A Proper Heath
Admiral Biscuit
After the final bows had been given, the curtain closed, and the audience's hoofstomps faded. The two black-clad stagehooves breathed a sigh of relief: opening night had gone flawlessly.
They shared a high-hoof before trotting down the stairs, eager for the stage manager to give them their release for the night. Visions of removing their sweaty black shirts and unwinding in one of the nearby taverns danced tantalizingly before them, so the last thing they wanted to see was the face of Proper Prim. Unfortunately, that—and the rest of the unicorn—was waiting for them at the base of the stairs.
"That was the worst set-dressing I've seen in years!" She didn't even wait until their hooves had touched the hallway floor. "The farmhouse flat was too far stage right—didn't you see the spikes on the floor? The split-rail fence was backwards, and it wasn't even supposed to be on stage in scene four. And don't even get me started about the flowers!"
The two stagehooves shared a glance and wisely kept their mouths shut. They didn’t want to get her started about the flowers.
"Nothing? Argh!" Proper Prim yanked her glasses down and glared at the hapless ponies. "It's Hinny of the Hills, not Hinny of the Middenheap. When ponies come to see the play, they want to see proper flowers—fresh flowers. They want to smell them. They want the scene to evoke an open heath, not a heap of compost! I don't want to know where you found those flowers, but I want fresh flowers on stage tomorrow—I want flowers so fresh that one of the actors gets stung by a bee."
"There aren't any in town—it's some noble's wedding."
"Yeah. We looked. This was the best we could find. Maybe next weekend—"
"Next weekend? Next weekend, the house will be closed, because the critics will have all panned the show." Proper Prim rubbed a hoof across her forehead and sighed. "I'll get the flowers . . . you're going to be spending all afternoon arranging them. G'wan, get out of here!"
The two stagehooves didn't need any further prompting; they trotted past the set designer before she could find something else to gripe about.
Bright and early the next morning, Proper Prim had boarded the first train to Ponyville. If you want the right flowers, she'd thought, get them from the source. Her muzzle was stuck out the window, her head on a swivel as the the train made its way across the hilly terrain in the direction of Ponyville.
This was hardly her first trip there; much of her set design had been inspired by the traditional Ponyville landscape. She'd spent days prowling the roads around town, studying the color of the homes and the nature of the fallow fields. It had been a pleasant change from the countless hours she'd spent cooped up in the library researching the set for The Honorable Gate.
Just as the train began slowing for the Ponyville station, it rounded a gentle curve, and there in front of her muzzle was the field of her dreams. The heather was in full bloom: a lake of purple blossoms swaying dreamily in the gentle breeze, wafting their heady scent into her coach. For just a moment she thought of jumping out of the window, but luckily for her bones, sanity reared its head, and she remained seated.
There was a mare in the field, and she was sure that if she started asking around at the train station, she could find the field again. After all, this was a small town, where everypony knew everypony.
• • •
From her vantage point, she could have been anywhere. Looking to the north as she was, the field of heather spread in front her, waving cheerfully in the gentle breeze. Ponyville was on her left flank, and Canterlot couldn't quite be seen unless she turned her head right; from her vantage point, there was nothing but nature to be seen. Some ponies might have been bothered by the solitude, but Heather Rose wasn't. Sure, she liked spending time at the market and spa, and she liked gossiping with other mares as much as anypony else, but it was moments like this that made her feel complete—there was nothing ponymade to be seen, only her and her namesake flower.
Her gardening trowel forgotten at her hooves, she just watched her field live. Bees buzzed from the flowers to her hive, doing their part of an age-old dance that would continue long after ponies were gone.
A distant chuffing caused her to look towards Canterlot in irritation. This interruption was routine—trains came by all the time. There were already four a day, and she’d heard that soon there would be another two. That was too many trains for her liking.
She wasn’t opposed to the concept of trains, and indeed, they were convenient when she wanted to visit her family back in Canterlot, but they were just too loud and too sooty. As often as not, the fine ash from the smokestack settled on her field; judging by the way the wind was blowing, today would not be an exception.
She caught the blur of faces peering out the windows as the train roared by, although they went too quickly for her to recognize any of them. Sometimes she wondered who they were and where they were going—and whether they were curious about her, too.
Heather Rose turned her head as the smoke cloud dissipated and settled on her field, briefly masking the scent of the flowers. She hoped it wasn’t thick enough to bother the bees.
She bent down and picked her trowel back up. The weeds wouldn't uproot themselves, and while the heather could fend for itself, it needed a helping hoof to reach its full potential.
• • •
Proper Prim’s mission proved somewhat more difficult than anticipated; whether the result of an honest error or somepony with a weird sense of humor, Prim found herself directed towards the home of a skittish mare who bore a passing resemblance to her. After convincing Daisy that she was not, in fact, a long-lost sister, Prim finally got accurate directions to the heather field on the outskirts of town.
She suppressed a grimace as she knocked on the door of the small house. She could imagine the inside already—rustic would be generous, while ready to be condemned was a real possibility. Of course, nopony answered the door, and Prim flicked her tail in annoyance at her stupidity. It stood to reason that the owner was still out standing in her field: she’d seen her there when the train passed.
Prim took one brief look at her clean Canterlot hooves, and then walked around the house towards the field of heather. Taking care to follow the narrow winding paths through the field, she made her way to the lone earth pony.
The slight breeze must have been blowing in her direction, because she was deep in the field before the earth pony took notice of her, which gave her a good chance to get a look at the mare.
Her mane and tail were a deep rosewood, and—to Prim's mind—rather disheveled. Certainly a contrast to her own manestyle, but about what she'd expect from a farm mare. However, her light magenta coat looked well-groomed, and she even had a sprig of heather for a cutie mark.
"Hello!"
Heather Rose snapped her head around at the sound of the voice. It wasn't somepony she knew, and she spent a moment taking stock of her visitor before answering. The stranger had a carnation pink coat and a lime-green mane pulled back in a loose bun. For an instant she thought Daisy had gotten dressed up for a dance, complete with a fake horn and black-framed glasses. Then the moment passed, and she realized that this was a complete stranger, who was standing in the middle of her field.
She didn't like her already. It was rude to walk in somepony else's flowers.
"Can I help you?"
"Oh, I hope so." Prim pushed her glasses up her muzzle. "I think—I think you may be uniquely qualified to help me." She took a few steps towards Heather Rose and stuck out a hoof. "I'm Proper Prim—Prim to my friends."
"Heather Rose." The extended foreleg was reluctant, and covered to the fetlock in mud.
Nevertheless, Prim bumped it lightly. "I'm a set designer for the Canterlot Community Theater. We're doing a production of Hinny of the Hills. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
Heather Rose nodded slowly. "Wasn't it playing in Manehattan last year? I heard Rarity talking about it at the spa."
"Yes!" Prim smiled. "We were lucky to get rights so soon after they completed their run."
"Did you come all the way out here to tell me about your play?" Heather Rose gave Prim a confused look. "That's nice of you, but—"
"No, of course not." Prim made a sweeping motion with her hoof. "Listen. When one thinks of Hinny, one thinks of the hills and dales covered with heather in bloom." Her ears drooped. "But when they see our production, all they'll see is some sorry wilted weeds that my useless set crew probably found in a dumpster behind a restaurant. It won't evoke anything from the audience, except perhaps pity for Hinny when she sings 'Paradise for Two'. What I want, Miss Rose, is actual heather in bloom. And I want a lot of it."
"A lot?"
"A lot. Let me be perfectly frank: I want my stage to look like your field."
The two mares looked across the field. Heather Rose tried to imagine it reduced, and constrained by the wings of the stage, while Prim saw a simpler artful vision which would make ponies think beyond the confines of the stage.
They stood that way in silence for a minute, the only sounds the quiet drone of bees and whispery rustling of leaves, before Heather Rose broke into a smile. "Come back to the house; I'll make us tea."
• • •
While her host was in the kitchen, Prim glanced around the room. Despite its slightly bedraggled exterior—which, to be fair, was hard to avoid in a half-timbered house with a thatched roof—the interior was spotlessly clean. Almost too clean for a farmhouse. It wouldn't be believable on stage.
Heather Rose, too, was spotlessly clean. She'd rinsed her hooves obsessively on the back stoop, even using a stiff bristle brush on the bottoms to get the stubborn dirt around her shoes and frogs. When she’d finished and proffered the brush, Prim had wordlessly followed suit, then allowed herself to be escorted into a sitting room.
While she was waiting for her host to finish in the kitchen, Prim looked around the tidy room. A framed sepia photograph on the wall caught her attention, and she walked over to get a closer look.
It was a fairly conventional pose, with a mare and stallion bracketing their filly. The stallion was wearing a jacket which looked to be about one size too small for him, while the mare was more demure, and wore her blouse with an ethereal grace. The filly, who was unmistakably Heather Rose, had been caught mid-squirm by the photographer. Of more interest was the building in the background—even from across the room, it had looked familiar, but the address plaque beside the door sealed the deal.
"You're from Canterlot," Prim said as Heather Rose returned, a salver loaded with tea, cream, rock sugar, and biscuits balanced on her back.
"Yes." She reached around and set the tray on the table between them. "But I moved here after primary school. I thought Canterlot was too fake." Her ears fell as she realized what she'd just said, but Prim just let out a hearty laugh.
"My dear Miss Rose, you've hit the nail right on the head. But what better place for a playhouse, eh?"
"Rosie—it's Rosie to my friends."
"Of course." Prim waited until Heather Rose had poured them each a cup of tea. She watched her new friend's motions carefully: it wasn't even a conscious behavior. While Prim would never claim to be an actor, she often had to seamlessly blend into shindigs and hobnob with nobles to secure funding for a show. They always wanted to know what their bits were being spent on, and the surest way to get a polite 'no thanks' was to commit some social faux pas. So she watched, and when her turn came, she added the rock sugar, poured the cream into her tiny cup, and drank it without stirring, just as Heather Rose had.
At first sip, it was dark and bitter, but as the cream and sugar dissolved into the tea, the flavor changed. Much like meeting a new pony, Prim thought. Heather Rose had sweetened into Rosie, and the two made easy small-talk as the two took their tea together.
They didn't discuss business until the cups were empty, but Prim already knew that they would reach a deal together, and they did. Proper Prim went back to the train station in the company of a blue stallion, who was hauling a cart full of fresh-picked heather—she could attest to its freshness, since she'd just helped pick it. Heather Rose found herself many bits richer, with the promise of more to come during the show's run.
It was, Prim thought as the train began its climb to Canterlot, a very successful day: not only did have her flowers, but like any small-town deal, they had also parted ways with personal gifts. The unicorn was six complimentary tickets poorer, and a dozen bottles of heather ale richer. Prim intended to put one of those to good use after she'd finished redecorating the stage, since she couldn't trust the stagehooves to realize her artistic vision.
The show that night was a huge success—she'd even heard weeping during Hinny's heartfelt solo. It would have been just the perfect end to the perfect day . . . except the stagehooves set the fence backwards again.
Author's Note
Special thanks to AShadowOfCygnus and metallusionismagic for pre-reading.
Special thanks to AShadowOfCygnus for coverart
Proper Prim is an OC created by Trombrony98
Steam, Snow, Salt, and Stamps
Heather Rose vs. Luster Lock
Admiral Biscuit
Steam, Snow, Salt, Stamps
Luster Lock looked up in minor annoyance as the bell over her door tinkled. She flipped her loupe up with a wingtip and winced as a blast of cold air whistled through the door.
An adolescent stallion wearing a knit cap and the navy vest of the Equestrian RPO stepped into her store and pushed the door shut behind him. She sighed and slid her current project—a cylindrical-key padlock—to the top of her workbench. She hadn't figured out how to pick it yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Which door?”
He blinked in surprise. “Um, to the mailroom. From the platform. Stamps—“
“Lost the key,” Luster finished. “Again.” She slid her lockpicks into a roll pouch and tucked them under her wing. This time when I make a key, I'm going to make a spare. For me.
But she wouldn't. Not because it was against the rules: she knew as well as any mare that sometimes rules were made to be broken. Instead, she wouldn’t bother because the lock was laughably easy to pick.
“Let's go,” she ordered. She flipped the sign on the window and practically shoved him out the door, closing and locking it securely behind them.
One more leg, and the trip’s over. Coming home after Hearth’s Warming was always bittersweet for Heather Rose: she already missed her family, but she longed to be back home.
She shifted around on her bench and glanced up and down the coach. A few new ponies had boarded, but nopony she recognized. Up in front, a foal started squalling, and she pinned her ears back.To think, I thought he was cute when his mother brought him aboard.
His shrieks were answered by the howl of the locomotive's whistle. She felt the familiar jerk as the locomotive took the slack out, and then she felt the pulsing of the drive wheels as it tugged the train.
Heather's ears turned forward as the pulses became erratic; in a lull between the child’s wails, she heard the locomotive's usual chuff-chuff replaced with a chuff-wheeze. Then there was more banging as the railroad cars bumped to a stop.
The train was mocking her. It had only moved forward far enough to frame the HOOFINGTON sign with her window. She stuck her muzzle to the pane, then pressed her cheek sideways against the cold glass, trying to see down the length of the train. Did it come off the tracks?
There was nothing obvious, so she got out of her seat and went to the vestibule, squeezing between a pair of ponies who already had their heads out the window.
The train didn't look to have come off the rails—newspaper pictures of derailments invariably showed the railroad cars lying all cattywampus around the tracks. Her train’s were all upright and in their proper order.
As she watched, a soot-streaked mare climbed down from the locomotive and walked into the cloud of steam and smoke which constantly emanated from the front of the beast. When she re-emerged, head down, Heather Rose sighed. I guess I won't be meeting the girls at the spa tonight.
It was a short trip to the train station; when Luster got there she threaded through the cluster of last-minute passengers boarding the waiting train. A single trolley sat by the door in question, two full sacks of mail leaned up against the front bulkhead.
“Lucky we got the outgoing mail loaded before the key got lost,” the stallion commented. “Or else the train would have to wait.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” She walked up to the door and sat on her haunches just as Stamps rounded the corner, a lecherous grin on his face.
“I'm so glad you could make it. I loaned my key to one of the mail stallions, and he lost it, can you believe that? You just can't trust teenagers.” He moved so close she could have counted the hairs in his thinning brush-cut.
“I'll have it open in no time,” she muttered, opening her wing to drop her tool roll on the ground. At the conductor's call, she glanced back at the train. I'll have an audience for once—let's see if I can get this opened before the train leaves. With practiced familiarity, she slid the tension wrench and snake rake out of their pouches and set to work.
“I think they might have jammed it somehow,” Stamps offered as she twisted the tension wrench. Sure enough, the rake didn't move the tumblers at all. Luster Lock sighed, set the rake down, and grabbed a diamond pick, almost dropping it as the train’s whistle howled.
She scraped the pick through the lock several times, finally withdrawing it and examining the fine powder on the very end.
Luster sniffed it. Smelling nothing she stuck her tongue on the pick. Cold and totally tasteless—it was ice.
Her ears fell. Picking a lock was one thing; picking a frozen lock was impossible. Even if she'd had a key, it wouldn't unlock. She glanced over at Stamps, who was leering at her. Clever stallion.
“Can I get you anything?” he offered solicitously.
She was about to tell him off, when a hiss of escaping steam caught her ear. They both turned their heads, and immediately noticed the prodigious quantities of steam escaping from the exhaust valve on their side of the locomotive.
While Stamps gaped at it, Luster lock turned back to the door. How in Equestria am I going to melt this ice?
Heather Rose hesitated on the boarding step. Her luggage was safely tucked away in the baggage car, where it would be safe—but if for some reason she didn't get back before the train was repaired, it would leave without her, and who knew where her baggage might wind up?
One look at the crew gathering by the locomotive reassured her that this train would be going nowhere soon, and she hopped down to the platform, her thoughts already on how to spend the delay. Hearth's Warming softened her purse strings; not only for family and friends, but for herself as well. This year, nothing had caught her fancy, but she felt almost obligated to spend something, and this was the perfect opportunity.
She was halfway down the platform when she noticed a dim grey pegasus crouched next to a trolley and working on a door, while a balding stallion watched her intently.
It was none of her business, and she almost passed by, thinking about how a necklace would feel around her neck. Nothing fancy, a simple setting with a semi-precious stone, something practical she could wear whenever she got dressed up.
It was none of her business, but when the stallion slid slightly closer to the pegasus, kicking a slim blade across the platform, it bothered her, and she bent down and picked it up before moving over to return it to its rightful owner.
She wedged her way between the pair, directing an insincere “excuse me” at the stallion.
“You dropped thif,” she said, tilting her head towards the mare, and pushing the stallion a bit further back with her rump.
“Hey,” he muttered, and she turned her head to face him, not seeing the locksmith's wingtip come up and reach for the wayward tool. Heather wrinkled her nostrils as Luster's primaries tickled at the slender rake, and then both were gone as the locksmith turned back towards the door.
“Didja lose the key?”
“He did.” Luster tilted her head towards the stallion, who had the grace to blush slightly. “And then somehow, the lock got filled with water, and it froze.”
“Oh.” Heather looked at the platform—under the overhang of the station roof, there was barely more than a little snow-grit that the wind had blown around. She sidestepped, bumping the stallion again, then sat down beside the door. “So you need to melt the ice out of it. You could put salt in it.”
Luster flinched as if she'd been slapped. She let go of her tools and flexed her wings, while she took her first real look at her visitor. If her time touring with Trixie had taught her anything, it was how to read ponies. Flower cutie mark, windblown mane and tail, slightly shaggy winter coat, and scrapes and scuffs on her hooves no hooficure could ever remove—this was a farmer. She might as well have worn a sign about her neck.
“You could weed your garden by salting the ground, too.”
Now it was Heather Rose's turn to wince. “Okay, bad idea.” She tapped her hoof to her chin in thought.
Luster didn't reply, just went back to working a slender screwdriver against the pins. Half the battle was to get them to move, then it would just be a question of whether she could put enough force on the tension wrench to make the cylinder turn.
“If you could catch some of the steam from the locomotive and bring it over to the lock,” Heather mused out loud, “that would melt the ice.”
“Is there a steam hose at the station?” The pegasus looked up from her work, and glanced over at Stamps.
“I don't know,” he said honestly.
“Why don't you go look?” Heather offered. “Since you're not doing anything useful.”
He got reluctantly to his hooves and looked up and down the platform, as if one might materialize within eyeshot. When it didn’t, he trotted towards the locomotive and the cluster of mechanics gathered there.
“You don't have a bottle of light oil, do you?” Luster brushed a curl of steel-blue mane out of her face and jabbed the screwdriver back at the lock. She'd gotten the first two pins free, and was working on the third.
“What, in case I was planning on baking a batch of cookies on the train?”
“Sorry.” The locksmith pulled the screwdriver out and blew into the lock to dislodge the ice she'd chipped off.
“I could maybe get some from the engine oiler.”
“She’s only got heavy stuff. Too viscous, especially when it's cold.” She went back to work with the screwdriver, turning her body to get better leverage with her wing. “Alcohol?”
“In my trunk. Does the station sell it?”
“Nothing strong enough.” She sighed. “I've got a bottle back at my shop, but didn't bring it. Should’ve thought Stamps'd be clever enough to try something like this, just to keep me out here. where he could gawk at my pretty flank.”
“He's old enough to be your father.” Heather Rose scrunched her muzzle.
“Grandfather.”
“Ew.” Heather got back to her hooves, brushing the grit off her rump with her tail. “Think he'll find a steam hose?”
“If he does, it'll have a hole by the time it gets here, or the coupler will be broken.” Her ears fell. “Probably what's taking him so long. I'd like to have this lock open before he gets back.”
“What if . . . “ Heather moved close to the lock to examine it. “I could ask the attendant to get my trunk, maybe make a little funnel out of a piece of paper.” She looked back at the stationary train, and the baggage car coupled behind the tender. “It's a shame that there's a big iron boiler right there, but no way of getting the heat here, where it’s needed. Pegasi can't grab steam clouds, can they?”
“Not unless we want to burn our hooves.”
“What about a coal from the fire?”
“Again, the hoof-burning. You're welcome to try.”
“I bet there's a shovel in the locomotive.” Heather turned and trotted to the stationary locomotive, pulling herself halfway into the cab. Luster watched with interest, waiting to see what developed.
It only took a minute before the earth pony backed down off the steps, moving carefully on three hooves—when she turned, Luster saw that she now wore a thick hoof-mitt on her right foreleg.
She walked over to the door and unceremoniously jammed her mitted hoof against the lockplate. Instantly, a muffled hissing came from the lock.
Heather held it there until the small puffs of steam had totally subsided, then pulled back and let the ember drop to the station platform.
Luster kicked it out of the way with the toe of her hoof, then stuck the snake rake and tension wrench in the keyhole. A moment of practiced wiggling, and the lock surrendered with a final click. She pushed the door slightly ajar, just to make sure, then the two mares exchanged a high-hoof.
Just then Stamps huffed up to the duo. “I found a hose,” he said proudly.
“Took you long enough,” Luster sneered. “I got the lock open without it.”
“What? How?” He took a step forward, landing on the hot ember with a painful-sounding sizzle. His pupils shrank, and he started dancing on his hooves before galloping towards a snowbank.
Luster slid her tools back into her roll-pouch and slipped it back under her wing. “Now all I've got to do is make a new key, and I can do that back at my workshop.” She looked back at the door: the paint was slightly discolored around the keyplate, but it was otherwise undamaged. “Want to come with me? You might find something you’d like.”
• • •
“That's a lot of locks.”
“Can't be too careful.” Luster let the keyring fall on its lanyard and nosed the door open. The guttering lanterns inside barely illuminated the workshop, so Heather stayed back as Luster turned their wicks up.
It wasn't much of an improvement.
Nevertheless, Heather entered, closing the door tightly behind her. And just stared around the room.
She'd never seen so many locks in one place, although it stood to reason that being a locksmith's shop, it'd be full of locks.
She'd never seen so many different varieties, either. Various kinds of padlocks hung from pegs, nails pounded into the wall, and a short section of chain-link fence. Boxes stacked around the shop contained locks for doors and chests, if the drawings on the ends of the boxes were to be believed.
The whole shop smelled of metal and oil and meals eaten at the workbench. It was cluttered, confining—Heather couldn't imagine how a pegasus could stand it. Her house was cozy and neat, and had big windows that looked over her fields.
Back at the bench, Luster hunched over a key blank, carefully filing teeth into the key’s bit . She'd jotted down the pin-lengths while she worked, and the measurements were familiar enough that she barely needed to use calipers.
Satisfied with her work, she set down her tools, ruffled her primaries, and rolled her neck. Then she picked up the key, blew the shavings off it, buffed the raw edges with a cloth soaked in linseed oil, looped a length of ribbon through the bow, and draped it around her neck.
Luster spun on her stool and hopped to her hooves. She used a foxtail brush to sweep the bronze shavings into a bin, and then walked over to the earth pony.
Heather Rose was studying one of the love locks clipped to the chain-link. Luster rolled her eyes. “You don't want one of those. Nopony wants one of those.”
“Why not? I like the color.” She brushed it with her hoof. The pale magenta was a near match to her coat. “It's a love lock, isn't it?”
“How do you know about those?”
Heather blushed. “Um, I watched The Bridge of Love in Canterlot, and the pegasus soldier had one. He tossed the key down a well to show how unbreakable his love was.”
“Trust me, it's a lot less romantic when police ponies have bolt-cutters and lawyers.”
“But you could use it someplace where nopony would be bothered by it,” Heather insisted.
“You might find hoofcuffs more enjoyable. I have some for sale, if you or your coltfriend is an adventurous sort.”
Heather scuffed her hoof on the floor. “I don't actually have a special somepony.”
“Me, either,” Luster muttered. “Not for a lack of trying.” She thought back to her last dinner date—he was cute, but like so many others, he was gone too soon.
Heather Rose brightened. “But I still want the lock.”
“You don’t have to take pity on me.”
“I’m not.”
Luster looked into the guileless green eyes of the farmer and nodded. “Well, hope springs eternal.” She reached up and unlocked the heart-shaped padlock, handing it and the key to the earth pony. “Five bits—I'm giving you a deal, 'cause you figured out how to thaw the lock at the train station.”
It was more than Heather wanted to spend, but it was rude to make a deal and then back out, so she reached into her coinpurse and pulled out a six-bit coin, flinching back slightly as Luster again brushed her lips with a wingtip.
• • •
Heather Rose trudged through the deserted Ponyville streets, forcing her way through the drifts forming across the road. She didn’t mind so much; it was nice to be home, even if she wouldn’t get to see her friends until tomorrow.
She dropped her trunk on her front stoop, but instead of going into her house right away, she went around behind her house and looked over the gate. She stood on her hind hooves, leaning against the top of the rough-split wood, and just watched her field slumber under its blanket of snow.
After a few minutes of silent contemplation, she pulled the gate's latch back, and then used the love lock to fasten it permanently open.
Author's Note
For behind-the-scenes info, CLICK HERE
Luster Lock was developed by Burraku_Pansa.
