Following of the Sun

Kismet may have in some way attempted to warn me of what was to come, but even if that was his intent, he could not possibly have predicted the work environment I was to be subjected to in the weeks that followed. I will say now that although there were rudimentary ovens in each room, most of us were very much dependent on the common furnace at the ground level to finish our works. To think the loose arrangements we've had regarding the use of this furnace would fall short was to me a great source of frustration. You see, I had very much been under the impression that now that I've been in Canterlot studying and working alongside fellow artists and artisans there would be a sort of automatic camaraderie - or at least, an understanding. Up until my meeting with the Royal Canterlot Palace representative, this had proven to be mostly true, sharing freely our salts, enamel paints, and even our beverages. Although it could be said there was a divide that existed already even in that time of carefree cooperation, regardless, to me it felt like a change from day to night had come over the place.

It was on an early morning that I found myself stumbling down the stairs to the communal chambers. I might refer to them as chambers, but really, they were two barely furnished adjoining rooms with the practical sight of stone across the floors, walls, and ceiling. To the left of the door was the kitchen while the opposite end offered two couches, a meagre chunk of wood imagined to once have been a table, and a few damaged chairs scavenged together and scattered near the window. In the space in between these functions resided two steel workers benches and the aforementioned furnace, and it were these benches to where I was headed when I had shaken off the sleepless hours of the night before.

Uncommon, but not entirely unheard of, was the presence of another student up at such an early hour, so I wasn't entirely surprised when I had found Mettle sitting there on the bench with the billows, polishing the corners of a glass mould. 'Up all night?' I asked good-naturedly as I took a seat at the closest edge the couch afforded. I considered then that perhaps he was so engrossed in his work, and so tired, that he had not heard me, but after what felt like a minute, I could hear him sigh like some parents occasionally do when their children have bothered them once too often.

It wasn't so much that I was offended by this, but if I was to be waiting to get my work done without any conversation to distract me, I would at least have liked to know how long it was that I had to wait. So I raised my voice over the sound of the furnace and asked him, 'Should I return in an hour?' Implying, rather obviously, that I intended to queue up behind him and, if it was to be much longer before his work was finished, he should tell me as much, so as not to keep me waiting there amidst the smell of hot metal for an unreasonable amount of time.

'Oh,' he remarked, resting the blowpipe against the bench as he turned his head, 'you've got work as well? I wouldn't bother today if I were you.'

Even then, something seemed off to me about his behaviour; the way he had acted so nonchalantly about something so obvious. Naturally, I hadn't turned in so early just to sit there. It wasn't because we were the sort of anti-social students you often hear about, but rather, early in the morning we came in exclusively to work or, as I have also seen frequently, to fight off some sort of hangover. Sitting silently, by contrast, could easily have been accomplished in our individual rooms, and as such was reserved entirely for those locations. In addition to that, I knew news had spread about my commission; news that had indeed spread before truly coming to fruition, owing largely to Master Southwind impressing onto us one week prior that he had need of our portfolios for a, as he put it, "a royal inquiry".

So it was clear to me that considering the intricacies of the demands, I would need steady access to the furnace in order to keep to the schedule I was contracted to, and this was hardly challenging to figure out for anyone else in the craft. Of course, at the time I thought it rather rude to point this out, and didn't want to remind him in any way that implied that my work was somehow more important than his. He had been standing there unhurried, awaiting my response, but only when he was about to take hold again of his blowpipe did I suddenly feel the need to speak. Rather quickly, I asked him, 'Is everyone else using it today?'

He wasn't one bit taken aback by the surprise in my voice and clarified almost immediately: 'Why yes, last night BB asked for two more hours, Ivy's working on that pot or whatever it is again, and after that there's K's leadlights...'

As he trailed off in his list, I had found myself instinctively questioning the validity of such an occurrence. For one, I always kept with me some sort of internal scanner that told me who went to bed at what hour, and when I had retired in the previous night I felt like I was one of the few students still awake. It was even more unlikely then that after I had gone to bed everyone else would be discussing their schedules for the coming day. Perhaps he could see I was about to speak again, for he sighed, much like he had done when I had first entered the room, shaking his head and saying, 'You know, Lily, you aren't the only one doing work around here.'

Curiously, it didn't occur to me at the time that the authority he exuded then - the manner in which he placed himself as caretaker of all of the students' affairs - was in itself very telling as to the kind of character he was. Perhaps it wouldn't be unfair to suppose that these social mechanics were largely a blind spot to me; that for the most part I assumed everyone's mannerisms were a natural culmination of their personal desires and their willingness to help others. That these two things could conflict so directly and yet produced such elaborate strategies was something to which, I'm almost proud to say, I was entirely unfamiliar.

In my frustration I had walked off to Kismet's apartment, past the white and golden shops of Gleamstreet. Had I the money I may have been tempted by the classy braided gowns displayed behind a spotless window on a little bronze platform, or else would have further explored the beautiful little art shops. I have always liked those little shops, each having its own arrangements of colourful sketchbooks, all hoofsewn and decorated with floral flourishes and gemstones on their bindings. Even with my students' discount, however, I never really felt like I could afford to have more than the basic necessities. Still, in those days there was a little attic shop you could reach by ways of a wooden staircase behind the bakery, and I always thought that browsing the mineral salts there could not have been very different to picking out spices in a Whinnyan marketplace.

Eventually we found ourselves in the PPS Café for lunch. Incidentally, if you're looking for a place that doesn't require you to make a lunch reservation, I have to tell you that there is no place in Canterlot more charming than the PPS Café, or as it's called officially, the Proprietor's Sanctuary Café. (I'm not sure who first started calling it the PPS, or even why, but somehow it could not escape me that because it was largely considered a 'literary café', it was a most fitting abbreviation.) Anyway, its tables weren't exactly spaced out evenly, and in fact, often featured an odd number of chairs or missing table cloth. Now, it was not by any means a 'cheap' establishment - it had quaint flower pots on the tables and ivy-coated archways - but certainly I did not feel as out of place there as I did at, say, the Second Scones Garden, where they had an orchestrated code for every course presentation and delivery time. In fact, I was quite certain that, given the time and opportunity there, one could calculate to a second how much time it would take for a waiter to emerge upon setting their cutlery on their plates.

But, as I had said, we were having lunch at the PPS Café, and I had been rather listlessly picking at the loaves of gojiberry bread I had ordered, when Kismet said to me, 'You look like you're soon to be executed. Do I need to notify anyone on your behalf?'

Because I had not in fact heard much of what he said, I mumbled, 'That's probably not necessary.' Before long, I had realised what we had said, and I joined his laugh. When he recovered he said to me, 'No, but seriously, this stuff shouldn't get you down.'

I had already told him about the incident in the communal chambers, and he had concluded rather dimly that there was a jealous conspiracy ahoof. It may have seemed unnecessarily cynical to me at the time to jump to such a conclusion, but also, it still was likely to me that this was a one-time outing. An anomaly, if you will, that would go away before too long. Regardless, wasting away the day had a way of exposing my frailties, and Kismet was very good at picking up on these things. Far better, in fact, than could be expected from someone who had met me - but a few tables from where we sat - little more than two months before.

No, that day something far more bothersome started rearing itself, and although I couldn't clearly put my hoof on it, still I could feel its weight, much like one could sometimes feel by the density of the air the harsher weather on approach. Gradually, I started feeling again the sense of isolation I felt in Fillydelphia craft school, only this time, it carried with it some deep taste of disappointment. Worse even than that, I had started to doubt I was capable of fulfilling a satisfactory job for the Royal Canterlot Palace; I had started to doubt I deserved having the job at all.

Kismet had agreed with me rather enthusiastically when I suggested that even if they had all agreed to take up the furnace all day, it was unlikely that all of them were so dedicated to a prolonged campaign. Perhaps he had simply tried to cheer me up, for I could not help but suspect that one enemy was all that it took. Nevertheless, I had resolved to say nothing of the matter to any of the other students. That evening I hadn't exactly gone out of my way to be especially nice to anyone, but certainly, I had acted as if in fact nothing troublesome had happened at all. So, I listened to Ivy complain to me about her oppressive parents and helped another student - either it was Delta or BB - with the cooking time of noodles. Notably, Mettle himself I spotted talking casually on the couch to two of his friends who studied elsewhere. From what I could tell they were talking about the raven BB had been granted custody of, and how BB was designing keepsakes for the Ravenous Institute. That he was so visibly relaxed told me all I needed to know, and I soon returned to my room, counseling myself that I really didn't need to look for trouble everywhere I went, and that perhaps soon I could again focus on the work ahead of me.

In a way, I was thinking again of my life growing up in Fillydelphia, so often confronted by the attitude that everyone out there was out to get us: to look down at this 'us'; abuse this 'us' that was mentioned so often. (Perhaps it bears mentioning that K and myself were the only earth ponies in the ateliers.) It was a little disconcerting to realise then that perhaps this viewpoint, though not necessarily untrue, could nonetheless have invaded my psyche so unexpectedly. In a small way it made me consider that everyone was filled with such hidden devices, almost like a vast minefield; each article waiting to be uncovered if only one dared to consider their existence.

As it turned out, however, my previous scepticism was hardly unwarranted. Sure enough, when next I had turned into the communal chambers, its paint-splattered sooted walls greeted me entirely devoid of life. Relieved, I ran up and down the stairs, carrying the very first sheets that were ready for soldering. It was only when I had set down the large plate of glass that I noticed that, just under the furnace's lid, a note had been hastily attached. It read (in blocky, inconsistent letters): STEADYING TEMP - DO NOT USE PLS.

Worst of all was that the frustration that had built up inside me now had to be taken out on a piece of paper. Had there been Mettle or anyone else present at that time I would've reminded them that I had just carried this chunk of glass down for nothing; had in fact woken up early, again, for nothing. But, when I had calmed down a little bit and sat myself on the couch, I started to realise that this absence of living beings was actually a good thing, for I would not have been unable to resist declaring the note's plea as anything but an excuse to keep me from my commission.

So I had found myself spending over an hour drinking a single glass of water and contemplating how best to address and peaceably resolve the situation, but, as is typically the case in such a state of mind, I could only think of more abstract things lying just around the corner. So I thought of those great, marbled walls of the Canterlot Palace, now lying not only within physical reach of me, but also nearby in every other way. In the scope of such a reality, the petty squabbles in the communal chambers were grossly unbecoming. In fact, it was probably this feeling in particular that made it so I had not even thought of telling Master Southwind of the affair. But, if I had, I would have been sure that doing so would in some manner bring a great blemish on my character. After all, if a simple craftsmare could not handle a trade dispute of such lowly origins, what business had she in the palace at all?

It were the hallways of the palace, as I had imagined them, that I had been travelling through when Ketamemesis - or "K" - had found herself almost entirely next to me without my having noticed her arrival. There was something about her casual manner she had brought from her farm town upbringing that had made it impossible for me to be cross with her. Even then, beleaguered by suspicions, I took her tired eyes and lazy hello to be nothing but a signal of good faith and comprehension. When she had finished rummaging through the cabinets and finally returned to the couch opposite of me with her coffee, I had found myself unable to say anything. And because she seemed perfectly content to sit in silence, much time had passed unremarked upon, despite my knowing full well that such relative privacy came at a premium and would become ever rarer as the day would progress.

Without really considering it, when I found we both happened to look at the furnace at about the same time, I said, 'Do you know who it's waiting for?' She seemed to consider this for a moment, taking a sip of coffee as I clarified: 'There's a note saying it's building towards a particular temperature.'

For a while K seemed perfectly happy to simply dig her hoof through her brown curls, and anyone who didn't know her would have assumed she wasn't going to say much more than that little grunt of acknowledgement she had offered so often. But, of course, she did speak after a while, saying, 'That's weird. I have no idea. Maybe Ivy? She's slow-cooking her kettle.' She shrugged. 'Could also be Topspin.'

'Of course, it could be either of them,' I agreed, but perhaps she had noticed I was hardly convinced, for I saw her expression change to something more troubled than it had been previously. It was almost as if her face had tried to compress itself; press itself towards the middle of her nose from both sides, so that she had become unnecessarily wrinkled. She voiced an ambivalent 'huh' and peered through the foggy window rather contemplatively. 'But maybe you should check with Master Southwind, just to make sure that, y'know, you get enough time on the stove.'

Only when she had said this did I consider the negative consequences such a move would bring onto me. But certainly, what this tiny conversation had brought to me was a distinct sense of being walled in. In itself, it was a perfect representation of the larger situation: I could either say nothing and declare, if rather tacitly, that there was no real issue, or I could tell on Master Southwind and reveal myself to be little more than a troublemaker. That I would then collect the piece and walk up the stairs again with little more than a mellow "see you later" would also entail me telling myself for the rest of the day that what I had done there basically announced that, to me, the work I had promised the Royal Canterlot Palace was not really all that important. To say I was upset that day would've been a terrible understatement, but to claim the incident had weakened my determination would've unduly discredited me. Through feeling sorry for myself on my humble mattress I had began to decide - decided as gradual as the setting sun - that none of the students had any right to treat me the way they did, and surely, I would find a way very soon to show them as much.

Looking back on those little battles now I can't but feel a stab of pain from the almost systematic alienation I put myself through. And if I had now been faced with that difficult decision, I can't say for certain I wouldn't simply tell Master Southwind about the things his other students were putting me through. I had already lived through it once though, and I can tell you with honesty that I had never truly considered telling him anything. In fact, what I did tell him when I saw him four days after I had spent that day in my atelier moping, was something distinctly different.

I remember well how we had walked along the gallery of the University Arthouse silently for quite a while, passing various students I did not recognise or had not yet become very familiar with. Many of them I was sure were former students of his, or else, respected colleagues that weren't quite at his age and standing. He hadn't asked the obvious question that was the sole purpose of this meeting, but then, he had no need to. We simply slid along the arched passages, stopping now and then to look at a new piece of art that had found itself within the house's tall white walls.

I should probably tell you now a little more about Master Southwind so that such a vague arrangement as the one I have begun to describe would make a little more sense. I was told through secondhoof accounts that he had spent thirty years as the sole apprentice of The Great Obsidian, and that in all of those years he had not once questioned his master. In fact, as it was explained to me by an elderly Arthouse curator and caretaker, he hadn't actually been instructed a single thing; had in fact never even been spoken to. He had merely been allowed to be in his presence. So Master Southwind had inherited a small sense of the philosophy that said that, if one couldn't at least figure out how to pursue their goals, they had not the heart to learn. Certainly, I can't say that I entirely believed everything I've heard in such reports - particularly not the tale of his journey into the heart of the San Palomino Desert or the thirty years of silence - but what it did do is explain his stance regarding questions and hooves-on assistance. He did not then go around visiting each individual student to ask how they were doing and if they needed any help. Rather, he met individuals working on a big project once a week, and occasionally showed up at the ateliers to, presumably, get some indication on how we were progressing.

Perhaps I have sketched here a bit of an extreme image where all the students were left to fend for themselves, much like lion cubs abandoned in the savannah, but it wasn't like we weren't allowed to ask for help or anything of the sort. In fact, I myself had often asked him about various techniques, but never had these questions been anything but simple queries that required only direct answers. "Is it necessary to apply isothermal glazing on my surfaces?" would be an example of a valid question that could be put to him without accruing too much embarrassment. Anyway, I did not mean to get carried away on this topic, but I hope it does help in explaining why it was that neither of us had spoken to each other on how the work had been going, and instead had found ourselves drifting from one exposition to the next.

It was when we had circled around a centrepiece sculpture of a black, disassembled cube, that finally I told him, 'I'm not quite certain about this commission I'm doing.' He didn't look up and, following his gaze, I found myself thinking for a moment of how satisfying it must've seemed to the creator of the piece to shove the extended wood back into the vacated holes, in order for it to be whole once again. It occurred to me that this was the point of expression: the cube represented our lives, both in the sense of constant contrasts we embodied, and our individual pursuits often being counter-productive or self-defeating. That was, at least, what I took away from it at that time.

'I'm not sure I'm the one for the job,' I repeated. At last he nodded, hiding in his brown collar much as he did his thoughts. He always wore this sienna sort of garment, somewhere between a dress jacket and a cloak, and it often seemed that he could create an extra barrier of sorts when needed by obscuring his neck in its collar, much like he was doing when he moved through the rooms of the Arthouse. I found myself walking after him for many more minutes, feeling exceptionally silly about myself. After a while I even considered he was secretly laughing at me, listening in on my internal dialogue. If he could indeed tell my disarray, he had likely decided that there was no need for him to say anything at all. Already I had cluttered up my head quite enough all by myself.

By all accounts it was not that unusual to leave more confused from such meetings with Master Southwind than one would coming in, but certainly, the feeling I had taken away was quite the desperate one. In fact, I started on a long walk around the university grounds thinking over exactly how stuck I was. As I understood it later, his strategy had been quite simply to disallow me to take an easy escape, trusting perhaps that if I would truly wish to back out, I'd have found a way to contact the Royal Canterlot Palace's representative myself and so cancel the commission. It might amuse you to hear that such a course of action had not even occurred to me.

Walking along the parkways always did wonders in calming me, whether in the company of Kismet or merely my own. Even when I had only just arrived in Canterlot and I had worried that I would not be accepted by the other students, and I had only just found the university grounds, I was almost instantly soothed by its graces. Certainly, talking with Kismet was great, but at some point one needed to concede they had reached their maximum allotted words for the day, and any more would do little to assuage one's concerns. Such was, in any case, the way I have often experienced it, and certainly it was also why I had resolved to spend the last remaining hours of daylight walking along the smooth pathways, simply admiring the little ponds I passed and enjoying the variety of purple, yellow, and green songbirds that sang their songs from the poplars and birdbaths. Briefly, I even admired the insouciant cheer brought by the small groups of students who had taken it upon themselves to roll in the grass together like young foals.

Gradually my mood lightened and I had found myself become increasingly more exploratory, following the winding path over the hills outside the university grounds. Quite content with letting my worries be, for the moment at least, reserved to a later time, I soon was awed by the view that rolled in as I reached the top of the hill. Visible far above Canterlot's rooftops and spires, gleaming in the light of the sun, were the white and golden tops of the Royal Canterlot Palace. I stopped then, simply gazing at the flawlessness within the cascading sheen across the castle, a world of light and stone poised against the mountain like a faraway paradise.

There was a little green bench at the top of the hill, but it was occupied by an old lady in a sunhat eating a carrot. I made sure I took up position at a respectable distance, gazing further at the palace. Of course, I had seen it before, but I had not made it my business to wander around its perimeters simply to satisfy my own curiousities. I had found it more appropriate that I simply cherished the knowledge that it was not too far off, deciding that was more than enough for me. But seeing it from this vantage point, more level than I had ever seen it up till then, made me realise I was wholly mistaken. Beyond that, what research I have done on the structure brought me the certainty that the closest of the three towers I could see from this angle held none other than Princess Celestia's private quarters.

When eventually the lady had finished her meal and vacated the bench, I had sat there for quite a while, picturing further the chambers within that tower. Its libraries, reading rooms, studies, dining rooms, and so forth; all the while reveling in the simple joy of being alive to see the sun cast its pink and orange glow over the palace. In a way, it seemed appropriate to depart when the sun had set, almost as if I would respect the princess's wishes to enjoy the evening without my sitting there gawking at her home.

As I had walked back to the ateliers I felt very much like I was returning to a privileged land, yes, but also one not necessarily inhabited by the most graceful of Celestia's subjects. In some way, I felt returning to me the sense of injustice inflicted upon me, and my resolve to not let my peers treat me the way they had done for such petty, personal matters as the ones that had driven them to do what they did. I reasoned, simply, that none of them respected Celestia the way that I did, and that, though I may not have considered my work to be any more important than anyone else's, it nevertheless fell to me to carry out this particular job ahead of me.

Several days passed perfecting my cutting patterns, and whenever K or anyone else asked me what I was doing up there all through the day, I said I was working on my commission. It was true that I hadn't exactly squandered my time; in fact, I can't entirely discount the possibility that without the chance to finalise my designs, I may have rushed to finalising them and made some mistake. Nonetheless it was unthinkable that I could work up there and get anything of significance done before my time would expire, and as such I did not kid myself with the notion that I was running some truly covert operation. For at least one evening I was entirely certain that it was obvious to everyone that it would not be long before I would make my move.

That my sudden determination had caught the other students by surprise did not at first concern me, like it would later. I felt simply elated and very nearly amused in watching their expressions come and go. Well, it was true that I had enlisted Kismet to accompany me, largely thinking I would benefit from having at least one ally with me should the atmosphere become troublesome or hostile, but it would not be too much of a boast to say that I had very much commanded the busy chambers entirely by my own accord.

When we had walked in, bringing my elements downstairs one by one, I could feel a note of concern in the shuffling of the denizens. Topspin and Mettle were conferring in that silent way that boys often did when they were caught doing something they shouldn't have. We then placed all of the glass, paneled and crushed, on and against the nearest of the two benches, and further occupied it with the finished lead cames and various tins of salts. When I was about to open the furnace however, Topspin hastily extended a hoof, reaching for the furnace door much like I had. It seemed very silly to me that he would try to reach for something I had already touched; thinking that he could open it before I could. It was very much like how they had seemed very timid in their observing us putting all my things into place, perhaps hesitating to disbelief the notion that I wouldn't actually follow it up with anything of consequence. With his hoof lingering there in the air, he stammered, 'Oh, sorry, I-I h-had been intending to start on my work an hour ago, i-if that's all right...'

He trailed off hopelessly, but his expression changed quickly when I nodded and said, 'Of course, go right ahead. I'll wait here.' I sat on one of the benches, a hoof bending over my panels so that they would remain within my custody. It wasn't exactly a comfortable position, but still I sat there like I had all the time in the world. Kismet had sat himself down on one of the couches and had tried to talk with either K or Seraphin who were cuddling on the couch rather lazily, but a particular quietude had come over the chambers, so that all seven or eight of its current inhabitants appeared to have stopped what they were doing. Mettle said, 'You're just going to sit there and wait? Won't you get tired?'

'Not at all. I don't mind the wait.' I looked around the rooms, meeting each individual gaze that looked at me with a good-natured smile. I wasn't sure exactly what their looks represented, but I guessed there was at least some apprehension in there. Perhaps there was also a sense that they knew, in some way, that the confrontation had been imminent, and I found myself remarking to myself that they must've known long before that there would be one. It was a surprise to me, certainly, to stumble upon such an obvious reality. For all the things I had prepared for, I had most of all expected that I would come rushing out in some fashion and thereupon found that over the course of a week, all had thought me defeated and gone. I had even prepared myself to see among them some collective sign of respect. Rather, Topspin continued to stand there awkwardly, obviously waiting for Mettle to step in and say something. The self-proclaimed leader - if proclaimed by some silent referendum - seemed to strain himself, shaking as possibly it dawned on him that I would simply sit there forever if it came to that. And whether he truly believed this or not, it was evidently enough to make him rush off without saying another word.

The silence was almost unbearable, but still I kept to my smile, trading glances now with Kismet, who seemed to nod encouragingly; something I was surprised to find he could do entirely without moving his head. Topspin had begun fidgeting the furnace's release, pretending somehow that this was a very precise mission that could possibly take minutes of one's time. Suddenly a loud clang came from above. A shuffle and hoof beats; another clang. Soon after he barged in, loading the room with a great many of his animal statuettes, some finished and some not. One after another Mettle brought on to the free bench, making BB and Topspin step back in wonder. I noticed that quite a few bore large scratch marks, likely from being dropped on the stairs a few seconds earlier.

When at last he had finished, he declared, 'All of this needs to be done now. It's very important. Very important that I do this all and inflate the mould here. Now. I'm sorry but you can't just wait here while I work.' So curious a sight was he standing there, holding two of his Cobalt glass pieces, that I could not maintain my smile. Likely just as the others had done, I was simply looking at him, wondering what would come next. 'You can't,' he added then, waving his hoof in a definitive manner, promptly arranging his pieces on the opposite work bench. Almost each time he did so, he seemed dissatisfied with the item's position and touched it again, nudging it so that it was more upright, or in other cases, leaning against the metal rods of the bench at an angle. He moved in a haste, constant and seemingly in a world entirely of his own.

'Don't you think...' K had started with little more than a mumble, but the effect was instantaneous. A real voice had filled the chambers and everyone stopped. Gone was the pretence of picking up where they had left off, to do what they had been doing before Kismet and myself had brought my work downstairs. Instead all were transfixed as I was, as the silence made each second its own, individual wait. It couldn't have been more than three seconds in total which passed before Mettle yelled at the ceiling, facing away, 'What? That I worked my entire life to get here and she just gets fucking shot to the throne - featured within weeks? Is that it?'

As suddenly as he had released his challenge, so too had he become quiet. Now his voice was little more than a whisper, and he asked, 'Why would that fucking matter?' He then turned, his face redder still, and I winced when he picked up the panda bear statuette he had been working on and hurled it against the wall. Collective gasps joined the shattered glass, tentative to die down and perhaps even fearful of being heard. Already the violence had passed. Mettle leaned against the bench, hoping perhaps that in doing so everyone would see he was doing something, and not simply being childish or angry. Maybe we now desired more than anything, much like no doubt he did, to be somewhere else, but we could not but wait for his next move, no matter how much it may have pained us to do so. He face had swollen to comical proportions and his every minute tremble came in spite of his efforts to remain still. I was almost startled to discover that he was crying. He did not want to, of course, but he was unable to stop the tears from making their way across his flushed cheeks, and somewhere inside him the war of, above all else, not to cry, raged unwinnable.

'You might think it unfair, but everyone has their place,' a deep voice boomed. We all turned our heads then, shocked to find Master Southwind standing there, halfway in from the hallway. It wasn't even a question of when he had come in; doubtless it was a certainty to all of us that he had always been there. He strode forward deliberately, speaking to what felt like no one in particular: 'And that one is Lily's place. You have your place too, but it is not that one.'

At last, Mettle would - just for an instant - look up into the deep, black eyes of his teacher. He muttered, sniffling and wheezing, 'I am sorry, Master Southwind. I'm sorry.' Then he ran off up the stairs, leaving his work, and in some sense, all of the rest of us behind him.

A great pressure had come upon me following the incident with Mettle. More than ever I had realised the importance of my commission, and the consequences that lurked not so far off should I squander this opportunity. I could fade into nothingness, certainly; I could bring disgrace to Master Southwind, also true. But more important than either of those things was my obligation to the Royal Sisters to deliver something at the very least comprising the maximum of my abilities. To say then that being at last able to start on my work in earnest brought about the elation I had expected it would, would be to reveal I had in all of this time focused too much on external affairs, and had not truly been thinking of the actual project as much as I should have. I had become aware of a kind of shame that had slowly filled every part me, and confronted by its presence, I could only strive to find some way to undo at least some of that damage.

One of the great things about the art is its ability to captivate one's time immersed in it. In a way it is much like knitting: first you devise something, and then you simply have to sink the time and technique into it to bring your vision to light. It is then not an odd claim that we are both artisans and artists. Sometimes at the same time, but not always so. Anyway, there was something intensely gratifying in polishing and smoothing out those edges; something that gently whispered that the truly difficult work had already been done - even if what lay ahead were hours of intensive tempering and re-liquefying glass - and now I could simply enjoy the process of spending time with it; liberated from the perils of mistakes and the ever-present whims of new ideas, be they better or worse.

So it was that although I had spent nearly all of my time working, the month that followed had not truly felt all that exhausting. It is curious to me now, looking back on those days, that it appeared such a long stretch of time; as if I had spent most of my life within those communal chambers and my little room upstairs. I even imagine sometimes that I had spent evenings on end partying, though it's quite likely no more than a half-dozen evenings were spent with large company around at all. Quite simply the ateliers hardly offered the sort of environment for those kinds of activities favoured by young ponies. Most sparks that flew there were, after all, of the literal sort, and such sounds and smells weren't typically conducive to a good party. Supposedly other students who craved such a carefree atmosphere, like K or Ivy, regularly strolled to other houses for the night, but I never really got the impression that it was truly so different. Less crazy artists slamming steel to glass, perhaps, but all the same, the general state of mind in those places couldn't have been so different.

No, if I'm honest, I did spend much time chatting with Kismet, when he chose to visit me or lured me out to the PPS Café, but I suppose in all the time I did spend in the atelier under the tutelage of Master Southwind, I never was aware of how alive it was. It's true that when I was first shown around the place by the young stallion who had previously inhabited my room - it was customary for departing students to give their blessing, as it were, to the students who filled their vacancy - he had joked, 'Remember you can't afford to blink too often here, or you'll soon find yourself waking up on the streets.' I suppose I had never considered there to be anything in there but its base witticism, but no sooner had my commission reached its point of completion than I had realised that my time in the atelier had run its course.

I was celebrating with Kismet up in my room on the very last night I would be there; the night before a cart would take me and my windows to the Royal Canterlot Palace, where I would be allowed to - with the assistance of the domestic management, of course - install them myself. There existed between us very much the feeling that our lives were finally coming together and everything we had worked towards would now come to fruition. It would seem silly perhaps, looking back on it now, but I'm pretty sure we both felt very much like we had made it through the awkward phase of teenagers and had matured at last to the point of being adults. Silly, as I said.

'I will write to you, when I can,' Kismet said after breaking in the second bottle of wine. Although we had busy days waiting for us, still we were confident that no amount of alcohol could possibly impede our destiny. It was curious though that I hadn't truly relished the idea of him writing me once I would be within the palace. It felt, almost, like I would be entering a very personal world, and his letters could perhaps distract me, and, in a small way, pull me out of that world.

I could also not help but think it a rather contrived ordeal to simply decide to write someone regularly, and I could not picture anyone in that day and age who did such a thing. In fact, I couldn't even picture old ladies writing letters about soup and weather to each other; sending their envelopes back and forth for no reason whatsoever. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm was such that, upon seeing a slight sense of disappointment surface in his eyes, I felt compelled to say, 'Of course, we really should. I'd also like to hear how you're getting on and so on.'

Kismet had briefly mentioned a few times after we first met that he had been studying to be a doctor. A few days before a notice came to me about my commissions completing in the palace, he had told me he had been offered a job as assistant diagnostician in a Lord Fortuity Hospital in Vanhoover. Although he hadn't exactly said so, I could tell he was very proud about this position he was about to fill, and very much looking forward to the challenge.

I'm not sure if we were discussing my implementing the stained glass windows, or if he had just brought up the letters, but at some point a terrible shouting came from downstairs, and I could tell by his tilted head that Kismet didn't quite know what to make of it. 'Ivy telling Topspin not to switch their drinks,' I explained, 'it never works.' He laughed then, saying, 'Those silly faces. All of them.

'What about Mettle, anyway? What about him?' He asked after we chuckled for a little while. It was curious that it would've taken him so long to inquire about him, implying in some way that he only just realised he was no longer staying here. I considered for a moment what to say, finishing the entire glass of blush wine and finding myself shaking quite a bit. Playfully I said, 'Haven't run into him, but I'm sure he's okay.'

Part of me still felt bad about those 'skirmishes' we had fought, and I felt it wasn't my place to gossip about him. So I hadn't told Kismet I was in fact a little concerned. Although Master Southwind had told us that he was in a better place better suited to his field, his goodbye-less departure hadn't exactly filled me with a sense that he had truly made a change for the better. Part of it perhaps was that the buzz of orientational meetings and upcoming contracts had largely diminished, and there had risen the feeling that this development was somehow related to Mettle's departure rather than us on a whole growing quite used to such business.

I did however have to admit to myself that much of this feeling was brought about by Topspin and BB often being compelled to stare blankly at the walls for days after his departure, rather than talk amongst themselves as they would previously. Most notably, I remember learning that BB had named his pet raven Mettle as well. Although I couldn't quite place this happenstance, I remember it being to me very unnerving. In a way, I was certain that so long as his room remained empty, he would continue to linger in their minds. I was of course aware of how strange this thought was, and therefore I never once spoke it out loud.

'You'll miss this place, you know,' my friend predicted when Ivy's shrill voice again found its way upstairs. Again we laughed, as we had done for most of that night; our laughter booming through the building far louder than the furnace ever was. And when we had laughed and finished all the wine, making us laugh even more and telling fleeting anecdotes as if they were fully-formed jokes, I even forgot for a little while that half of the stories we recounted could not possibly have been true. So my last night in the place was spent in nothing but the highest of spirits; reveling in the anticipation for what was to come while also savouring an intense sense of present satisfaction. But for all that, not once in that night did I realise - or perhaps, could I have known - how right he was when Kismet had said that I would come to miss the dusty alcoves and stairways of the ateliers.