Chapters I hope it won't be considered boasting when I introduce myself to be one of the finest classic stained glass artists alive. I take great pride in my work, and certainly, I'm quite glad to see that at 52 I have become as good as I am now at what I had committed myself to at such an early age. But, you must understand that in this line of work one does not simply go out of their way to proclaim their accomplishments, or, indeed, get acknowledged very much for the work they have done, however prominent it may be. I trust therefore that because you would not find the name Lily Crystalline in any historic records - the odd hoofnote permitted - you will not have heard of me.
Even so, if you have never been to the Royal Canterlot Palace, or have never visited the Crystal Empire, you could still find my work in a variety of public properties all over Equestria. But I promise you that this story isn't really about all that. If you can find it in your heart to enjoy whichever piece of mine you have come across, or draw some other reaction from it, that is all well and good, but I am not about to tell you that I am an artist beyond reproach, or that I am one of the great geniuses of this time that you simply must know and admire.
I suppose that since I have already mentioned the Royal Canterlot Palace, an example relating to my work there would work perfectly to express I'm quite sincere when I say I'm not about to wax on my renown. What comes to mind was a crucial point in my early career, when I had just moved to Canterlot in order to study the craft of glass working and, particularly, the art of stained glass windows (or "leadlights" as some have decided to call them - the glass is, after all, typically supported by cames of lead). This early point in my development, that, according to the insistence of my dear apprentice belongs in some 'success story', I hope will do just as well as any to illustrate to you my priorities.
That I had - mere months after my arrival - been selected out of twelve students under The Great Southwind's tutelage to be featured in the palace, seemingly without warning, had come as something of a shock to me. I was then a young girl with low expectations and high hopes, well aware that such an equation could hardly last forever. But for all that, I wasn't as affected by this election as I had pictured I would be in my crazed daydreams of courtyards and spiral staircases. This lack of utter consternation in itself was quite shocking, actually, and sometimes I couldn't quite go to bed at night without telling myself, over a quiet cup of tea, that big things were happening very soon; big things part of me could not realise yet were about to become very real.
When my friend Kismet had spotted me up at a balcony table at the Second Scone Gardens meeting this curious, posh-looking gentlecolt, he was absolutely sure I was engaged in some secret affair, though what kind it was he couldn't tell. So he asked me, frankly as always, on the very next day in the atelier. Maybe I didn't quite trust him enough back then - we had after all, met only a few weeks prior - but I felt a distinct sense of embarrassment about the whole thing. Within the echoing walls of my little room I had felt exposed, and it was like I had been caught doing something abhorrent. As a result I couldn't quite get myself to be completely honest with him.
I did reveal to him that the gentlecolt was a representative for the Royal Canterlot Palace house management, but when the ramifications of such a statement had dawned on him, he was quick to congratulate me and I again felt this same sense of embarrassment I had mentioned previously. Thinking back on it now, I must conclude that I didn't quite understand this myself, despite having thought of it quite a bit. You see, all I could really think of were my origins; where I had come from and where I was then. And these things put together filled me with, as I had tried to explain, some embarrassment.
I have to stress now that I did feel also a distinct pride and, perhaps more so, a sense of accomplishment. After all, I had been commissioned to compose and construct several window pieces to be featured in prominent positions. Beyond that, the court was exceptionally picky and loyal, I knew, to its contracted artisans and artists. Meaning that should my work be to their impeccable standards, I could trust them to commission me again in the future. At the very least, I could stay where I was for at least another year, paying Canterlot's exorbitant costs of living as I worked.
But as I had tried to explain, although this was very important to me, this wasn't the prevalent emotion when Kismet had told me I "had made it", repeating wide-eyed that this was big news and that he was very happy for me. Even when his initial enthusiasm had subsided and we chatted more leisurely, I had found part of me drifting back into my past. Departing for a moment the golden city of towers and business cards, I found myself visiting again the old house in Fillydelphia where I grew up, flying along the grimy paths and unkempt gardens around it like a little songbird or young pegasus; gliding freely along the crazy zigzag paths of the tiny park that then seemed a forest. It seemed that in every corner there was the sound of conversation, and together these voices scolding, haggling, singing created very much the sensation that one was in the eye of an interminable storm. I even remembered distinctly the makeshift baseball courts that seemed to be at the end of every street, though I never stopped to watch the improvised games they played there. All of these things together comprised the neighbourhood, and it wouldn't have been the same if any part of it had been missing.
I grew up in one of the larger houses in the street, though it lay indistinct in a long row of similar buildings. The walls weren't too solid, so that often you could hear the neighbours talking in their foreign tongue when there wasn't too much noise outside. I shared a room with my two brothers and sisters, being two years younger than half of them, and a year older than the others. As you'll imagine, there wasn't much privacy in such a household. My youth then was largely spent in the company of my family, and although I wouldn't want anyone to think I disliked my family, I firmly believe there is such a thing as 'too much' when it comes to family. That threshold surely was crossed a long time before I finally moved out with as little money on me as I had.
Particularly, when Kismet and myself were talking about the work I was set to do in service of the Royal Canterlot Palace, I was recalling a summer a few years before my move to Canterlot. It seemed at the time that I was remembering some distant past, but by my calculations that couldn't have been more than five or six years prior. I was, of course, still very young. Anyway, that year we were struck by a particularly insistent heat wave and as a result I mostly remember being continuously thirsty. Water, somehow, didn't seem very satisfactory, and I regularly found my lips parched, longing for strawberry lemonade throughout each long summer's day. Outside, it was the summer kids were often found clambering over abandoned couches and other such furniture, and the year three of my classmates had threatened to burn my sketchbook.
At home, we had divided the living room into separate 'islands' then, because the heat had made it so that there was an insurmountable supply of cockroaches scrambling around at all times of the day. We often found ourselves sitting on these furniture islands so that our hooves wouldn't touch the ground, and made sure the couches and chairs didn't come too close to the walls. From there we ate, talked, played (insofar as we could), but also, when he had returned from the workshop, we listened to Father's stories.
Father I remember most of all to be an exceptional storyteller, but also, he was very proud. He may have been just one more in a long line of coopers, but nonetheless he was proud of his heritage and proud of his duty to Equestria. And so, most of the stories he told were of noble soldiers and workers doing their part in saving Equestria. I won't now tell you about these stories themselves, for I would completely lose track of what I was going to talk about, but I will say that one particular element stood out to me. By Father's stories there was always some incorruptible force of good that his protagonists aspired to serve, in whatever limited way was afforded to them.
His view of the Royal Sisters was, I'm sorry to say, quite the contrast from the general opinion in town. Largely it seemed to be the popular view that since we were all but common workers in this town, we were largely neglected when it came to infrastructural improvements. Actually, that summer I was thinking of had a particularly pronounced outrage, because it more than ever exposed the deteriorating conditions of the architecture and general lack of adequate facilities. But, if you'll believe it, it ran far deeper even than that.
I did say just now that there was outrage, but really it was a sort of fierce, seething, disgruntling irritation that had manifested itself among most adults I came across. The best way I can describe to you this general viewpoint is by recounting to you a time that year when the teacher had pulled me aside and said to me: 'You know it would not be proper of me to tell you what you can and can't draw, but remember that we're not truly in their world.' Then Mrs. Comet knelt the least bit, in the way that some adults do when trying to level with children, and continued: 'Pegasi serve in the military and enjoy a privileged... a special position with good pay and recognition. Unicorns largely are in their own caste, enjoying positions of power. I wish we can offer you those same opportunities here, and in schools everywhere, but this is the reality we're in.' She would smile then, but it was a smile of sadness I later understood to be pity.
It might be a bit hard to believe that she, a teacher in a school, would say such a thing to a young student, but it is important to understand what she was speaking of when she spoke of us not being, as she said, in their world. As it was largely pictured, the economy and caste system was one specifically designed to maintain its figures of division, so that wealthy unicorns would continue to fill vacancies of professors, astronomers, doctors, and so on, while the pegasi were the designated protectors of Equestria. And what other necessary vocations would be left then, once those positions were met? It would be in the best interest of Equestria itself that the worker class would continue to work as they did so that aforementioned professors had desks to read at, the doctors had beds to sleep in, and so forth, rather than having them compete elsewhere.
Anyway, I'm sure that none of this is a compelling revelation to you, and I can't entirely say I truly know much more on the matter than those outlines I have just sketched before you, but what is important is that this was the prevalent perspective across town, and had been so for many generations. It was the perspective in the crafts school and it was the perspective in the shop at the corner. I couldn't help however, but largely ignore the things they said, and admire Princess Celestia. I often found myself thinking of her, even while Father told his stories. Holding myself on the chair, or whatever spot among my siblings I was afforded, l thought about what she was doing while the heroes Father spoke of did the things they did, travelling or toiling in whatever quest they had found themselves in. I pictured her then in some tower in her palace, envisioning how to enact justice and make things better for her subjects; pictured how she thought of the other characters in Father's stories. Sometimes I even pictured her thinking of me.
It was this little chapter of my life that came back to me then when I had been commissioned by the Royal Canterlot Palace, but I must say that even then my point of view had matured quite a bit. It was true that I revered Princess Celestia and the entirety of the Royal Sisters, but as I had learned more, I no longer entirely shared Father's perspective as much as he would've liked. To me, she was much more than a noble ruler; much more than one who simply did the right thing at the right time and did so better than anyone else could. This perception seemed too limited a scope to me. No, I had decided, Celestia's greatness could not be measured in classes of skill, power, or blood. It's hard to say exactly when this became clear to me, but by the time I had left the house and went to Canterlot, I felt myself to be very different from my family; almost as much, in fact, as I thought myself different from the rest of town.
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3 - My Work in Service of the Royal Canterlot Palace
I was lead to believe the guest quarters assigned to me were by all accounts modest chambers, but when they were first shown to me I had to disbelieve quietly that these queenly halls before me were anything but reserved for the highest of royal dignitaries. There was a separate bath and shower which sparkled luxuriously, a study with ample desk space already decked out with scrolls and quills, and even a small lounge with a long, silky red couch. All were spacious but not empty; decorated with several landscape paintings in golden frames and beautiful flowers climbing along the cosy window sills. In fact, shortly after my arrival I had, quite by accident, chanced a look around the pink and purple petals, awed to be given such a first class view of the waterfalls breaking along the cliff side.
Even so, it could hardly be said that my awe was limited to the condition of my guest rooms. So often when I found myself in the domestic management wing of the palace had I stopped in my tracks to admire the polished walls glistening just out of reach of daylight, or even stared simply at the golden brass door knobs. It would not be unfair to suspect that even the most common of servants had to feel like they were chosen in some way. One could say then, that there was no such thing as a 'common' servant within the palace walls. And, as we walked through endlessly carpeted hallways without so much of a single dust particle, it wasn't altogether uncommon for Mrs. Dialset to remind me with a polite cough that I had forgotten where we were going; that I had been absorbed by an archway, a prized view of the royal gardens, or a gold leaf spiral pattern that had found its way onto the spacious ceilings far above.
Simply, I felt I had been swept away and brought into another world entirely: a world where there existed no disease, hunger, war, or death, and no need for slavery or crime. The place was alive and fresh in every corner; smooth and cool as birdsong and bright as the sunshine itself, more so than I had even imagined it to be years ago when I had first pictured to myself the interior of Princess Celestia's quarters. Now that the palace's walls actually surrounded me, the experience was bigger than I could possibly have foreseen.
The bed I slept in had the softest sheets I had ever dreamed of, and, when I had taken to travel through the palace I felt that this same softness had followed me effortlessly. No doubt it helped in instilling in me a tremendous respect for the domestic management for keeping the place so spotless and radiant. Mrs. Dialset was a sturdy mare in practically every sense of the word; stocky in frame and at least as strong in character as elsewhere. Often, when she felt a helping hoof had to be called for in installing one of the higher-up panels, she shamelessly summoned the nearest guards at her disposal, barking instructions and constantly calling for nothing but the highest level of precision. And when we had an excess of glue, gloss, and tape at the end of a job, she again converted herself from humble assistant to that of a ruthless commander, making sure that by the time we departed from the scene not a trace of the operation was left behind. She had taken it upon herself to introduce all of the cleaning staff to me, and even had me acquainted to one Mrs. Raven Inkwell, one of Princess Celestia's most trusted aides. To say that I felt welcome would've done her a huge disservice, then, as I don't believe there are accolades in the Equestrian language that could possibly do the staff, and Mrs. Dialset in particular, justice.
I can say with complete honesty that the work I had done in the Royal Canterlot Palace was as magical while I was there as it was when I looked back on it after; something I'm sure you'll understand I did frequently, oftentimes even by intent. I'm sorry if I appear to be regaling you intentionally with passages designed solely to fill you with envy, but I must be honest in every sense, and that certainly necessitates mention of the working conditions that had awaited me in the palace. The work I was finalising there I consider then to be the very best I have ever done. And, as I will detail to you soon enough, I was not alone in such assessments.
While I had spent most of my time in the palace working - permitting of course the odd distraction afforded to me by its architecture - I was by no means singleminded in my effort. Notably, the rich fragrances of hot cocoa beans and freshly creamed coconuts that regularly found their way to both the guest quarters and the dining chambers had done much to remind me of how privileged I was. The humble training I had begun in Fillydelphia, hammering away on steel and wood; tempering and chiselling pointlessly in my ardour. The brief tutelage of Master Southwind. It was unfathomable that, somehow, I had found myself where I was as much in spite of my labours as I had because of them. Although I in part felt undeserving in the face of such riches, the constant assurance of everyone around me in the domestic management had done much to instill in me the proud notion that since I was in the position I was in, and would be there for as much time as it was thought right for me to be, I owed it to everyone and whatever 'fate' there existed, that I enjoy my stay.
I almost forgot to mention there, when speaking of recurring distractions and thereby praising the domestic management, that Kismet did in fact write to me regularly, as he had promised he would. It was true that in these letters he had made passing reference to his work in Vanhoover, his early contributions to several diagnoses, and had on occasion mentioned a boy or girl that he had met, but by and large his main interest was in my stay in the Royal Canterlot Palace. He would dedicate paragraph after paragraph to formulate his elaborate questions. How were my, as he put it, "esteemed peers and royal assistants", how was my room, and how was the food? He even asked, only several days after I arrived, if I had begun to get used to sleeping on something other than the stiff mattress in my atelier. I regret to say that I didn't write back to him as often as I probably should have. In part, of course, I was quite busy even outside of the work I was doing, but also I confess that in some way I had felt very separate from his world: his world had become more distant somehow even than what the physical space would have suggested. His hospital and even his interest in my affairs in the palace seemed less somehow than they would have, had it not been for the environment I now breathed.
Upon reflection, I realise that I may have exaggerated and so made my part in the correspondence appear unnecessarily anti-social. What I meant to say was that although I was content, simply, to let several letters go unanswered so that I could combine his queries and answer them in a single response, and indeed did so with due care, my heart was not wholly in it. In many ways both the reading and the answering of his letters were the most mundane of all the things I did in the palace, and as such it was not altogether unlikely for me to sit in one of the corners of the royal gardens and read or write from there, my mind often taken away by its floral smells and dazzling sapphire dragonflies.
You might understand then, that when Master Southwind had visited the palace to check on me, I considered it a far more exciting affair. He was there, after all, in person, and his presence was quite necessary. Not as necessary, perhaps, as either of us had thought, as aside from a few technical details regarding the support weights of my panels and their surrounding walls, his actual assistance was very much secondary to the comfort that his approval brought me. Even that, though, had not been as significant as could be expected. Working within the palace walls had matured me, much in the way Kismet and myself had speculated amidst that bottle of wine that they would, and ripened both my artist's pride and confidence - aspects of the craft, I must stress, one should ever hesitate to undervalue or take to be that arrogant sort of egotism we're all trained to despise.
So, as I had said, I had become increasingly forward in my interaction with Master Southwind, so that at one point when I knew him to be watching me rinse the caulking of a freshly installed mosaic, I called out to him from the top of the ladder, 'So, is it true what they say about you crossing the San Palomino Desert?' Quietly I had laughed to myself, remembering the distinct discomfort I had experienced when we had walked along the Arthouse only a little over a month ago.
I had expected him to join my laugh, but the longer he maintained silence, the more pronounced to me became the sense that I had overstepped my bounds. Carefully I rubbed the panel, waiting for him to show some sign of having heard me, all but sure he was offended by my callous perpetuation of some gossip. For a brief moment, as I could dimly hear Mrs. Dialset conferring at the end of the hallway with who I assumed to be a subordinate, I felt very much ashamed to have confronted my teacher with something of such low designs. After what felt like a long time, he said, 'It is half-true.'
The ambiguity in his answer spoke to me in a great many ways. I was as much assured by it as I took it to be evasive politeness. Equal parts admission and omission. Pride and embarrassment I likely imagined, as nothing in his voice really ever revealed anything so impassioned. Nevertheless, they were there, appealing to me to ask the follow-up his answer necessitated. Perhaps with a little more reservation, I called to him, 'In what way is it true?'
Slowly then, he started telling me how it was that he ended up near the San Palomino Desert, at first saying little more than could also be found in topographical reports or personnel accounts. Gradually, however, he started talking more freely, and I found myself gazing through the stained glass panels I had set in place, almost walking along the gardens outside; cantering among the grass sculptures in a great array of sun-spotted colours, fancying myself on some equally great adventure: travelling with the express permission of the Royal Sisters and under direct command of Princess Celestia herself.
I won't tell you now every single thing he had told me then. My hesitation to do so in part is because I can in no way be expected to remember everything of his story, and even if I could, it would certainly be too long a story for me to write within my own. (Verily, by the time he had finished, the sun had set and Mrs. Dialset had to trot along the hall in order to remind us of dinner.) But also, there was something personal in his recounting to me his story of debt and persistence that obliges me to consider his rights to tell his stories himself, and solely to whom he wishes would know them in full detail. I will, however, tell you a few rudimentary points and phrases that stood out; stood out, in fact, so much that I can still recall them precisely.
When he had seen the Great Obsidian demonstrate his magical ability to transmute stone and glass into any shape or form, he had desired instantly to possess also some semblance of these spells. Southwind, so he told me, had a great knack for learning obscure magic, and a certainty was with him that if he were instructed by such a great master, he too would be able to at least pull off something of the degree he possessed. Before he continued his story, he then sat down on a nearby satin-cloaked stool and explained to me how his heritage had always had a rich history with precious minerals, both in working with them as in honouring the gift itself in supplying their generations with power and wealth. He seemed to think this was essential for me to know, and in so treating it, mentioned only the most elementary of information. He was largely detached in his way then, and I had found my attention wavering despite my best intentions, when quite suddenly he said, 'The Great Obsidian did not in fact care one bit about my precious heritage. Had not in fact cared one bit about me . He said to me, "Fool! You know nothing of true magic!" and the gash that ran across his face seemed vicious and knowing.'
There was such venom in his voice, that for a moment, I had thought Master Southwind had brought this Great Obsidian into the palace, for I had never heard him speak in anything but the soberest, sleekest of ways. It appeared to me then that he had intended for me to be as much immersed in his story as he was, and whatever conduct he had assumed over the years was thought to be of a lesser importance. He continued for a moment to stress how much he had tried to plead with the wizard, emptying every reserve at his disposal. He was quick to offer him access to his father's connections, had also offered him all the money he had and would ever make, and finally, he offered the gratitude of a life in complete service to the great master.
'But,' (said Master Southwind), 'the Great Obsidian swung his black robes around him in absolute disrespect of my offers, saying with palpable distaste, "You know not what you offer, nor what you want. You are smaller than a drop in the ocean - no, you are not even that. Before me you are undeserving of the slightest moment of time. You are pathetic! You are not even nothing. If you wish to grovel, I say to you, you are permitted to grovel in only one way. Go, walk across the entirety of the desert, North to South. That is all I will say to you."
'And so he disappeared into the San Palomino Desert south of the rogue's town. I was astonished and disheartened; felt as if I was a bug crushed underneath the boots of its owner. I was so sure, you see, that he would see how committed I was; how thankful I would be if he would but teach me a shred of the magic he possessed. In my humiliation I had decided that the wizard, however powerful he may have been, was greedy. Greedy in that he would not wish to share his magic with anyone, however much they would be in need of it, or however much they wished to know it. I was determined to follow his path the very next day. I purchased water and hired a guide, leaving the bars and black market places far behind me, sure in the knowledge that I would prove to him that he was wrong about me.'
Many hardships awaited his journey through the desert. As you'll expect, he was altogether not built to withstand the intense assault that the sun brought during the long days, and it seemed to him to take ages to cover the distance towards each hill that followed the next. His guide abandoned him with citations, excuses, and a very fast lope. He also took most of his water and money, and it wasn't long until he had found his hooves burning into the sand through the very soles of his boots, incapable of lifting them off the ground sufficiently. He soon grew cold and could barely focus his thoughts and eyes to determine which way he was crawling. 'At some point,' Master Southwind said, 'I did not know if I was walking or standing still, sleeping or awake. Whether the slopes before me were real or a memory; a figment of some idea I once held near. How much time had passed I did not know, for I could no longer keep track of such things. I was an ant plodding without any burden of knowledge beyond the will to move, if indeed I was moving, forward... whatever forward it was that I tread upon.'
As he neared the climax of his story I had climbed down towards the hoof of the ladder, listening attentively, for I had after all, all but finished the work of the day. So it was that when he described to me the arrival of the Gryphtures I could see, through his gesticulations, precisely how the black brood menaced before him. As he put it: 'To say that the creatures attacked me was not to do justice to the ways of this clan. "It's barely awake, no sport at all," I could hear one of them shriek from somewhere behind, another's dagger-like talons wobbling before me, ever approaching and moving away; eyes as dark jewels, scrutinising and pitiless. "You! Do you hear me? I would very much like to exenterate a liver. I do like liver! Have you a liver, little sweet lost horse thing?" Slowly I had felt them swarm me, pecking, screaming and clawing into my skin, and I could do nothing to defend myself. I tried, of course, to recollect some spell that would serve me here, but I could not think of anything but being eaten alive, alone in the San Palomino Desert. I don't remember, but I do believe I cursed the place wholly and entirely.'
As you would expect from such a story, he then told me how the Great Obsidian rescued him. He told me that only later did he realise, upon leaving the shelter of his tent, what the wizard had done. 'All of the sand, as far as I could see had become solid ice, barely giving way under the harsh light of day. An icy smoke came to me, but at the same time, the sense of heat had begun to return to me, and I found myself shivering and sweating.
'When at last I had begun to thank him, after he had nursed me back to consciousness and fed me dried fruits and water, he told me, a harsh grimace stuck to his features, "Do not tell me of what my magic has or has not done for you. Already you have spoken thus; equated my worth, in every manner fashionable, to some distant power wished only to be understood and mastered. There are no shortcuts. No deserts you can walk through to get what you want; no money to purchase more than bread; no inheritance more than stone, pestle and mortar. There are no spells to learn that what you wish to know."
'It took me many years as his apprentice to understand what he meant when he said those things. And still, if you were to ask me today to explain it to you, I am not exactly sure that I could. I can however, practice our craft and hope to guide, in some small way, students such as yourself.' He stood up from the stool, sweeping it in some manner he had made his habit, and I do suppose that that was around the time that I had heard Mrs. Dialset's approach from across the hallway. When she had told me of dinner, and I had thanked her, I had found myself thinking again of how privileged I was, and how much I had to be thankful for. I am sure it was my smile that made him say to me then, in a voice that almost seemed to mock the deep enunciation to which I had grown accustomed: 'So, you can tell that the story, as the rumour goes, is about half-true. I had not in fact made it much further than about a third's way across.'
It had often seemed funny to me, long thereafter, that such a string of events could harbour such strict contrasts. Much like the way he had spoken of his tale of suffering, and without even trying to do so, had rendered it rife with humour. In fact, even as I walked alongside him towards the dining hall, I had thought again of the black cube we had once circled around in the Arthouse. I had found myself wondering if there was anyone who would look at that piece of art in a manner similar to how I experienced Master Southwind's story of crossing into the San Palomino Desert.
The few days after Master Southwind's visit were some of the very brightest I have ever been fortunate enough to have. That artist's sense of pride upon finishing my work was swelling up within me, and I felt that completing it had in many ways fulfilled the goals I had set out for myself many years ago when I had started my education. Those years of technical labour of the crafts school were behind me, and even, the actual art itself was behind me, so that I could now enjoy the feeling that a personal promise was kept, and I had every reason, or even every need , to be satisfied with what I had accomplished.
I had considered already to write a letter to Kismet - his two latest letters had gone unanswered, so certainly it wouldn't be out of place - when Mrs. Inkwell had brought me a direct message from the princess. She had appeared early in the day, unannounced, and when I had opened the door she had stood there just one step into the room in a very formal manner. I had considered the possibility that she was going to tell me that several of the pieces had proven dissatisfactory, but soon after I learned that this was simply her way of doing things: she had felt it her obligation to bring messages from the princess free from flourish or other distractions, and did her utmost to convey the message word for word with a keen attention to its spirit.
She said, 'the Princess wishes to express to you how greatly she values your dedication, your attention, and your sensitivity in completing your work in the palace. Particularly she sent me to tell you about the mosaic of her six friends, which she appreciates in many ways difficult for me to convey. She told me it had made her smile.'
Overcome with tears, I very nearly hugged her. And in the second before I stopped myself, I had already imagined squeezing her tight. Raven smiled both gracious and hesitant, and I knew that she didn't know what to do if I had indeed embraced her. It may be difficult to understand why I had reacted so emotionally to what was, in many ways, a very logical following of my completing the commission for the Royal Canterlot Palace, and I'm sure also that the general art of such messages is something that might belong to the past. But to me, it was as if Celestia herself had summoned me to her court - or, no, she had flown to Fillydelphia and paid me a visit. Every word that Raven dictated to me, I heard spoken from the princess's mouth; every punctuation she had uttered made me picture, effortlessly, the princess pacing in her throne room with expert grace. When her aide touched her spectacles, I saw Celestia nodding sagely, and, when the message was finished, vividly I pictured a grateful smile; a smile invented solely for me. Such was the imagination I possessed when it came to the princess's charity, that I could not but cry, feeling altogether undeserving, and yet, also, feeling like I had been lifted up; lifted to a higher calling.
Mrs. Inkwell then told me, as formally as before, certainly, but not with the voice that made me picture the princess, what was to be my offer in further service to the Royal Sisters and Equestria itself. She told me, verifying the details briefly via a notebook, that if I wished to accept the offer I would be taken to various venues across Equestria and beyond the Crystal Mountains, where a "challenging variety of work was to be done". She said, 'You would be duly compensated for many difficult, intricate pieces that would often require inventiveness in very unusual circumstances. We can't promise even that this will be altogether without danger, or that the work will be truly respected by everyone in each location you will travel to, but it will be arranged as much as it can be, that if you were to accept this offer, that all the materials and assistance you could ever think of will be provided for. I'll see to it myself.'
Quietly I watched her, half-expecting her to say more, and half-expecting her to leave. She then asked, simply, 'Do you accept?'
I immediately jumped over the tea table to kiss her on the cheek. Overcome with joy, I laughed, 'I accept! I accept!' Although it was impossible for me to then regain fully my composure, nonetheless I coughed once and then looked as seriously as I could, no doubt appearing comical at best, and I said, 'Of course, I accept.'
For days I was very much in a rush of disbelief, and far too often I had to tell myself that what I was doing, and the ground itself that I trod, was very much real. I spoke with many ponies who worked within the palace, crafting itineraries and, in a sense, shopping for supplies; shopping with the exception that there was no money, no inventory, and no doubts regarding their delivery. Therefore, if I wanted raw salts of every precious mineral ever discovered, I could say so - by word or note - certain that they would be waiting for me at exactly the time appropriate in precisely the condition requested. Often I found myself gaily trotting through the royal gardens in ways I would've found quite unbecoming previously, quite aware that I had become silly.
It was such a frame of mind I was in when Mrs. Dialset had found me in the hallway, lost in the process of verifying that I had indeed finished every single window I had done. In part of course I wanted to make sure that there was no hard to remove particle of dirt or dust in some corner or other, and that there were no mistakes I had overlooked that I would have to correct at a later time, but also there was a part of me - a part I'm quite certain realised that no mistakes had been made - that simply wished to enjoy, if but for a moment, my own hoofwork for what it was.
Mrs. Dialset had brought with her another letter from Kismet, and soon I was reminded that in the events of the past few days I had repeatedly forgotten our correspondence. I also had been so busy that whenever it did come to mind, each time I ended up postponing my intention to write to him. As a result there was so much that I had to write about that I could probably spend a whole night on it. Thanking Mrs. Dialset, I pocketed the letter and resolved to read it before the day was through.
That day I had on several occasions felt myself to be in violation of some code of the palace. You see, I had very much completed my work, no matter how much I would try to pretend to myself that I had not, and what little was left to do regarding my upcoming work all resided in the future. It was hard to shake a sense of being a little out of place among the stoic guards and hard-working cleaners, the gardeners and the cooks; all of the Royal Canterlot Palace staff was busy, in many ways similar to how I had been busy before, but my own time within the grand walls was fast running out. Still, then, I held onto Kismet's letter, perhaps fancying the idea that reading it had become some such task as well now.
With due diligence, perhaps emulated from ponies such as Mrs. Dialset and Mrs. Inkwell, I tasked myself in my wandering around the palace to think of things I would write about. When I rolled myself in the white sheets of the bed, I remembered Master Southwind's story, certain that he had divined the offer that would await me, and in some way perhaps imparting onto me even a sense of his unshakeable dignity. It was a feeling that said that, regardless of the position that awaited us, we had to remember and strive constantly to complete the tasks ahead of us with the same resolve that had set us on our journey long ago.
I resolved also to enjoy, as before, every bite of lunch that was brought to me. I made notes to myself to mention in my letters also the littler things, things he would not have thought of, that would make my experience in the Royal Canterlot Palace seem as real to him as it had been to me. The croissants crumbled, nearly evenly, with the sound of a purring cat; the way the summer breeze floated through the arched hallways, and never was too wild or timid - all of these details I would mention in my letter later that night.
Not too long after that, as I again found myself walking through the hallways of the palace, I considered for the first time the immediate journey in front of me. Certainly, I had made arrangements already regarding my forthcoming appointments, but somehow, they had not seemed yet to be truly real. It was difficult to consider my future while I was staying in the palace, but perhaps because I would be departing a few days after, that enchantment had started to wear just enough to be considering for the first time, as I had just mentioned, my next destination.
North of Canterlot, I had learned, resided a little farmer's town called Cherrywell, and it was to this town that a coach was set to take me in a few days. For the town's square I was to design and oversee the installation of a crystal-glass memorial centrepiece. As I walked along the royal gardens, I found myself gradually becoming more apprehensive of this task. To the townsponies of Cherrywell I was no one in particular, strolling in, as it were, into their town to present a work of art that would aspire to do their purpose justice. What's more, my principal disciplines were hardly geared exactly towards glass blowing abstract art.
And yet, to avoid failure, I reasoned, was not my main concern. I had familiarised myself in the study on Cherrywell's one-hundred-and-sixty year history. Among all their houses and stores that had remained for so many years, there had not been one building that stood out and would allow for the stained glass mosaic I knew I could do. It was then a simple cause of doing what I could to respect the great fire their town had been through seventy years ago; to pay tribute to their cause to rebuild and honour the memory of those that were lost, known to them or not. I felt myself strengthened by the notion that in some curious way, I represented the Royal Sisters, and thus it was that perhaps my contribution was not to be so much the physical product, but rather the display of intention and gratitude behind the process of designing the centrepiece.
Those were my thoughts when I had decided to sit on one of the royal garden's benches and at last take out Kismet's letter from my pocket. Although I took my upcoming plight very seriously, I felt it necessary to pace myself and take whatever relaxation the palace offered me in those last few days, knowing that through the peace it offered, I would be in exactly the right frame of mind to do what lay ahead of me. However, when I opened the letter and scanned the opening phrases, a beguiling wave of severity came over me. He opened his letter by greeting me with my full name, something that in all the letters he had written to me he had never done. In fact, I could not recall him ever referring to me by my full name. But, sure enough, as if I had become some new form of life, that's how he addressed me at the start of his letter.
Even then, as I weighed those first sentences, a fear came to me; indeed it had swooped in entirely to me unannounced, unexpected as an owl diving towards its prey in the middle of a summer's day. I felt myself slowly shut out the song of birds around me, so that for a moment, I could focus on the letter I held in my hooves.
The further along the message I crept, the faster I would read and the more confused I had become, so that by the end of it I had felt a hopelessness course through me, wondering which part of his letter I had missed or had failed to read properly. For all that, his letter was hardly a garble of words, nor did it seem written in haste. It was not so much longer than his other letters had been, nor had he been unclear in his language. No, his hoofwriting was as diligent as it had always been, and it was clear upon re-reading it several times, that I had not misinterpreted any vital part of it and had not skipped some crucial sentence. Nevertheless, it was the way it was written itself; the style normally so winsome and inquisitive had somehow twisted into something else, much like how in his salutation I had become "Dear Lily Crystalline". All of this was what told me even before I grasped the contents of his letter, that no more letters would come after it. Particularly, I felt this was expressed in his second-to-last paragraph, which I will copy below:
"The process will not be too easy, I'm sure, and there are many procedures to follow, both when it comes to work and the bureaucracy itself, to say nothing of the unspoken rules with such arrangements. As we're set to be married, likely many more things will pop up that will need our attention, and even when the ceremony is completed, many more concerns will somehow reveal themselves to us. In some ways, Lily, it might not be very much different from the times when Mettle and the other students had put up those hindrances for you, but we will try our best to overcome them as well as you have on those occasions."
He went on then for a short while after that, reiterating his best wishes regarding my work for the Royal Sisters, before politely signing his letter in much the same way as it had begun. The cadence of his letter carried with it a sense of the knowledge of all that had come before, much like he had referenced the ateliers in that paragraph. And as I had verified this completion, much of that finality that I found in his letter carried over onto me. I found myself struck by a deep sense of loss - not the sharp pain one felt when a close friend died; not even the intensity of losing a parent or sibling. Rather, I found myself slowly turning inward, but as opposed to my youthful fantasies, this time it wasn't at all my intention to do so. I felt like I should do something; reach out in some way; speak, scream, or listen and cry. But so soon after reading his letter it had already ceased to be of the present time.
When I heard the voice of Mrs. Dialset nearby, I had already spent an incalculable time locked in an indescribable numbness. It was not so much that I did not care; rather, it felt like I had grown suddenly tired of myself, and that my frustrations were as blank canvases and grey evergreens; so unlikely to place, that it did not even matter whether I knew exactly where they had sprung from. They were part of the same remote colony as the letter, as firmly of the past as bad candy and classroom sketches.
It had become dark then and Mrs. Dialset, having missed me at the dining table, had taken it upon herself to come looking for me. Politely I had explained that I wasn't feeling hungry, and expressed how thankful I was for her concern. It would probably not surprise you to hear that her consideration extended also to the courtesy of taking my reply with a notable respect, soon returning me again to the darkness of the royal gardens, though I regret to say that my state of mind was not quite suitable for appreciating its midnight beauty.
At one point, perhaps shaken by a passing moth that had nearly entangled itself in my mane, I told myself that I had things to get ready for tomorrow. But although I had thought of Cherrywell, meeting with Mrs. Inkwell, and indeed, felt in some way again the purpose I had found myself in, I could not bring myself to stand up from the bench. So it was that I could not go to my room and sleep, but I was equally unable to think about anything in particular. I scanned separate sentences, sifting them once more, but there was no longer anything there beyond the words themselves. Before my eyes they faded and I relived the travels of letters to and from the palace, guided whimsically through roads of stars and planets, rows of stairways and rainy villages. So I stared before me in this incongruity, the chilly wind brushing my nape.
There comes a time in such a state that one finds the inevitable encroach upon them. It felt as if some great battle had passed, and that as the faint glow of dawn crept into the sky, soon I would have to pick myself up, leaving the sores and splinters of defeat for the coming day. In spite of this awakening, it did not at first quite register to me when a soft voice behind me beamed through the silent darkness: 'Hello there. Might I ask who you are?'
Gasping, and reaching through my mane, I turned my head, hastily getting to my hooves and about to bow low. My lips quavered and I forgot for a moment anything that had previously crossed my mind. But even in the disconnected state I was in, I realised how disrespectful it would be to carry myself like a distant servant... verily, I felt closer than I had felt to anyone real or otherwise. Simply bowing my head, I said, 'Your highness. I'm Lily Crystalline, your highness.'
Slowly then, she swerved around the bench and smiled at me until I felt compelled to look up and meet her eyes, no doubt returning her gracious smile rather awkwardly. It was her smile. The smile I had always pictured in my head. Gently she said, 'Of course. I understand you are the talented artist responsible for the beautiful stained glass windows.' She approached me, and I felt almost ashamed of looking at her - I could tell she was considering something. It dawned on me even in those seconds that not many would be able to tell that within that bright composure she was carefully thinking of what more to say to me. Part of me wanted to ask her why she was perusing the royal gardens at night, but even if I had found the boldness to do so, I doubt I would have managed it.
Then she smiled again. Differently now; more pronounced somehow. It was a smile of long ago sweet memories; a smile of singing naked in the rain; a smile of attic treasure hunts. She said, only a hoofstep away from me, 'I'm sorry for disturbing your thoughts, Lily.' Suddenly I realised I had been crying. Tears now had found their way along my nose, their bitter taste passing my lips as my throat had become swollen and harsh. My neck ached, and my hooves were suddenly throbbing with pain. The strain of the one posture I had been in had finally found its way to my senses, and I felt unable to stop crying. I had not the hope of knowing what to tell her. I was too small; too little. Smaller still than the drop of water Master Southwind had mentioned in his story.
That was when a warmth came over me. The princess put her hoof around my shoulder, pressing close to my neck. All that she said then was in her eyes, gentle as the first day of spring. Her hoof was as pearlescent petals yet unyielding as the earth itself. I nearly choked, trying to speak. 'I-I love you,' I said, scarcely able to consider what it was that had sprung from my mouth. Even still, there was a wisdom within her touch itself that made me wish time would stop; made me wish I could remain within her reach forever. But I knew she could not let it be so, and when she squeezed me; squeezed me with more knowledge and strength than all the books in the world, already I suspected in some unfathomable way that she would simply stroll away, rounding the corner along the jasmines and roses. No haste in her step; no need to explain herself. And within that understanding, there was no need even for me to explain myself: she knew, as certain as the night and day and all the days still to come.
For years I have thought of that instance, wondering about what I had said then. Or, to be more exact, I had wondered what would have happened if she had come across me at another time; had met me at a time when I would have been able to think and speak without such strain and confusion. I had even considered, many years thereafter, that if that would have been so, she would not have found me at all. But, even still, the strongest thought I had developed over all of this time was also the simplest: it didn't matter. She could have spoken for days or I could have been as eloquent as I've ever been, still those would be but glimpses of a breeze, where she was all of the air; all of the everything.
" - A Bouquet of Promises
There was a breadth of emotion within me I was heretofore unaccustomed to, and whenever I thought - just for a brief moment - that my travels across Equestria would lessen the sensation, the work itself would remind me that this could never be so. I've heard of the saying that spoke of doors opening and closing, but in my experience there were a great many doors opening at all times, and most of them would have to be closed as soon as possible. Each piece I dedicated myself to brought with it the promise of another mission in some faraway place, beautiful and lonesome or tiny and old. In truth, I feel somewhat ambivalent now, when I look at those years. I had told myself that it wasn't to be expected that Celestia would take away every difficult thought or wistful sensation within me. That wasn't her way even if she could. Rather, hers was the strength that made me carry on and experience other, equally powerful emotions. I felt very wise whenever I reminded myself of this.
Beyond those feelings, there was a sense of permanence inescapable to me. Even when I was caught for days in a blizzard far north - perhaps I'll tell you that story another time - I never once thought anything would truly end. Being was reserved for the tree called now, I'd tell myself. Ever evolving, twisting its branches closer to the light, much like the coming of dawn itself. A curious phenomenon, and yet there existed this same magnetism everywhere I went. Three years I spent in small scholarly towns along the north western coast, where they told stories of only beginnings. A tired raccoon would meet a raccoon he liked. A lonely prince learned to sing and dance and do all sorts of things. There would always be tired raccoons and lonely princes, or dedicated doctors and silly little girls.
Long before this civilisation had been forged, ponies have fashioned coloured glass by adding salts and oxides not so much differently than I have; all bending the air and shaping the earth, and by shaping it, so strive to shape their own destinies. The multi-layered gemmail windows I had experimented with by using crystal glass in place of lead cames would stay there in the courtyards of the Crystal Castle, ever company to its sparkling columns and silvery trees. Not forever in their current form perhaps, but surely they would remain in some sense with everyone I assembled them for. So too, across all of Equestria I had contributed to a permanence, and through this permanence, I found myself carrying myself with more weight - not because I had thought I had paid so much tribute and brought so much importance, but rather I had felt it necessary to do so in order to represent the wishes of the Royal Sisters as much as I could.
The satisfaction that I had derived from my work was as untameable as the seas, and yet, as unyielding as the Smokey Mountain: if it was asked of me I would have continued in this pursuit indefinitely, as for all the wonders that Equestria held before me there was nothing that could touch that which I have lost and found. But, as my story continues to illustrate, in life there somehow always remained the room for the unexpected.
4 - Returning to My Parents
It was in one of the early autumnal months that I was working in my Canterlot workshop on a window piece for the great hall - a 68ft tall stained glass mosaic of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna - when a letter came to me from my elder brother. Now, he had on occasion written to me regarding family matters, so it was not in itself odd that he would write to me, but nonetheless his message struck me as quite a different affair than his usual. Although within this letter he had spoken of "my earliest convenience" and even had said that I should come only when my current work is completed, paradoxically there existed an urgency in his letter that I found unshakeable. My parents had taken sick, and although he hadn't elaborated on it beyond this minimal notice, I felt within me growing a certainty that they were dying. As such, I found it necessary even to complete only the bare essentials of the mosaic; entrusting my talented new apprentice Miss Ladybird with its installation.
Before I knew it, I had found myself in a coach, riding again through the unpredictable streets of Fillydelphia. We passed the many muddy baseball courts, the kids playing there undeterred by the grassy patches or the surrounding fences and houses. Nearby dogs barked and offended cats, secret mice scurried through unpainted fences and past the gardens of the conniving, screaming, or indifferent. I did not imagine that the squalor that awaited me did so with open legs: I could not help but feel instead that I was yanked out of my life - pulled from my world with its own separate hardships - and thrown into something else entirely, something as indeterminable as the refrain of the season's torrential rain. All in all, when finally the coach had stopped near the old house, it did not feel like I had returned home.
The door opened to the fading voice of my mother. 'I told you to bring the keys,' she called from somewhere near the kitchen, 'I will make the coffee.' I found myself taking stock of the changes that had been brought to the place, and although it was true that there was a castaway bed and a new cabinet in the living room, tall and steady under the arrangement of saucers and cups, I felt annoyed that despite all of the money I had sent them, little had been done to repair most of the place. The walls in particular, though seemingly plugged up, were more discoloured than ever, and looked very much like they were due to give way at any moment. Finally I had found my mother in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. She stopped then and, turning, she remarked, 'You're not Gladstone.' Looking at me more closely she then exclaimed, 'You're back! I'm so glad.'
Briefly we exchanged fond hellos, until she said, almost hurriedly: 'Father is in bed. He's very tired right now, but you could go and see him right now. I'll put some coffee on.'
'I don't drink coffee,' I reminded her, heading into my parents' bedroom.
The room smelled of cough syrup and a neighbourhood barbecue and was as much shade as it was light. Sure enough, Father was in bed. It had been some years since I had seen my parents, and yet, it still did not feel like reunion. Rather, it resembled more closely this dusty chest I had found holding a selection of curious artefacts. They did not seem changed at all, merely older.
Although I considered for a moment the possibility that Father would be asleep, still I approached the bed from the window's side, leaning in closely. As if tugged at by some hidden puppeteer, his eyes started opening, slow and steady. 'I'm sorry if I can't get up,' he said, laughing gruffly. 'Your mother seems to think it's a cute trick of mine, to make me feel very special about myself. Can't entirely say I blame her.'
There were many things I wanted to ask him then, though none of them were profound questions. Simply, I wanted to know why they were the only ones who were at home: why it was that, of all of their children, I was the only one summoned to the old house. I wanted to know also, of course, the nature of this sickness my brother had mentioned in his letter. Certainly Mother seemed very much alive, considering her advanced years. What then, had afflicted my father? Although I could not bring myself to give voice to these questions, I resolved at least to inquire, if but subtly, about his current state. 'Are you in bed a lot these days?' I asked.
'Ah, but there are many things I can do in bed,' he said, smiling, 'I can still order your mother around even from here.' He winked at me and called out, barely loudly enough, 'Where are my magazines dear? What about some coffee?' Then he returned to the hushed grit he had previously spoken with, as much worn as it was conspiratory. He grinned rather smugly, saying, 'See? It's really perfect.'
Not without some annoyance, I looked outside, craning my neck to see the park at the corner of the street. It had started to rain again, so I soon closed the window to its customary position, where some air could still come in, but we would not be treated to a harsh rainstorm. I was certain that he had deliberately taken my polite inquiry and turned it into a joke, forcing me to ask once more. So it was that when Mother entered the room with a tray of cups and, indeed, a modest heap of magazines, that I asked her, 'Is he in bed all day?'
Setting down the cups on the nightstand, she smiled and said to me, 'He shouldn't be getting lazy in his condition. He should be getting some exercise regularly.'
'His condition...' I started, and Father propped himself up, greedily swiping the magazines from the tray, indignantly calling out, 'I'm right here!'
The hour following my arrival largely comprised such frustrations, and although I couldn't say that these things were uncommon among parents, still I found myself annoyed with their evasiveness. More than that though, I regret to say, already I felt bored. Father was content to work on crosswords, barely making any effort to include me even there. So, saying I would check on Mother, I had returned to the living room where I found her staring listlessly out of the window, coffee in hoof. I was curious, mostly because there was nothing else for me left to be curious about, what it was that she was thinking; what it was that she was picturing out on those barren streets.
At length, my elder brother came home, and as he made a distinct effort to dry his coat I found myself glaring at him impatiently. He seemed to have a particular routine process of getting coffee and re-dressing, and combined with the reaction Mother gave him - or rather, the lack of one - it told me he had been staying here for quite a while. Only when he finished his coffee did he say to me, at last, 'So, we should talk for a moment. Let's go to the old room.'
He lead me then to our old bedroom, which had been entirely redecorated. I could not but be surprised by these changes, in spite of all of them making perfect sense: already I had been told the room had long turned into a guest room, allowing for whichever of us visiting to stay as long as we wished. There was also something in my brother's manner that had started to gnaw on my nerves, but somehow, in the old room the resonance was stronger. It was hard to place exactly, but his entire conduct told me that for all intents and purposes he was a responsible caretaker, and I was little more than a visitor.
Slowly then, as he stood against the far wall (I was bidden to sit on the side of the bed), he told me of our parents' respective illnesses. Mother, so he explained, was largely all right most of the day, but her mental faculties were afflicted by some onset of one of the more pressing degenerative neural motor disorders, and often times would, if but for a moment, forget entirely where she was or what she was doing. It would not be long before she too would require professional attention. He spoke at length about this, detailing functions of the midbrain and how these correlated with the attention she required from professional carers, and when he did so he had adapted an air of authority quite outside of what I had come to know as his personality.
Still many questions plagued me, but before any of these were addressed, he seemed to stop suddenly, realising perhaps that he had told as much about Mother's condition as he could. I looked around me, finding that quite unexpectedly the rain had stopped and a few rays of sunshine had broken through the window. 'And Father?' I asked at last.
He sighed, deliberating with himself. Perhaps he wasn't sure where to begin, but also, I found in him a trace of guilt, suggesting to me that he had not been entirely honest in writing to me, and that my parents' condition was not as severe as I was lead to believe. I did not wait for him to finish his deliberations, and asked, this time more directly, 'Where's everyone else?'
He was more eager to tell the manifold stories of logistics and current living conditions of our three siblings. With some pride he detailed our youngest brother Apothecare's scholarship and subsequent dedication currently necessitated by an alarming increase in demand for up-and-coming researchers. In fact, he reported so thoroughly on his field of entomology that he did not hesitate to recount to me the anecdotes Apothecare himself has shared with us years ago, when I was still in crafts school and Gladstone spent most of his nights in bars or at friends. 'You could really see his burgeoning interests even then,' he concluded.
Although there was a wild pace to his report, one that thrashed and then quietened with nuanced reflection, at all times he maintained that measure often found in a professor's lecture - one that did not permit any interruption. In such a way he informed me of our remaining siblings' status: Padlock was in labour - the variety where babies were involved - and, finally, although he had expressed a strong desire to visit, it could not be expected of Greenway to travel all the way from Prance until it was absolutely certain that the moment called for it.
Particularly when he spoke of Greenway's situation I sensed in his explanation a deliberate care given to how my parents' condition was referred to. Indeed, although he had no doubt attempted to retain his balanced expression, recurring trembles wrinkled his face. These wrinkles were preserved even when he was finished, though it was hard to tell if he was even ware of them. I had found myself fidgeting and could not meet his gaze for very long, turning my eyes instead to the drops that swam across the window. Not without exasperation and largely to myself, I concluded, 'And yet, here I am.'
'So you are,' he agreed. He seemed almost amused at this comment, as if it were somehow a curious affair. It was true, of course, that I had not visited my parents in a long time, but then, there had been little reason to. It held little value to me to simply be present, with little for us to say or do, all simply to satisfy some unspoken obligation. Our words died down and gradually the atmosphere in the room grew more and more uneasy, until I was quite certain that one of us would snap, somehow - snap in some adult sort of way - when suddenly we found ourselves listening to odd murmurs from somewhere in the wall opposite of me. Apparently, because of the falling rain, they had not up till recently been audible. Faintly, I could hear their voices, and I could not help but wonder if behind that wall still lived the same neighbours that had done so so many years ago. My brother rose to his hooves then, his shadow casting its dark tone on the wall, and he left the room without another word.
It took us some days until I would finally learn why I had truly been summoned back to the old house. Most of those days I had spent in the living room, where was set up a bed for our elder sister Padlock's visits, who for some reason had refused the old bedroom. There I corresponded with my apprentice, remarking on multiple occasions how my brother had, all by himself, made the place seem more crowded than it had ever been. It was difficult for me to spend much time with my mother, certain that at any moment Gladstone would step forward to remind her of something, or instead ask her one of his many pet questions.
She would be reading a cooking magazine, nestled into the ragged corner of the couch that was hers, until her eyes had traveled deep into its pages, but before long my brother's voice would appear, inquisitive and sudden. 'What was it you would like to see for supper?' or 'Have you found your old crosswords yet?' When we conversed, at no time did we reach the point where I was certain we had broken past the most elementary of beginnings. Simply, my brother's presence did not allow it.
Much due to him, I had spent ample time reacquainting myself with the neighbourhood. So, I learned which of the old shops had been torn down, reappropriated, or otherwise, and found that the old school still existed, if quite with a different look than I had remembered. Its playground had sequestered around the corner, and the face of the building had a big screen that bore its shiny, unfamiliar credentials. Eventually I even read the names at the neighbour's door, just to make sure they were in fact new. Judging by these findings, it would be fair to conclude that much had changed in the neighbourhood, but I could not help but tell myself that every little tweak in its latticework was more similar than it was truly different, or, indeed, new.
In my correspondences I must have appeared impatient, much of which too came courtesy of my brother's own infectious impatience. To my apprentice, I had described one particular manner of his thusly: When confronted in his daily planning with another suggestion, there is often an offence to it that only he can perceive. Such unique perspective is a terrible burden, and it manifests itself where he can somehow both breathe an exhaustive sigh and simultaneously mutter, "If it pleases you." The natural path may have been to question then what was expected of me instead, but most of my thoughts branched altogether differently, and much deeper than I could truly understand.
I did not write of this in such detail, but his if it pleases you I frequently posed upon myself as well, albeit in many different ways than was his wont. It appeared largely as a puzzle; a tangle of cords and ropes dangled before me tauntingly by some unseen hoof. Each time I repeated the phrase to myself, I sought to understand it - to try to divine some of its profoundness that surely must be there, but I succeeded only in growing more and more angered by its presence. I did not allow myself to reminisce of my time in the castle, but still I found myself in the royal gardens, right before she appeared. Under the glow of the stars its pond shone bright as diamonds, and I stood among its flowers and all of its greens as though not a day had passed. Beautiful as it was, so too was I saddened by it, though not from it being past. I could not truly fathom this sadness that I felt to my very core, and it was precisely this puzzle that increased its vehemence. In my frustration, I longed to return to my work.
It was not my habit to correspond on such faraway topics, but each day when I wrote to Ms Ladybird, the letters could not but become more petty and insular. If it pleases me , I then thought to myself as I catalogued the disputes before me, why don't I travel the world in search of old friends or friends I had never made? What good would it do, to see the lives they have forged, and how they have festooned their years past? Regardless of what they have built, I would not be able to stay. It certainly would not address my present situation, which could only be confronted in the old house. Writing to my apprentice on these matters, however, nursed my sense of resolve, and though it was sadness or anger that often occupied my faculties, I was determined to have ample light shine on my stay's unanswered questions.
Finally, when Gladstone had returned one day, and again stowed his coat and set about to make himself a cup of coffee, I found myself telling him, 'There are a few projects in my workshop that need tending to. I was thinking perhaps next week-'
'You know, Lily,' he started, setting down his cup on the sink. He had made his mind up in an instant, absolute clarity hanging around him like a charm he was well-acquainted with. 'It's all well and good to have your own life,' he continued, 'but to think so little of the lives of others is really quite unbecoming.' I considered then that he must have referred to me being ungrateful, somehow, to my parents. True or not, I could not but wonder if they had heard from their bedroom my brother rising up in their defence when he sighed, concluding, 'You seem to think you're the only one who's got other things to be doing.'
He decided to continue making his coffee, but his movements were forced and slow. As though it was a logical extension of these proceedings, he picked up again his speech, his voice raised to that constant, instructional tone: 'Yet in all your important work you have forgotten that my wife and son are waiting for me at home. But it is not me, who's sitting where you are right now and asking, "But when, sister, am I allowed to go home?"'
I stuttered a brief laugh, and, recovering, shot him a short hmm as he perused the cabinets in search of something or other that likely did not even exist. 'Put down your coffee granules and tell me why I am here, ' I demanded.
Part of me expected him to break down crying, even though that had never been his way. It just seemed right then to be exactly the absurdest thing to do. Rather, without turning to face me he decided, 'Okay. Father asked me to write to you. Before... before it would be too late.'
Even then I wondered how close to death he was, and if this was an affair that would take many years or mere months. Was I then required to stay indefinitely? In his words there was nothing of true urgency. Speaking of "it" being "too late" was linked, somehow, to his outburst; his own family, and the manner in which he had come to regard me. What at first I had seen as authority now seemed more to be accusatory, and I could not help but feel like I had become to him the sole source of all that was wrong in the world. He said then, with some finality, 'You should speak to Father as soon as you can.'
When the distractions of lunch had run their course, and Gladstone went to get groceries before the store closed, I finally went to see Father. Perhaps he had seen in my eyes some purpose to my calling on him, or he had overheard our conversation in the kitchen earlier that day, for he said to Mother, 'Dear, will you leave me to talk with our beautiful daughter?' As she made her retreat, I briefly wondered if they ever talked to each other these days without anyone else present.
At first it seemed that his "talk" was of little consequence. Not only were his effects and finances of little value, but he treated them exactly as such. He was never the sort to become sentimental when it came to amassing baubles and photographs, so these properties he described exclusively with a practical air. There was a contingency, particularly, that he was telling me about that made me wonder why it was me, and not my brother, who was told this. He said, 'When your mother is left alone here, I do not wish for her to put up with this house. You'll have to persuade her to be taken to a hospice or some such place.
'A peaceful and charming one, naturally - will you make sure you find the right one for her when the time comes?' It was odd to hear Father talk about his own death, and I couldn't help but think him rather silly. Childish, almost, as if he was indulging himself in one last chance to command attention, much like Mother had suggested he was in spending so much time in bed. In many ways, his will had slowly transformed into one of his stories, where it was he, of course, who was to be the long-suffering but noble hero.
'Did you get your exercise today?' I asked suddenly, determined perhaps to change the tone of the conversation. But where I had expected a petulant rebuke, and even had prepared a follow-up in the case that he would simply continue undeterred, he instead looked at me gravely, at once pulling on my hoof, so that I found myself close to his wrinkled face. I was startled to find that, like Mother, he had come to smell like soap and urine. And although it was true that he had become quite advanced in years, now his eyes were open, betraying little of the tiredness he had shown previously. Surely none of his features declared some demise close around the corner. 'There's one more thing I wish to ask of you, while I can,' he said.
As the sun cast itself on my back, I patiently waited for him to gather the strength to tell me what he had called me for. 'In one's twilight years, one often finds himself wondering how much really it is that they have done. And I wonder if I have done enough; done my part in my duty.' He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, so I thought that perhaps he would say no more and would instead fall asleep, but then he said, 'But what can I do? Even if I could, a barrel is hardly honourable.
'In a way, it would be more fitting if it were you.' He swallowed very precisely then, and I realised he was struggling to say what he needed to say. He pointed vaguely at the nightstand then, whispering, 'There, in the second drawer.'
Removing myself the least bit from the bed, I began wrenching open the drawer specified. The wood was old and I was afraid that in pulling it unstuck, I'd break the entire thing. As I tried to find the right balance between gentle and firm, he murmured, 'I have tried writing to the city council, but perhaps an old ghost like myself is hardly compelling in his entreatment. It would be possible, I hope, to take care of the bureaucrats and paperwork that...'
His voice trailed off, waiting for me to unravel the scroll I found in the drawer. A particular fear came over me that I couldn't quite explain. I had grown long ago to dislike his use of the word honour, but now when he spoke of things being honourable, he seemed no longer even to refer to anything he could place. It had somehow faded into the distance then, faintly revered but no longer explicable. When I unrolled the scroll part of me had wanted to laugh. I regret to say that his design was quite ridiculous to me, and I couldn't help but think he had no idea what he had been doing. His condition had seemed more serious suddenly than I had thought, and it was precisely his seriousness at working himself towards this final request that had made him seem bounds away from the life I had come to value in my workshop and elsewhere in Equestria in service to the Royal Sisters. As mutely as I could, I asked, 'This is a single wall?'
'Yes, a wall. But, see, you can look through the window from both sides then. I was thinking about the park. It would be fitting, as we both have always liked the little park. And everyone could walk past it, see? And take a look at it. It would be perfect in a way, I think, for everyone.'
If he had sensed my lack of enthusiasm, he was intent to be as animated as he could be in spite of it. No, I realised, he was set on his idea, and however ill-devised and outside of his field it was formed, it was a hundred-percent the ideal. This idea then, that he had begun to present to me, had strayed entirely from the field of a personal request and had emerged from its cocoon to be a public display. I had become very much uncomfortable. I returned the scroll to the drawer, hoping vainly that in doing so he would soon forget the ordeal he had set in motion. But I knew, of course, that it would only be worse.
The thought came to me quite out of nowhere, as the simplest of answers tended to do when one needed them most. My discomfort had revealed itself to be some omen of instinct, and I asked, 'What would you like on the window?'
He laughed, in that genial sort of way where he could mock you but still be sure you knew that he loved you. 'What I would like? No. I should think it's obvious who should be on the window. Don't tell me you didn't know.'
I felt my stomach turn, and I had not the heart to show how nauseous I had become. He had no idea what he had asked me to do; no idea of what he had resolved to put me through. The entirety of my work flashed before me, and all of the worth I had amassed briefly - only briefly - appeared in some corner of my thoughts. I was proud of what I have accomplished, but more so, I had gathered a respect for a great many things, and through those things both noble and verdant, I had grown a self-respect I had thought unassailable. And now, in my father's fancy of being in his final days, I was asked to surrender that which I loved most.
As I describe to you my interactions with both my parents and my brother I hope I won't appear to be too ungrateful. While it hasn't been my intention to tell you whether I was justified in those days to resent the situation put to me, I must continue to be honest as best I can. After all, if I could manage to be honest about my stay in the Royal Canterlot Palace, it follows that I could also be honest to you regarding my family. Perhaps it's unfair to say I really blamed any one of them, but at the same time, one can just about as easily decide to like something as they can decide to grow an extra leg.
In granting Father's wish, I had done my best to put aside my reservations, and indeed did what I could to mention the project as little as possible, for fear perhaps that I would not be able to entirely quiet my own concerns. I had learned much, I found, since the days of first arriving at the atelier, and although I had learned many things on how best to carry myself and how to consider the thoughts of others, I had found myself, through these new ideas, increasingly more challenged. When I had again seen Mother staring wistfully across the street I had decided to myself, rather suddenly, that my challenges now mattered little; and indeed my failure to see Father's idea as anything but what it was was of little consequence now. Simply, I had to carry out the task ahead of me, and whatever lay beyond that was a matter of another time.
A letter had come to the old house some days into the process of refining Father's design - really, reworking as much as could be reworked without changing some fundamental element - and as I was told by my brother, Padlock was now a happy mother of two baby fillies. He took a short moment then, when Mother had returned to the bedroom, to tell me for a while about the many hardships of parenthood. The more he spoke as such, the more I felt like he was describing some secret key to some other universe, and soon I felt like he was purposefully loading his esotericism with endless trials and tribulations. Eventually, I had to excuse myself to avoid further such instructions, taking to a long walk outside.
It wasn't the same, walking through the old neighbourhood. As I have mentioned, I had on a few occasions taken to exploring the differences and similarities with the Fillydelphia I had remembered, but on none of those expeditions had I gone out specifically like I had in my early days in Canterlot; when I craved nothing but for a calming wave of peace to wash over me. So it was that I risked the approach of another rain shower and circled my way towards the park.
The park was now small, no longer the woodland I had once rushed through when I had my cheek scratched by an errant branch. I felt even that it had become, somehow, smaller than myself. Futile though it may have seemed, nonetheless I followed my resolve and sat myself on the sole bench, perusing the few bushes around me. Curiously, and quite out of nowhere, I thought to myself about what it would've been like to walk the park's little paths with Kismet. It wouldn't take us more than twenty seconds to cross it, and there would be little novelty in lingering among its pallor shrubs. It had appeared to me then that we had just met for the first time, far away from the cafés and shops of Gleamstreet. I found myself wondering what else we would have to do to make use of our time. I considered the run-down bar for a game of billiards or picking up groceries from the re-opened corner shop, and thought of how awkward it would be if I had decided to introduce him to my parents. All of this seemed no less real than goodbyes that had been brought to me by mail, and yet I felt silly to even think of such long ago affairs.
When I had gotten up from the bench and almost had crossed the street I realised I had forgotten entirely about the windowed wall that was to be erected. Standing in the middle of the clear street (it was after all, the middle of the day), I looked at the centre of the park and tried hard to picture the piece. Although I could calculate the space required and could project its dimensions, I could not quite imagine the monstrous structure actually being there. I knew therefore that there was much work that still had to be done.
So I had dedicated myself, much as I had before, to make the most out of the assignment. Many times my brother had chatted needlessly about his situation at home and repeated his schedule of departure and so forth, but each time I was distracted by him or Mother's sudden talk of crosswords, I felt like I had somehow ended up on an island. I pictured on that island to be a garden, rich and untouchable as the royal gardens in the Royal Canterlot Palace.
I regret to say though, that in the time of meeting endlessly with council representatives and building contractors (I had requested a single mason versed in the classic style), Mother's condition had worsened noticeably with each passing day. On occasion she would stand there in the kitchen, seemingly unsure of whether or not she was to sit down or remain standing. We would then implore her to sit down, but her muscles had stiffened, and it was difficult even to move her. A doctor had come in to check on her every week, and whenever he had said that she seemed for now to be fine, I had felt myself grow angry with him.
I explained to my brother that it could be dangerous for her to continue living the way she has, and I followed him into the old room with a few ideas. I must admit that most of these ideas weren't in fact very clever, and most of them revolved around getting more and more ponies to check in on her. Doctors, neurotherapists, caretakers, and quite a few other such functions that came to mind then. At length, after going over a few doctor's appointments, he asked me, 'Where have you learned about taking care of the infirmed?'
You can probably imagine that when he asked this, he wasn't expecting an answer. In fact, whenever he had adopted that serious face, I took whatever came out of his mouth to be a really convoluted joke. In this particular case, I remember clearly that the room smelled to me of old sweat, and I assume it had been raining heavily and the windows had been closed long enough for the entire atmosphere to become bitter. I wondered briefly if the only reason he could start another talk on parenting in such airs was his dedication to hourly coffee.
Once, Father had to come out of bed in my defence, for Mother had decided I was a burglar in pursuit of her family treasure. She spoke then of the neighbours and their ghastly ways, already having conspired to kill all of her daughters and poisoned the stale candy that somehow ended up in the cupboard. 'At least sweet Greenway still lives across the street, somewhere!' she yelled. When Father had at last calmed her, she shrugged, apparently deciding, much like the way of a cat, that although we were villains, it was hardly worth her time to fuss about it. When they had walked off to the bedroom together, then, for the first time it felt like neither of them truly belonged in this life any longer, and when Gladstone returned that day I told him to call on the doctor and demand some more conclusive help.
In those weeks I learned more about strokes than I had ever desired to know. Assisting my parents felt very much like how my brother had described to me the plights of parenthood, but it must've been harder knowing that these fading husks had once been ponies I looked to as a source of strength and wisdom. It was so demanding, that although we still had our squabbles, my brother and I had silently decreed that, for now at least, there would be no room for any passive aggressive jabs or lectures on adult life. In return, I had done little more than strictly necessary in keeping with my schedule on Father's stained glass window. Regardless, however, I can honestly say that what little time I had spent on it had been spent with the maximum spirit and dedication I was afforded.
Not many days after the incident with the 'burglar', I was trying again to update Father on how the project was coming along, in part perhaps to distract myself from the uncomfortable talk that was going on in the living room. My brother and the doctor were convincing Mother to undergo surgery, and from the sound of it, they were hardly successful. Her memory span was such that often, when we were explaining to her something regarding the doctor's visits or even the whereabouts of her children, she would forget what we were talking about before we would finish the conversation. It was then quite difficult to go through the process of convincing her to go through with something as elaborate as that without her getting frustrated, tired, or even forgetting altogether who it was that she had suddenly found herself talking to. In any regard, I had hoped on that occasion to distract myself and in the process satisfy Father's wishes by making it clear to him how seriously I was taking his request. But, where previously he had shown a great care in droning up whatever details about his design I had not on that particular update mentioned, now he simply smiled and said, 'I'm sure you know what you're doing.' I wasn't entirely sure then whether or not he still felt as strongly about his 'honour' as he did previously, and had felt burdened by the notion that now I was to carry not only the labour of the undertaking, but also that of his passion.
On the day of Mother's surgery I had awoken with the sight of her fast asleep on the couch. She looked to me older even than the furniture that had been a part of the household for as long as I could remember, and I wondered what had gotten in to her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night, only to then go to sleep on the couch. In some dim hope I thought perhaps that they had argued and had resolved to postpone their argument in the way that young married couples often did. That they had never done so in the years I had lived under their roof had only occurred to me later. Only when I had returned to the living room with a glass of water did another thought occur to me: my mother had gone there in one last, ultimate effort. One last gasp of life - perhaps even, in her last vestige of thought, a final effort to avoid the hassles of surgery.
I had of course known that there was a possibility that this could happen, but it seemed that I was nonetheless surprised. Perhaps I had expected the familiar holler of an ambulance. Indeed, I had pictured her going increasingly mad for a great many more years, growing old past the point of recognition or the ability to recognise anything herself. I wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. I did think again of finding her in the living room, staring across the street, and wondered briefly if she could somehow have seen those same ragged buildings so often over the years that in her final days she could see right past them. It was hard to imagine then what her view was and whether or not it had been truly so sad.
The few days I continued to sleep in the living room I had existed in the sense of privacy - the lack of it - that I had felt during the years I had lived under my parents' care so long ago. The arrangements were not pleasant in any way, but they were at least busy enough that at all points in time I was within reach of someone to talk to. It wasn't so much that I felt the desire to catch up with my siblings or confide in notaries, but certainly they desired to talk to me, and through satisfying their questions or their endless rambles, I in turn felt in some way assured. Although Padlock could not come so soon after child birth, we had taken turns in corresponding to her, but I must note that already I had assumed the larger portion of responsibilities that lay ahead of us. It was me who primarily looked after Father, and also, it was me who spoke to the many officials that needed speaking to. My brother, as I had learned soon thereafter, had received word that his wife had become sick and that he would soon have to return home to her. It was, I assumed, hard for him to see these two separate households as truly separate when it came to matters of health so it would not be inexcusable to think, even merely on some emotional level, that she too was breaking away from the tethers of this world.
Soon I was managing the care of the entire household and found myself able again, at last, to continue finalising the window. I had brought into the old room all the supplies and machinery necessary to convert what was once the bedroom I slept in to a makeshift workshop. Thus I was capable of working on the physical panels without being out of Father's reach. It had occurred to me that without further distractions, I would soon be able to walk him to the park and then, in some way, at last be fulfilled of the request. But, of course, it wasn't quite to go down like that.
I was certain that Father too had heard of the trend of wives and husbands dying in pairs or in quick succession, for when I called to him early one day, he said, excessively apologetic, 'I won't be able to see the window. From either side...'
I had of course tried to talk him out of this line of grim reasoning, but it was soon obvious he had made up his mind. As if on cue, rain had started pouring outside, thunder booming close-by. I indulged him on all his doubts: I assured him that he had been a good Father to me, and tried to tell him that I would call again upon his other children, but a curious expression took hold of his face then, and for a moment I wasn't quite sure he had not suddenly adopted another personality entirely. Straining to compete with the clatter of the rain, he said, 'It's very important to me, this. We've always had a special connection, early on. Parents are always told not to pick favourites because of those rare connections. Ours is our duty. This-' He thumped his hoof against his chest, pulling back the covers so he could show me '-Our duty to Princess Celestia. To Equestria. No one else would understand, and I would trust no one else to do what little things I have asked of you. I'm proud of you.'
What moved me then, in what would turn out to be his last real words to me, was his love; his love not just for me, but also for the rest of the family. Even then, I felt not able to be truly honest with him. I could not tell him how I felt about the 'monument' I was to erect; nor could I tell him about Princess Celestia. I had simply nodded to him then, telling him how much he had done for me and everyone else, and I felt sure that this had pleased him greatly. It was however, largely this failure I had felt; the failure to understand each other, that I carried with me for many days.
I could not pretend to the modest crowd that the unveiling of the stained glass window and its awkward piece of wall was a striking tribute to him, or even to anyone else. It will not surprise you then that I did not speak on the occasion, leaving the proceedings entirely to an eager mayor who spoke of the community and in doing so shared every dignified posture he was afforded. Behind a few suits and ribbons I found my thoughts wander far away from the incongruous artefact. Instead, I thought of the divide that had existed between Father and myself.
There were so many things that we simply did not speak of when he was alive; so many conversations we could not seem to have. I wondered if it truly was as difficult as I had felt it to be all those years of my adult life, and I even thought of his many years of making barrels. It was a curious thing to consider, and even as I was recounting to myself his career, I had remarked how oddly quieting it was to think of something so innocuous. When at last the little ceremony was over and I had left the park and its surrounding streets to the playing children and half-curious elderly I thought again of how many years Mother and Father had spent together.
Thereafter, whenever I had considered Father and the curious companion he referred to as honour, I reminded myself of how he appeared to me when I was far younger than I could easily remember. Not principled but strong; kind rather than right, and ever with a bounty of lemonade and stories. It would be at least a little odd to expect much more than that from someone. So it became apparent to me that much of that division I've written about had left this world alongside him.
Taking care of the last remaining affairs of the old house was not as taxing or depressing as I had thought it would be. Rather, I had on each day which dawned felt a little bit older, and not quite in the manner that Kismet and myself had imagined ourselves to be during the final night in the atelier in Canterlot. It would be difficult to say exactly in what way then I had felt older, but I will say simply that by the time the house had been sold and the remaining effects distributed as Father had willed me to, I had found myself stopping and staring whenever I had walked past the baseball court, filled to the brim with young ponies. On every such occasion, as all of them seemed constantly to cheer for one particular strike or hit - or whatever it was that the plays in that game were called - I could not help but feel... as I said, older in some way.
I had mentioned Father's will and the distribution of the items, tangible or otherwise, and I realise I have been hasty in brushing past it so easily. There was the matter of, as my brother had referred to it, of "the family porcelain" that I felt compelled, by his request, to distribute more evenly than was Father's wish. This may seem like a trivial detail, but in my current age I'm not quite certain any such thing can truly be 'trivial'. The family porcelain simply was , whether or not it was called "the family porcelain", or if it was indeed appraised by a professional connoisseur to be worth no more bits than would be the cost of its disposal.
As I bring up Father's will, I also realise I have begun to consider it some big catalogue. A grand chapter of a family history. It's a curious affair that precisely his will has reminded me that I still have one particular part of my story left to tell. It is one that I hope will, in some small way, shed light on why some of the things in my story have unfolded the way they have, and even, perhaps, explain why I have taken the time to write about my craft.
It was not too long ago that I was commissioned by the University Arthouse of Canterlot to collect from various Equestrian universities and public properties several loose pieces that had, as they say, fallen by the wayside, and thereupon I was to document them. It was a cathartic experience, mainly because none of the pieces I had collected were my own. Travelling from place to place, as I had done for such a long period of my life, had become more peaceful than it did when I had always some intense piece of art to create, with ponies waiting on my every design update and creative vision every step of the way. I was then in a very easy frame of mind, and, together with that 'oldness' I had mentioned previously, this could have in many ways be considered a vacation.
As an aside, I must note that Cherrywell pretty much applauded my arrival in much the same way as they would had I been a princess arriving after years of drought. Certainly I felt embarrassed by such brouhaha, but by that time I had also decided largely to let whomever do whatever, resolving simply to accept praise for the positive intentions they retained. I didn't then treat my arrival as anything unworthy of celebration, taking my time to speak with each and every pony that had come to the town square to see me, be they elated retired official or "I'm quite speechless" humble gardener. When the new mayor, a young mare brimming with enthusiasm, had asked me on stage what I had thought of their town, she was delighted that I would remember its name.
Of course, as with all 'working vacations', one had to end at last where they had began, and inevitably I found myself in the PPS Café awaiting the hour that would call me to the Arthouse to meet my client. (In these days, I refer to all who commission me who are not operating directly under the Royal Sisters as "my clients", solely because each and every one of them have referred to themselves as such. It would seem silly then to give them some other name, whether or not that name by itself would be more appropriate.)
Looking around the café from my table, I had half-expected old friends to come bounding in from behind the ivy archways, or else come climbing up over the marmoreal balcony to see how I was doing. However, I was content with the notion that had I been given the opportunity, I would find the few young writers and poets in the far corner to be interesting and friendly enough. I sampled also their updated menu, and will tell you that if you should find yourself in the position to do so, it would be quite a crime not to visit the café and try their new deep fried radishes with bay leaf and raspberry coulis. (I had on that occasion enjoyed bergamot tea alongside my order, but I will leave the selection of drinks entirely to your own whims and discretions.)
I met Master Southwind in a secret room in the back of the Arthouse, and although we briefly complimented each other on not complimenting each other on our aged appearances, for a long while we were content to talk of the inventory I had delivered to the Arthouse. I took him through these various items, both specifically requested or simply donated to me upon my arrival; stopping now and then in my list to allow for him to inquire on practical dimensions or other details I had not thought immediately pertinent, such as precise colour, media, or even the exact origins of their authors and creators. These notes, as well as his comments, I would then scribble next to each item with a red pencil.
Eventually, however, when I neared the end of my list, he said to me, 'There's one personal thing I have to show you.' Despite my suggestion that perhaps we should first finish the list, seeing as it would not take more than ten more minutes to do so, he had insisted that it would be quite appropriate to "get it out the way now". Slowly then, for he did all things slower even than he did as my teacher, he showed me into another, adjoining secret chamber. In many ways, it resembled a 'counting room', as I have heard it called by those who frequented gambling houses. Metallic walls surrounded the light of a single overhanging lamp. A single bench was fully illuminated by this light, and on the far wall resided several little circular combination locks. For a brief moment I had considered, albeit it in jest, the possibility that in his final years, my old master had decided to take up the art of robbing banks. At last, however, he brought to the table a small metal box and then slid it towards me.
I had to wiggle to the edge of my chair to reach it, casting an exaggerated shadow across the wall of safes, and slowly opened the box. In it was only a heavily compressed stack of paper, yellowed with time, and likely to fall to crumbs if I were to touch it. Hesitantly I looked at Master Southwind who was ready to nod at me the one time, and I found myself, one by one, reading what turned out to be a collection of letters sent by my father.
I found myself astounded in a way I had forgotten I could be. Quickly I realised they were all written to the Royal Canterlot Palace, and each and every one was entirely about me. Diligently composed and always courteous - stressed with the familiar use of words as duty and honour - he nonetheless had managed to become very frank and unbecoming. In one letter he even went so far as to write about me thus: "It is nothing but my sincerest duty to inform your Royal Highness that already she is poised to be an invaluable asset worthy of the best education. So it is my humblest of opinions that she is an investment that would reward your Royal Highness in ways both priceless and remarkable. If it were not altogether tasteless of me to do so, I would gladly live the remaining years of my life entirely on my knees if your Royal Highness would consider in all of her wisdom my daughter in her great plans for Equestria, so that she may repay to your Royal Highness each ounce of faith thus bestowed by a hundredfold..."
He went on in a manner such in many letters, evidently feeling that such a volume of undifferentiable letters would be far more compelling than the single example. 'Perhaps you will appreciate a short walk along the exhibition?' Master Southwind suggested at some point. But, when I would not stand up, and did little but continue to peruse every single letter, he reseated himself opposite of me, saying, 'Raven Inkwell of the Royal Canterlot Palace had sent them to me, citing that it was the express wish of her Highness that they were shown to you. Perhaps she had deemed it the right time.'
At last we did find ourselves among the exhibition and, making sure to carefully examine each painting and sculpture, I soon felt I had spent an eternity in the Arthouse. Following the designated route, my neck and shoulders ached and eagerly reminded me that it had already been quite a few hours since I had eaten those radishes. In some way, perhaps the mysterious letters had also drifted in my mind quite similarly, floating around neither oppressive nor entirely ignored. In the test of the day, I did wish briefly that I had some witful scribe in there, archiving every thought that could possibly explain how everything, all these correspondences I had somehow been a part of, had been woven together throughout the years.
I was satisfied, despite my tired legs, to admire the colourful brush strokes of a promising student aged little more than twelve, who could capture movements that would make most seasoned artists blush and hide behind their easels. Bright rainbows, ever expanding; Master Southwind could introduce any artist who wasn't even there.
I was satisfied, though I could not truly comprehend its breadth, to compliment the determination of whomever it was that had taken it upon themselves to weave together sixteen-dozen cardboard boxes. Stumbled once, and accidentally looked at a Maregritte original.
I was satisfied, perhaps unnecessarily so, to think of the two of us looking at ancient pots, dug up in recent excavations, as we in fact did so. Imagine lofty balcony: another pair of us could see the other us. All relics, all examined.
At some point between the hallway and the next room Master Southwind halted, and, although he immediately turned his gaze towards the form of a classic inkblot work, I recognised clearly this covert signal. Sheltering myself behind the wall, I watched a senior curator bouncing from one exhibition to another, directing with authority his cuffed hooves towards some minute point, soon drawing gasps of both wonder and understanding around him. An impressive entourage of middle-aged visitors had gathered themselves around him, most of them quite vivacious and drunk with art. Although I knew him to be someone I had once known, it took me several minutes before I could see again in this same distinguished curator that malleable face of young Mettle.
It felt very much like I was eavesdropping, and when I had stolen a glance at Master Southwind, he had returned it with a look of comic disapproval. I supressed a laugh by giggling in my hoof, excitedly watching Mettle guide the group along the walls. I wasn't sure if it was me, but it seemed almost that in pointing at the framed pictures and orating as he did, he himself had merged with the display; joined in the unwavering, equal light that eased down from the chandelier.
Upon confessing such mischief I can't help but mention also the one time, only a few weeks before my 52nd birthday, that I did return to Fillydelphia for Royal Canterlot Palace business and, on my last day there, had visited the stained glass window I had put in place in the park. Perhaps in some way even then, as I watched Mettle move through the Arthouse, I foresaw it, as I've come to believe many ponies experience such things, if but once or twice in a lifetime. If I had recognised it, I would be thoroughly amused to be among the suits and ties of Canterlot, deep in the sparkling, beating heart of Equestrian arts, and yet find myself thinking of the streets where I grew up.
Only briefly had I admired the stonework in the monument, for I had little time. It was as out of place in the park as I had feared it would be during the many weeks I had worked on it, and even in my anonymity I felt a little embarrassed to be seated near it. When I looked at the mosaic I had created, however, I found myself thinking of Princess Celestia, as much soaring as standing perfectly still. It were not the memories of the smile that she had once given me in the royal gardens that I pictured then: rather, I thought of her smiling for me once more, close-by, yet nonetheless deep within the seclusion of her royal chambers. A smile that has never and would never be, yet was as powerful as anything I had ever known. It was a private little smile of the knowing kind, belonging entirely to my imagination.
I woke from my reverie to see, through the window, some townspony halfway across the street looking at me. But when he couldn't quite meet my eyes I realised that, of course, he had been looking at Celestia's likeness rather than the frayed old mare on the bench. He had only looked briefly, and I could not fathom all of his thoughts from where I sat, but as he continued on his way down the street with his groceries, I couldn't but sense in the stranger's steps some charm of diversion.
For a short while longer I sat on the bench, mostly looking towards the light of the sky and listening to the hazy cacophonies that had merged from so many directions. I recognised dogs, children, and baseball bats, but couldn't quite make out the distant siren and the deep, rumbling thud that reverberated somewhere beyond the school. Eventually I reasoned it about time to be heading back to Canterlot and urged myself to my hooves. I thought of Ladybird awaiting my return in the workshop and wondered briefly if any new commissions had arrived while I had been out of town. There were always so many things to do. I gathered together my bags of salts and apples and started on my walk back to the station.
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2 - My Life Under the Tutelage of The Great Southwind
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.
