterlot, in the palace of the contemptible pony Princesses—was beyond his wildest dreams. What a blow for Changelingkind! What a disgrace for all of the stupid ponies, what terror would strike their cowardly hearts, when they learned that even in the heart of their silly castle, they weren't safe from the cleverness of the changelings!
Zaprax hadn't figured out what he would actually do once he got into the Gala, but he had time. The ponies were taking a very long route to get to Canterlot. He would have to hide the truth of his nature from them for quite some time. It would be difficult, but he was resolved to the task. The boss pony, who was called Trixie, suspected nothing. When Zaprax tasted her emotions, he found only pride. Her slave, the one named Coco, was more troubling. He could sense her suspicion, a slimy, slippery emotion, not to his palate's liking at all. But he could tell it was only the vaguest, haziest emotion—she didn't see through his disguise at all.
It surprised him, frankly, how unsuspecting they were. In Spy Training, back in the Hive, they had been drilled endlessly on the minute details of Equestrian history and geography. A changeling spy had to be ready at any moment to answer questions to prove that they were a real pony—or at least, so he had been taught. So far, not a single pony had asked him who the seventeenth Duchess of Canterlot had been, or what the population density of Baltimare was. It was almost as if they weren't living in a constant paranoid terror that the ponies around them were shapeshifting impostors.
But Zaprax knew that that was impossible. As shameful as it was to admit that ponies were good at anything, everyone knew that they were extremely good at catching changeling spies. The speed with which the Hive's agents were uncovered was match only with the brutality with which they were disposed. Every year the Hive sent its bravest, most cunning, most resourceful changelings into the enemy's heartland, and not a single one ever came back, or indeed lasted long enough to send more than a few reports. Zaprax's mission was all the more honorable for being a suicide mission.
The Coco pony pulled up alongside him. They had been walking for most of the morning, down the long dirt paths that ponies used to travel between their cities. The Coco pony spent most of the time talking with her master, the Trixie pony, but now the Trixie pony was riding on top of the wagon, writing on her paper. The Coco pony was pulling a very heavy wagon, but she was able to keep up with Zaprax's steady pace. It would have been impressive, if she wasn't a stupid pony and therefore incapable of doing anything impressive or honorable.
“Um, so, Brussels Sprouts...”
Zaprax steeled himself. He was ready; he could recall in an instant the date that Equestria was founded, the exact style and color of Princess Celestia's raiments, and the average yearly rainfall of every major Equestrian city. This was the moment his disguise would be put to the test, and he was prepared for anything.
“...where are you from?”
It was infuriating. The ponies seem almost determined to let his hours of learning their history go to waste, yet insisted on barraging him with personal questions. Spy training hadn't prepared him at all for this. In the Hive, no one asked where you were from. Everyone was from the Hive! The only thing that separated one changeling from another was their rank, and you could tell that just from pheromones.
Ponies, though, seemed to have an endless variety of quirks and personal attributes, and were expected to share such things with each other on a daily basis. He had no one idea how they kept track of their own hometowns and verbal tics and favorite colors, much less those of the ponies around them. More importantly, he had no idea why they cared .
“Um,” he said, thinking quickly. He knew she was trying to catch him in a lie; he had to try and be just vague enough to allay suspicion. “I'm from a small village, north of, um, Las Pegasus. Someplace that it is very unlikely that you have ever heard of.”
“Right,” said Coco.
Zaprax put on his best pony smile. It was the first lesson that you learned in changeling spy training: ponies smiled all the time. He had practiced his smile for hours on end, and it was flawless—except it wasn't having the desired effect. The Coco pony wasn't feeling any less worried, or suspicious.
He would have to resort to drastic measures. He had been taught that ponies participated in a bizarre social ritual called “friendship”. Rather than basing all social interaction on differences in rank and pheromone exchanges, ponies formed relationships based on finding common qualities that they shared. Fortunately, Zaprax was very clever, and had just such a common quality right at hoof.
“So, we are both from a small village. That is relatable, is it not?”
The Coco pony did not smile. She gave him a very deep frown. “How did you know I was from a small town?”
Ponies were very strange creatures indeed. They seemed obsessed with the most pointless details, but then missed the most obvious things.
“Your accent, obviously. Though you have some Manehattan speech patterns (probably affected) your underlying vowel structure indicates that you were raised in the predominately rural Northwestern region of Equestria.”
“Oh!” said Coco. “That's amazing. That's quite the special talent you have there, Mr. Sprouts.”
The compliment meant nothing to Zaprax. Ponies were stupid, and didn't know anything about anything. Why would he care if the stupid Coco pony thought he was amazing.
The Coco pony nodded. “You're right. I grew up in a tiny little town called Haybrook. It was a nice place, but I just dreamed of something bigger, I suppose.” She actually gave Zaprax a small smile. “I imagine that's something else we have in common.”
“It is?” asked Zaprax.
The smile disappeared. “Oh. I'm sorry. Um, I guess I just, um, assumed you had a similar story. You know, because we met you all the way out in Trottingham.”
“Oh!” said Zaprax. “Yes! I mean, yes. I too dreamed of bigger things, which is why I left the tiny village that I'm from, and that you have never heard of before. That place was stifling. Horrible. You wouldn't believe it. Why, you'd have to be some sort of crazy pony to want to live in a place like that.”
They fell into an awkward silence, the only sound the creaking of the wagon wheels behind them. Zaprax cursed himself. Now he was trapped into this lie about a village and a dream, and would have to always keep on his hooves whenever Coco starting talking about it again.
Who knew that being a spy would involve spinning such an elaborate web of lies?
Trixie's plan wasn't to stop and perform again until they got to Hollow Shades, so for Coco the next few days passed by uneventfully. By day she pulled the cart and talked with Trixie about the script, and by night she worked on costume designs in her sketchbook (subject to Trixie's ongoing tweaks and adjustments.) Trixie still wouldn't spring for any rooms, and the countryside was getting less polluted the farther they got from Manehattan anyway, so they spent each night camping. Working by firelight wasn't entirely ideal for her drawing, but for the late Spring their nights were mild and dry, and it was nice to be away from the noise and lights of the city. Coco almost caught herself enjoying herself from time to time.
Brussels Sprouts still worried her. She often caught the stallion giving her and Trixie long, inscrutable stares, and when they camped at night he always seemed to want to sleep a ways from the fire. He seemed mostly agreeable, though, and if he was a little strange, it didn't seem to Coco that he meant any harm. Still, she made sure to sleep with her suitcase close by, and to check each morning that the bag of bits that Trixie had given her was still stowed safely away.
By the time they reached the Hollows, Trixie had reached a manic state with her script. She had been on the top of the wagon all day. Even when the open fields gave way to the think canopy of the forest, she lit up her horn and wrote by the light of her magic.
“And that's done!” cried Trixie about halfway through the afternoon. She leapt off the wagon and began to trot alongside Coco.
“You're finished?” asked Coco.
“It's perfected!” replied Trixie. “I did exactly what you said. Now my protagonist has depth! Relatability! Conflict! The audience is sure to be in tears before the end of the first act! Of course, I was readily inspired by own incredibly tragic childhood.” Trixie's eyes began to mist up. “For you see—sniff—I was unfortunate enough to be orphaned at a very early age. Left alone to fend for myself on the streets of—”
“What about your parents?”
“What?”
“Just the other night, you were talking about the fight you had with your parents, where they wanted you to go to school and you said no. It was in your first script.”
“Oh,” said Trixie. “Those were, um, my foster parents. That came later. Really a minor detail. The part of my life where I was an orphan is much better fodder for the script.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Coco.
“Hear what?”
“That you were an orphan.”
“Oh, yes,” said Trixie. “It was very unpleasant. But it makes for a great play! I'd better go over lines with Brussels, we'll go ahead for a bit so we don't bother you.”
“Can I see it?” asked Coco.
Trixie hesitated for a second. “Well, you see, we're going to be performing tonight, at Hollow Shades. And, um, I was kind of hoping to have the new show be a surprise for you.”
“Oh,” said Coco.
There was a short silence. Coco wasn't exactly sure how to react to that gesture, or what was motivating Trixie to make it. The unicorn didn't seem very keen on saying anything more, either.
“So!” said Trixie. “That's what's going to happen. Now if you'll excuse me, we've got some rehearsing to do.”
Trixie trotted ahead to catch up with Brussels, leaving Coco alone with the cart in the thickening gloom. She could see the two of them just up ahead on the road, occasionally catching little snippets of the lines they were reading back and forth, but for the most part she was left alone with her thoughts.
