Stories From a Seaside Village
Episode 1: A Tall Stranger Arrives.
Episode 1: A Tall Stranger Arrives.
On the outskirts of a small seaside village, just north of Halterfax, there is a house.
It is a large house, large enough to require a staff when the masters of the home were visiting. The masters had not been to the home in many years, however, and the staff had slowly dwindled from a half-dozen ponies to only a single unicorn mare who had never been officially hired.
Agate was her name. Unlike the home she kept, she was a small and somewhat austere mare, with her pale-blue mane tied up in a sensible bun. Even the milky-white coat from which she took her name was groomed smooth. She had inherited the care of the house from the previous maid, and every month Agate collected a cheque sent by the masters for the upkeep of the house. It was the opinion of many of the ponies in the small village that her work was not, in fact, work, but that she was merely being paid to live in a large and comfortable home. It was for this reason that they were not the caretakers of the house.
Agate, as it happened, took her responsibility as the caretaker of the home very seriously. It was for this reason that she was checking the locks of the home for the third time, and ensuring that the windows were sealed for the fourth time. Agate had spared no effort in ensuring that the home was properly sealed and prepared. The warmth of summer had passed, and in its wake came the damp chill of autumn. It was not the damp and the chill, however, that sent shivers down the spines of the villagers.
Agate took a moment to look out the window facing the sea. A thick fog hung over the waters, like an approaching wall. The edges were set ablaze by the setting sun, glowing in golden yellows and oranges. The center was mostly white, with just a tinge of a pale, eerie sort of blue. Agate attempted to convince herself that the blue was only an illusion, a contrast created by the orange light. It did not work.
She drew the curtains over the windows. She tied them tight, checking the knot for good measure, then put a kettle of water on the stove. She took a moment to straighten the centerpiece of condiments on the table and then sat down, folded her hooves, breathed deeply, and waited for the first fog of autumn to roll in.
The ponies in the village would be preparing their own houses, she knew. It was frequently remarked upon by those who traveled to the village that the inn had remarkably airtight windows. They often remarked that it was good for keeping out the cold winters this far north, and the ponies of the village would just as often nod noncommittally. They all knew, of course, how much colder it was when one moved away from the sea. They all knew that it was not the winter they wanted to keep out, but the autumn. The doors were never shut tighter than in the autumn, night or day. One never knew when the fog might come.
The kettle whistled, and Agate yelped in shock. She clutched at her chest, berating herself for being so jumpy. The first fog was rarely bad. In fact, for the last several years the first fog had been desperately uneventful, perhaps because the villagers had become so efficient in preparing for it. It was for the best of course, but ponies always seemed to linger more on the day after the first fog, as though waiting for a story from a neighbour. As though they were disappointed that nothing had happened.
Agate, for her part, would have been perfectly happy to have an uneventful autumn for once, although as she poured her tea and rubbed her eyes she couldn't help but note she didn't feel that lucky. She set her mug of tea on the table and checked the lock on the back door again. It was sturdy. She checked the seals on the window. They were tight. She lifted the blind, peeking out into the night.
The fog had surrounded the house now. It was as thick as pea soup; Agate doubted she would have been able to see her hoof in front of her face if she had been foolish enough to venture out into that. By now the village was probably locked up tight. She hoped that Fishmonger had gotten out of his shop in time; the poor stallion was always letting time get away from him.
Her horn lit up, levitating the mug of tea to herself as she scanned the fog, not expecting to see anything. It was to her shock, then, and nearly to the demise of her tea mug, when she saw the figure of a stallion in the fog.
It was vague at first, far too far away to make out any details. She was not even sure it was a pony. Perhaps a moose—the pony was certainly tall enough, and the Moose rarely seemed wary of the fog—but as he came closer it was unmistakable. His head was turning as if on a swivel, looking this way and that, and his ears were twitching and changing their angle with each passing moment. Agate couldn't take her eyes off him. What was the fool doing? Had he gotten lost? Perhaps it was a fisherstallion, or a hunter, who had gotten lost upshore and couldn't make it back to the village? She was about to call out to the stallion when his head suddenly turned to face the house. Where a normal pony might have had eyes—thought at this distance he would still have been little more than a silhouette—the stallion had two enormous, shining golden saucers.
Agate shrieked, leaping away from the window and dropping her tea. She clapped her hooves over her mouth in an instant, praying that the stallion—no, not a stallion, no stallion had eyes like that—had not seen or heard her. With luck, it would assume that the house was long abandoned, and move on. Or perhaps it was simply wandering, and would not care one way or another.
Agate pressed herself against the edge of the kitchen table, breathing through her hooves. She heard the clock on the wall, ticking in time with her pounding heart. She counted two full minutes, just long enough for her to dare to think that the thing in the fog had passed her by, when the stairs to the back porch creaked.
Agate squeezed her eyes tight. The thing in the fog made hardly a sound as it walked, but she could hear the shifting of the old boards underneath it. It had reached the back door, now.
The door handle turned until it reached the lock. It paused, then rattled gently. Agate held her breath.
A long, dreadful moment passed. The ticks of the clock sounded like a hammer striking a nail, driving it into a pine box. Then, three knocks on the door. Simple. Rhythmic. Expectant.
“G-go away!” Agate shouted. “Whatever you are, you aren't wanted here!”
There was a long silence. Agate strained her ears for any hint of sound, and she thought she heard the shuffling of fabric. Whatever it was it was punctuated by the thud of a hoof hitting the window. Agate jolted, but nothing else happened. After a while she managed to open her eyes just a peek, and she realized that the blinds had not fallen perfectly over the windows. through the bottom-right corner she could see a small wax seal.
Agate stared at the seal, wondering if it was some kind of trick. She ventured closer, step by cautious step, but never found reason to think it was faked. What was more, it was the seal of the Smiles family, the masters of the house.
“... Do you know the Smileses?” she asked softly. The thing on the other side of the door seemed to hear her, because the seal was pulled away from the door. There was the sound of a letter being opened, and the paper was pressed against the window again.
Agate pulled the blinds away, skimming over the letter quickly. Even if this was a real pony, she wasn't comfortable staying this close to the windows in a fog this thick. She murmured to herself as she read, “Understanding it's been some time... hope that our monthly stipend has kept the home in good repair and it has not been taken over... adoptive son of Summer Smiles will be coming to visit and take stock... Nightingale Smiles... Smiles! Gods alive!” She pulled down the blinds and wrenched open the lock. She threw open the door, bowing and apologizing profusely before rising to look at the stallion. “Desperately sorry, sir, but with the fog and you never know...”
The stallion was mountainous, easily filling the entire doorway. It was difficult to tell beneath the thick coat wrapped around his body, but it seemed to Agate that he was powerfully muscled—a thought supported by his thick, broad neck. As Agate's eyes traced the lines of his neck, she noticed that on either side her had a scar in the shape of a crescent moon.
The stallion's mane was thick, almost overgrown, and draped unkempt across his neck and face. It was a dark purple, vivid and striking against his slate-gray coat. A thick beard ran along his jaw, the same colour as his mane. Ragged as it was, however, the stallion's hair could not hide his eyes.
Agate was only half-aware that she was staring into them. She was captivated. His golden irises seemed to glow in the dim light of the porch. It seemed as though there was a fire in those eyes. Or perhaps that there had been once. The fire had gone cold, now, and his eyes looked desperately tired.
“Are you... Nightingale Smiles?” Agate asked. The stallion closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Heaven's sake, Sir, come in then!” Agate said. “This is no time for a stallion to be wandering about! Heaven knows what you might run into In the fog, gods forsaken...” She waved him hurriedly inside, but Nightingale was in no rush to seemed. He took an eternity to plod inside.
Agate shut the door tight behind him, locking it and tucking the blinds over the window. She breathed out a sigh of relief. “I'm terribly sorry for my rudeness, Sir,” she said. “It's only I didn't know you'd be coming, and well... if I might say sir, you picked a time to do it! Autumn is just getting started, sir, and we're having our first fog... though I suppose you wouldn't know...” She looked up and blinked. Nightingale was already halfway out of the kitchen.
“Ah,” Agate said, chasing after him. “Well... welcome home, sir. My name is Agate, I'm the keeper of the house. I know I'm not official, per se, but your family hasn't come in, well, some time, so we couldn't really interview when the last maid passed on. I hope you'll find everything to your liking, however, I've tried my best to keep everything ship-shape and cozy.” she grinned broadly at the stallion, who barely seemed to notice her. “Ah... may I take your coat so you can get—“
“No,” Nightingale said. He was blunt, but his tone was not harsh. In fact, his tone was hardly anything at all. It was simply final, the brassy timbre and rich baritone giving the word a weight like Agate had never heard before. She could do nothing but blink.
“W... well,” she said after a long and awkward moment. “I can show you to your room?”
Nightingale was silent, apparently scanning the sitting room. In better conditions the room was bright, lit by a tall picture window and glass door facing the sea. The curtains and blinds had been drawn tight, however, and both had been sealed for the season. The walls were painted a warm tan, complimented by hardwood floors the colour of sand. A thick, plush rug of forest green stretched across the floor, surrounded on all sides by heavy furniture. The furniture had allegedly been carved from driftwood, a touch that Agate had always felt was a tad tacky, but she would never dare throw out the masters' furniture. Even if it was two generations out of date.
Opposite the wall of windows was an arch to the foyer. Between the two, across the back wall of the sitting room, was a floating staircase of thick planks that lead up to the sleeping quarters and library. There was also another door that lead to more dens and sitting rooms. They may have served a purpose once, when a larger staff and family lived here, but now they went undisturbed except for dust and dusting.
Nightingale nodded slowly, and it took Agate a long moment before she realized that he was agreeing to be taken to his room. “Ah, well,” she said, “right this way, Sir.”
She lead him up the steps, and found herself walking slowly to accommodate him. In spite of his long legs Nightingale moved at a glacial pace, as though he had to force out each step. Agate wondered if the saddlebags slung across his back held something heavy, but they looked almost empty.
They reached the top floor soon enough regardless, and Agate lead Nightingale to a set of double doors. She pushed them open to reveal a small drawing room in a similar style to the sitting room downstairs, although the furniture was more commonly-styled. “This is the room your family has always used while visiting, Sir,” she said. “The bedroom is attached through the door there,” she gestured to another set of doors along the back wall, “and there's a balcony along the back wall, facing the sea. Although, I wouldn't advise going out tonight... and, well, it's usually kept sealed through the autumn.”
Nightingale moved silently into the room. Silently indeed, Agate realized—his hooves didn't make a sound, even against the hardwood floors. Agate coughed uncomfortably. “Will you be needing anything else tonight, sir?”
For a while it seemed that Nightingale hadn't heard her. She was about to ask again when he finally spoke. “... No,” he said, not bothering to look at Agate. He shrugged his bags off onto the sofa, sitting down beside it. After a long moment he peered over at Agate and, as if an afterthought, said, “... Thank you.”
Agate's eyes flicked away for a moment, then back to Nightingale. She was beginning to feel terribly awkward, and it was growing more and more clear that that was as much of a dismissal as she could expect. So she bowed and stepped out of the room. “My room is just down the hall if you need anything, Sir,” she said. “I... hope you enjoy your stay, and that you sleep well. Goodnight.”
Nightingale did not respond. Eventually Agate simply closed the doors, shaking her head. What a strange master the house had received. It seemed as though he wasn't all there, as though something was missing behind his eyes. And yet... and yet, there was a sharpness to them, an almost predatory gleam. His gaze was so dull, yet save for when it lingered on her it was constantly moving, taking in every last detail. Unnerving enough, and the strange glint across his eyes when they were under the light did not help.
His voice was unnerving as well, for however little Agate had heard it. It sounded like a tomb, dry and dusty, as if it hadn't been used in some time. He hardly opened his mouth, Agate realized as she thought back on it, keeping it tight and small even when he spoke. It all made her terribly uneasy. She tried her best not to dwell on it, however. She trotted downstairs to the kitchen, cleaning up her spilled tea before it had a chance to stain the tiles, and then she prepared for bed.
If there was any one aspect of her job that Agate would admit to feeling spoiled by, it was her bed. Though her room was relatively small and tucked beneath a sloping roof, it was cozy, and it was hers. Her bed had more than enough room for two ponies, though she had rarely shared it, and it was wonderfully deep and plush. The bedding was a warm auburn colour, with slashes of white and an intricate floral design in orange. No matter how thick the fog outside might be, it was always warm in here. She checked the round window that looked out over the sea one last time to make sure it was tight, then drew the curtain over it. She slipped into her cozy woolen nightgown, under her cozy woolen quilt, and read by the light of a small candle. It as only when the candle began to burn down, and the story wound the a close, that she finally fell to sleep.
Her sleep was restless, fraught with vague half-images of her new master and of fog. She tossed and turned, but try as she might she could not seem to escape a lingering... something. So bad was her sleep that when she finally awoke, she had no idea of the time.
Her room was still dark, too dark to see her clock, though that meant very little this time of year. It must have been night. She could hear an owl hooting outside her window. It had to be night. Yet, tired as she was, she could not bring herself to fall back asleep.
Eventually she sighed and dragged herself out of bed. She resolved to fetch a cup of warm milk, then return straight to bed so she would not be too tired in the morning. She moved softly at first, doing her best to be quiet, but it became clear as she passed Nightingale's room that the effort was unnecessary. A deep, soft rumble of snoring droned out from behind the door. If he had not fallen asleep on the sofa of the drawing room, then it seemed that he snored quite loudly. Agate gave a silent thanks that whoever built the house gave it thick walls.
When she arrived in the kitchen she set a kettle filled filled halfway with milk on the stove, and took stock of the place. She checked on the eggs, making sure there were enough for two omelets in the morning. Then she checked on the onions, and the mushrooms, and the ketchup and—just in case—on the syrup. All were in full supply, hardly used after her preparatory shopping trip the day before. One could never be too careful when the fog would be rolling in. It could be days before it cleared up enough for a pony to safely venture out into the village. Of course on the other hoof, it could last for only a few hours.
Agate peeked through the curtains to check on the state of the fog, and blinked. The fog still hung thick around the house, but the morning light was already shining through it. Midmorning, From the looks of things. She had actually managed to oversleep.
She shook her head and took the kettle off of the stove. She paused for a moment, then put it back on and rummaged through the cupboards for a pair of teabags. Her master, it seemed, was content to sleep through the morning, but she had no such luxury. The house would need cleaning, as it always did, and Nightingale would need breakfast whenever he decided to wake up.
She took only a moment to deposit her nightgown in the laundry room, switching it out for a freshly cleaned apron before returning to the kitchen. Eggs, milk, onions and mushrooms were all fetched from the refrigerator and lined neatly along the counter, and a pan was set on the stove to heat. Agate set about her morning routine with a sort of practiced precision, cracking exactly three eggs into a mixing bowl, followed by exactly two mushrooms(sliced thin) and one eighth of an onion(diced). She had begun to beat the yolk when she heard three sharp raps on the kitchen door.
Agate jolted back from the counter, nearly tossing the bowl. She stared at the door. The fog was still thick, and if anypony from the village had been caught out they would have arrived by now. This would not be the first time she had received an unexpected visitor, however, and what lurked in the fog was not known to announce itself so readily.
“...Just a moment,” Agate called out. She took the pan off the stove and wiped her hooves on her apron as she trotted to the door. Her horn began to glow and the lock lit up, but she paused for a moment. Even if it may have been another visitor—or even another Smiles—it was only sensible to be careful. She pulled away the curtain, and was shocked to find Nightingale standing outside the door.
“Miss!” Nightingale said, pressing his hooves against the window. “You must let me in, please! You're in terrible danger!”
Agate gawked. She then moved on to looking confused and, just for good measure, horrified.
“Miss, please,” Nightingale said, rapping three time on the door again. “You haven't much time! The stallion who arrived last night was not me! He gave me wrong directions, and I was lost all night, and I think he has ill-intent!”
That shook Agate out of her shock. There were enough rumours about her in the village already, without a stallion of ill-intent gallivanting through her house. She quickly unlocked the door and opened it, ushering Nightingale in.
“Thank you, miss,” Nightingale said. “As I said, you are in terrible danger—”
“Slow down please, Sir,” Agate said, putting a hoof on his chest. She paused, then sharply took it down. It would also not do to have a mare of ill-intent gallivanting through the house. She breathed deep. “You say you were out in the fog all night? What happened?”
“Hah, what didn't happen?” Nightingale asked. His eyes darted around the kitchen and he breathed heavily. “I saw... gods alive, I saw things. But the first thing, that... beast.”
The kettle began to whistle, and Agate ushered Nightingale towards the table. “Have a seat, Sir,” she said. “I'll make some tea. It will make you feel better.”
“Yes, yes of course,” Nightingale said. He began to recount his tale as Agate made the tea.
“My carriage arrived late, you see,” he said. “The fog had already rolled in. I wasn't familiar with the area, and I'm afraid that I got a bit lost... I was about to turn back for the village when I saw a figure in the fog. It was a stallion... though I assure you he did not look like that,” he stabbed a hoof at the ceiling. “I asked him for directions, and he looked at me with these... eyes, that glowed in the dark. Bright gold, slit like a cat's eyes... I knew, instinctively, that the directions he was giving me must be wrong, but I couldn't stop myself from following them. Before I left though, I saw him... change. Before I knew it his body was mine, but his eyes... his eyes were still the same.”
Agate blinked as she returned to the table with the tea. She had not been able to put her hoof on just what seemed different about him, but just as he had said, Nightingale's eyes were different from the imposter's. A pale, piercing blue. She shivered in spite of the warm tea.
“And so... he came instead of you,” she said.
“Yes,” Nightingale said sadly. “I rushed here as soon as his spell wore off. You're probably lucky that he arrived so late... if you went right to bed after his arrival, then he wouldn't have been able to touch you. He didn't come in before you invited him, did he?”
“I... no,” Agate said. “No, he didn't. I always tell everypony to come in, I didn't notice...”
Nightingale nodded. “I think my imposter... our imposter, is a vampire,” he said.
Agate's stomach froze in her belly. A vampire! She had been sharing a house with a vampire all night?
“But I don't think he would have been able to enter your room without being invited,” Nightingale said. “So as long as you were in there you were safe... and now that it's daytime he's asleep.”
That eased Agate's tension, though not by much. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. A vampire in her home. Just down the hall from her, no less! She was lucky to be alive. She was too careless, letting some random pony in in the middle of the fog. Her skin still crawled at the thought. “What can—” she asked as she opened her eyes, but she jolted violently. For just a moment, just a fraction of a second, the pony across the table was a mirror of herself.
“Something wrong?” asked Nightingale, who was very much himself again.
“N-no,” Agate said, rubbing her eyes again and blinking. “Just... nerves. What do we do? He'll be awake eventually, and I can't... with respect, Sir, I can't hide you away in my room all autumn, it just isn't proper! Or sensible. He clearly doesn't need to be in the fog, so who can say how long he will stay?”
“Not an hour longer,” Nightingale said. “We have the drop on him, now; he won't be expecting us to know about him. I think we can sneak into his room and kill him while he sleeps!”
“I—” Agate said, her voice catching in her throat. “K-kill him? I... suppose it's the sensible thing to do, but...”
“It's the only thing to do,” Nightingale insisted. “If we don't kill him, he'll kill us. I know it isn't... palatable, but...” He shrugged, peering into the sitting room.
“I understand,” Agate said. She breathed deep and drained her tea. “We had... better do it quickly, before he hears us down here.”
Nightingale nodded and got up from the table. Agate tried to trot in front of him to lead the way to the imposter's bedroom, but Nightingale moved as if he had been here a dozen times before. Strange, that; nopony from the Smiles family had visited in almost a hundred years, far too long ago for this stallion to have even had it described to him. Agate supposed there were simply many homes design this way. Her knowledge of upper-class architecture was roughly on par with her knowledge of turkey breeding; casual at best.
She did press forward to point out the imposter's room as they reached the top floor, although that was less necessary than guiding Nightingale to the stairs. The imposter was still snoring loud enough to be heard down the hall. A snoring vampire might have struck Agate as humorous, if it did not happen to be currently occupying her home.
Nightingale approached the door with abandon, stopping just short of kicking it down. In spite of the noise, the imposter kept on sleeping. Agate noticed his snores fade slightly as they entered the room, however.
Just as she had guessed, the imposter had fallen asleep on the sofa. His coat was draped across himself like a blanket, and his saddlebags were used as a pillow. The actual pillows of the sofa had been discarded across the floor. Agate frowned at them.
Nightingale, however, paid no attention to the contents of the room. He crept across it instead, hunkering down behind the back of the sofa and heading for the windows.
Agate followed after him, though with her small frame she didn't need to duck down to be hidden by the sofa back. Only the tips of her eyes and above cleared it, and it would be good to have a lookout, of sorts, to keep an eye on the imposter. After all, he was keeping an eye on them.
Agate's stomach twisted in a knot, and she cried out in shock. Although he had still been snoring, one of the imposter's eyes was wide open, pupil a wound-like slit pointed directly at her. He dropped the pretense of snoring and began to rise, slowly at first, like a beast from a movie. His body moved stiffly; the sheer weight of his bulk and muscles caused the sofa to creak. His mouth gaped open, producing a wheezing, guttural imitation of a yawn and revealing a row of cruelly-shaped, deadly-sharp teeth. Agate took a step back. The mere sight of those teeth set off alarms in the tiny brain that ponies think they don't have anymore. A miniscule, primal voice screaming at her to run, or to fight, or to die.
The imposter mumbled something under his breath as he rose up over the sofa. His coat fell away and a pair of enormous, leathery wings stretched out from his sides. Agate's tiny brain screamed ever louder.
“Y-you didn't mention wings,” she said meekly. Knowing about wings probably would have been useful. At least to the tiny brain, which was currently appending the 'run' option with 'under shelter'.
“I'll admit, they're news to me,” Nightingale said. He harrumphed. “That damned coat of yours. I didn't even know ponies could have wings like that. Thought it was always the feathery nonsense.”
Both Agate and the imposter turned to stare at Nightingale, who seemed to be taller than when Agate had last looked at him. Several feet taller, in fact.
“Oh,” the imposter said. “You.”
“That's right!” Nightingale said, grinning wide. His face was distorted by his new height, like a rubber mask stretched too far. His limbs were stretched and gaunt, and a soft glow had begun to emanate from his chest. “You didn't really think I wouldn't make good on my promise, did you?”
“You aren't the first pony to threaten my life,” the imposter said slowly. He looked Nightingale up and down. “I don't care.”
“W-what?” Agate asked. Her eyes were fixed solidly on the glow in Nightingale's chest. It was becoming more and more clear, and the more clear it got the more Agate thought she could see the oil lantern around it. “You're not... Nightingale, are you?”
“What?” Nightingale asked. “Oh, right, that. Oh, I suppose there's no sense in it.” He shrugged. His form became vague for a moment, like the fog itself, and the features of Nightingale faded away. What was left was a specter, a mockery of a pony that seemed to flit between faces in the way the breeze changes. The glow fell out of his chest, showing itself to be a lantern indeed, tethered to his wrist by a heavy chain. It held no flame; its light emanated from some strange depth, as though there were miles of fog between it and the outside. Nightingale's clothes evaporated, replaced with a cloak of billowing smoke. He had become fog itself, clinging to an only vaguely pony-like shape.
“A Forerunner,” Agate whimpered. “Oh gods, a Forerunner in my home, I... I...”
“Oh, don't bother,” The Forerunner said. Its voice was rasping and hollow, like wind echoing through a cave. It's mouth, enormous and grotesque, was a black pit filled with needle-sharp teeth as long as Agate's leg. “I'm here for the stallion, not you. He'll be enough to keep me filled for weeks! Mind you, I might just stick around for a while.” He placed his hooves on what may have once been hips and grinned. “You know I've seen this house every damn year for nearly a century but never had an excuse to go inside? How does a little fishing town afford a place like this! Everypony down in the village is in little huts, so depressing. No wonder they're all so damned dour all the time. Then again, maybe it's the death thing.” The Forerunner threw back his head and made a sound that Agate though was meant to be a laugh. It needed work.
Through it all Nightingale—the real Nightingale; fangs, wings and all—sat impassively on the back of the sofa, as if waiting for the Forerunner to finish. The Forerunner's laugh cut off suddenly and was upon Nightingale in and instant, hurling him across the room with a single blow. Nightingale crashed into a wall table with a pot of flowers like thunder, shattering both, and dropped to the floor. There he laid, drenched with water and covered in splinters, barely moving, and stared up at the Forerunner as if nothing had happened.
“What, you aren't going to run?” The Forerunner asked. “Or fight back? Or... anything? Usually they at least run, you know.”
“I don't care,” Nightingale said. He didn't move.
The Forerunner looked utterly disparaged. “Gods, you're depressing,” he said. “Oh well. A meal is a meal.” He descended upon Nightingale, hooves stretching out like bladed trowels. His mouth stretched well beyond a mouth and into a maw, full of teeth that made Nightingale's own seem like foals' scissors.
Agate's entire body shook. She was about to watch a pony die. She was going to see what lurked in the fog doing its work, something she had been afraid of ever since she was a foal. There was nopony around the help. The village was minutes away, and even if she could convince somepony to come help Nightingale would be long dead by the time they returned. Nightingale was going to die, and there was nopony there to stop it.
There was only Agate.
Agate moved before she had a chance to think. If she had thought, she might have ran out the door and down to the village. Not to find help, that was a lost cause, but to find shelter. The sensible thing would be to run and hide where the Forerunner couldn't find her. It had been her, once. That meant she was next. The sensible thing to do would be to get away from the fog, as far away as she could manage.
She tackled the Forerunner, shoving it off of Nightingale before it had a chance to strike and into the hallway.
The Forerunner shrieked, clawing at the walls. “Oh, what!?” it bellowed. “You couldn't wait your turn? Didn't want to stick around and watch? Fine!” It swung a wild backhand, catching Agate in the center of the barrel and sending her flying. She flew clear down the stairs, landing on one of the couches with a loud, splintering crash.
Her back ached horribly. For a moment Agate thought that she had been the source of the crash, before she realized that the couch had given way beneath her. “Oh,” she groaned, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. “I actually kind of liked this one...”
The Forerunner came down the stairs, gliding on legs of fog. “It was as ugly as the rest,” it said. “But don't worry, you can visit it in hell!” The Forerunner reared up, his hooves stretching to points once more. Agate tried to dodge away, straining against the collapsed timber, but the impact had left her with barely enough strength to lift her head, much less run, and whatever adrenaline she had had was burnt up. Try as she might she could do nothing but watch her own death come.
It was to her great surprise, then, when Nightingale's jaws closed around the Forerunner's fetlock. For a moment time stood still as all three took in the situation. The Forerunner's face contorted, as much as it was able, into a look of fear and panic. It, too, had a tiny brain, which was currently hard at work informing the Forerunner of all the things that could happen when a predator had the Forerunner in its jaws. Agate, meanwhile, saw her opportunity.
She summoned the last of her strength to roll off the ruined furniture and out of the way. The very second she was gone Nightingale kicked forward, dragging himself under, around and over the Forerunner's foreleg and taking the Forerunner's fetlock with him. The Forerunner's magic had made an excellent body, even recreating the bones, which made a sound not unlike bubble-wrap in the hooves of an overzealous foal.
The Forerunner's scream was a far, far worse sound. It rattled the windows, wordless and hollow, mad and bestial. The Forerunner contorted in pain, doubled over and clutching at it's foreleg. “Bastard!” it screamed. “You absolute bastard! I still feel that, you know!” His ruined, twisted foreleg dissolved into fog for a moment before reforming, good as new. It was shaking, however, and the Forerunner clearly still felt the lingering pain of Nightingale's assault. Nightingale himself didn't give the Forerunner time for a reprisal. He grabbed Agate by the scruff of the neck, near-throwing her into the kitchen.
“Back door!” He shouted. “I'll hold it off!”
Agate stumbled and slipped on the smooth tiling, crashing into the table. It was all well and good to talk about running, but she could barely hold herself up. He back was screaming and her hooves were weak. She couldn't even muster up the magic to open the lock. She wheezed and tried to support herself, scattering the centerpiece in the process. She stopped. Hadn't she read something once?
The Forerunner was barreling down on the kitchen, but each time he approached Nightingale bucked him soundly in the face. The Forerunner came so fast that his caved-in skull barely had time to heal between the impacts. Nightingale was getting tired, but the Forerunner wasn't. It was only a matter of time before the Forerunner won out, at this rate.
“Backdoor would be nice,” Nightingale grunted as he deflected the Forerunner once more. The beast screamed from the sitting room, rounding for another pass.
“Better,” Agate replied. She threw herself off the kitchen table, shoving Nightingale out of the way and swinging her hoof wildly.
The Forerunner's screams of anger turned to agony. Gouts of fog burst from its face like geysers, flaring and fading, leaving behind formless patches of mist that did not heal. “Salt!?” it howled. “You cow! You think a few grains of salt are going to stop me?” He staggered, leaning against the doorframe and baring his teeth at Agate. “Oh, it hurts, you've got that. I'll heal from this too, though! You just give it a time, a few grains—”
Agate smashed the salt-shaker against its face.
The sound that Forerunner produced was not a scream, exactly. It was more like a chemical reaction, if a chemical reaction swore enough to make a sailor blush. It fell back, writhing and howling as its face melted into fog. It's limbs stretched and shrank, twisting and contorting and bubbling away as the salt did its work. Fog poured off of it like steam, inch by inch, foot by foot, until weak scraps of mist filled the room. All that remained of the Forerunner was the still-glowing lantern and a tiny, impeccably miserable owl.
Nightingale peeked out of the kitchen, and slowly approached the owl. “What is it?” he asked.
“Bastard!” the owl screamed.
“I think it's the Forerunner,” Agate said. “It, uh... I guess it was using the fog as a body, but that's its real body? Its eyes are bigger than its stomach.”
Nightingale stared at it for a while. The Forerunner flopped on the floor and finally managed to get to its feet, but Nightingale pushed it over. The Forerunner swore and started again.
“Should we, uh...” Agate said. She rubbed her foreleg. “I mean... it'll heal eventually. It'll be able to use fog again... it'll hurt more ponies.”
Nightingale peered sidelong at Agate. She wasn't sure if he was judging her or not. If he was, she knew she deserved it for the suggestion. “We...” she said slowly, “should kill it.”
“No,” Nightingale said without hesitation. “No killing.”
“I don't like it either,” Agate insisted. “but it's only going to hurt ponies! We'll save a lot more lives... it's the sensible solution...”
“Sensible solutions spill blood,” Nightingale said. “And responsibility fills graves. Being sensible is no substitute for being smart.” He looked over his shoulder.
“Well, what can we do?” Agate asked. “I mean... we can't stop it from using the fog again... can we?”
“Maybe we can,” Nightingale said. “The salt worked the first time. Perhaps it will keep the fog away this time.” He scooped up a small hooffull of salt and tore a scrap of fabric off the ruined sofa, then wrapped the salt into a tight makeshift bag and tossed it at the Forerunner.
The Forerunner snarled, at least as much as its tiny form was able, and scrabbled away from the sack.
Nightingale nodded. “Seems good to me,” he said. He returned to the sofa and tore off a long, thin strip of fabric. The Forerunner tried its best to scramble away, but Nightingale placed a hoof on its back.
“Oh, let me, Sir,” Agate said as she picked up on the plan. Nightingale nodded and held the Forerunner against the floor. Agate's wrapped the fabric around the Forerunner once, then twice, tying the pouch of salt in the small of its back with a tight constrictor knot.
When she was finished Nightingale nodded approvingly at the knot. “Good work,” he said. “That should hold it for a good, long while.” He picked up the Forerunner, who was currently inventing a host of new swears and unpleasant, if creative, names to call the pair, and took hit to the front door.
“Shoo,” Nightingale said. He opened the door, and tossed the Forerunner out into the fog. “You are not welcome in our house.” He closed the door and locked it, giving the sound of the deadbolt a kind of finality Agate had previously thought reserved for old schoolteachers.
Agate peered out the window. She could see the Forerunner, rapidly fading as it hobbled, hopped and flapped off into the fog. The fog billowed away from the Forerunner like the wake of a ship through water, and like a ship the Forerunner was soon gone.
“I... think it worked,” she said. “That was... a mighty fine idea, Sir! Nopony dies... no Forerunner, either.” She lowered the curtain back over the window, and smiled. “... The Forerunner was a nasty piece of work, but I think I like it this way. I suppose you were right, Sir. A smart idea is better than a sensible one. Today, at least.”
“Mmm,” Nightingale said. Some of his energy had sapped away, and he lumbered into the sitting room. “I am glad... that nopony was hurt too seriously.” He paused, then asked, “I hope your fall did not hurt you?”
“Oh,” Agate said. Her legs wobbled. In all the excitement, she had forgotten that her back was screaming at her. “I think... I could use a nice lie-down, but I'm in one piece, Sir. Thanks to you.” She hobbled slowly after Nightingale, who seemed to like that.
“That is... good,” he said. It was very nearly a question, as though he wasn't sure how he felt about helping somepony. Nightingale truly was a strange master for the house.
Agate shook her head and looked around the sitting room. The Forerunner's attack had left the place nearly in ruins. The splintered remains of the sofa were scattered across the floor, splinters scattered and stuffing spilling out of the mattress like gore. There was salt scattered all over the carpet, with the sole exception of a small patch around the discarded lantern. In the back corner of the room, an area otherwise untouched by the fight, a single throw pillow had fallen from its chair as if from fright. Agate sighed. It would take hours to clean all this mess up and have everything right again. She picked up the lantern and stared at it for a moment. The light within was still glowing, shrouded by that strange interior fog. Aside from the fog, and the long silver chain in place of a handle, it looked perfectly ordinary. The long, brass body shone as though it was regularly polished, and the glass center was free of blemish. There was a filigree of brass crossing across the bottom half of the glass, and as Agate looked closer she found that it was a chain of tiny, intricately woven dara knots. In spite of the tiny, and no doubt very fragile construction, the knot was still in perfect shape the entire way around.
There was other work to be done, however, and for a lack of anything else to do with it she hung the lantern over one of the steps. Then she bent over and began to alternate between cursing her aching back and collecting wood chips.
“What are you doing?” Nightingale asked. He had sunken into a chair so deeply he could hardly be called upright, and was peering out at Agate through half-closed eyes.
“Cleaning, Sir,” Agate answered. “Houses don't maintain themselves.”
Nightingale yawned, showing off his teeth. “Sit down. You've just been thrown down the stairs, which I believe warrants some rest.” He rubbed his eyes. “It's entirely too early in the morning for this sort of thing.”
Agate stood about awkwardly for a moment, wondering when exactly was the proper time to be attacked by a carnivorous fog-monster. Eventually, however, she smiled, and lowered herself onto one of the remaining sofas. She grunted for a moment, waiting for her spine to stop being such a baby. “Thank you, Sir,” she said. “And thank you for saving me from the Forerunner.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” Nightingale replied, waving a hoof weakly. “You're the one who beat it. The Forerunner would have killed me.”
“Oh no, Sir,” Agate laughed. “I... well, I'll tell you you had me frightened in the bedroom, Sir. I thought the Forerunner would have you for sure. But the way you moved after it attacked me, I'm sure you would have been fine.”
“Mm,” Nightingale intoned softly. He looked down.
Agate rubbed her eyes and continued speaking. “I... well, Sir, I'll tell you something else, and that's that I might have sworn you were from the fog too, the way you moved. If I had seen you without your coat, I'd have been certain you were a beast yourself.”
“There are Forerunners who look like me all the time?” Nightingale asked.
Agate shook her head. “Oh no, Sir. Forerunners look like whichever pony they're hunting. It's only that there's much more out there than just them... truthfully, nopony knows what all's out there. Every autumn it seems, Somepony finds something new... and it's never nice, I'll tell you. That why everything is locked up so tight. Keeps the fog away.”
“Hmm,” Nightingale said. “I doubt this is as popular a destination as I was lead to believe, then... but no, I am not from the fog. Merely Canterlot.”
“Well, that's a relief Sir,” Agate said. “But... and I hope you won't be offended by me saying this... I've never seen a pony like you, before.”
“You wouldn't have,” Nightingale said. He turned away and stared at the curtained windows as though he could look out anyways. “I am a Bat Pony. So far as I know, one of the only two in Equestria. The other is my twin, still in Canterlot. We were adopted by the Smiles family for lack of other known parents.”
“So what brings you here, then?” Agate asked. “You weren't wrong you know. Even without the fog there isn't much brings ponies to us. Most of the visitors we get are sailors and fisherfolk needing to restock. Even your own family hasn't visited in... well, longer than I've been alive, Sir.”
Nightingale seemed to sag. “Just... a vacation,” he said. “I suppose I needed to get away. It was suggested I might find this place... pleasant.”
Agate laughed. “Well, Sir, you've picked a bad time for pleasant. The fog'll be here all autumn.”
Nightingale hummed and got out of his chair. He drew back the curtains of the picture window and peered outside. Agate leaned to look past him, and saw that the fog had begun to clear. Long, golden shafts of sunlight played against the sea, and a single streak of blue sky promised a beautiful day.
“Oh, I don't know,” Nightingale said. “Perhaps it won't be so bad. I think... I have often dreamed of a house by the sea.”
Episode 2: In the Company of Revelers, He is Silent.
View Online
Stories From a Seaside Village
Episode 2: In the Company of Revelers, He is Silent.
Episode 2: In the Company of Revelers, he is Silent
On the outskirts of a small seaside village, just north of Halterfax, there was a house.
Perched upon a cliff, in ordinary circumstance the house was home to two ponies. On this particular evening, however, there was a third. A scarecrow sat upon a bench on the porch, posed in the perfect image of calm. Contained by a worn flannel shirt and heavy overalls, his body was made of fresh straw. In place of his head was a pumpkin carved into a casual grin, to match his slumped posture. He lent an air of relaxation to the house, an air that most certainly would not have prepared an observer for the sounds of conflict within.
Both Nightingale and Agate stood in the lounge conjoined to Nightingale's bedroom. Nightingale wore an expression that Agate had quickly learned to be his default—none whatsoever. His face was completely unreadable as he stared out the sliding doors to the balcony beyond.
For this reason, among many others, Agate herself wore an expression of profound discomfort. Although she no longer felt threatened by Nightingale—most of the time, at least—she still found him disquieting in a way she could not quite describe. So she busied herself, picking up books that Nightingale had left where they fell and arranging the pillows on the sofa he insisted on sleeping on. She had managed to convince him to use a proper pillow and blanket, at the very least. She hoped that he would sleep in a real bed before his stay was over. That too made her uncomfortable: she had lived her entire life with a vision of the rich as opulent, extravagant, and difficult to please. Nightingale looked like a tramp, and considered warm tea with a book to be the height of hedonism.
She shook her head and brushed at her dress, a thick woolen garment in dour gray, accessorized with an equally dour apron. “The point is, Sir,” she said, “it simply isn't safe to have the windows and doors unsealed this time of year. Much less have somepony moving in and out as they please. The fog can come in a moment, and where it goes, the spirits go. Even a wisp of fog in the house would be enough for... something, to show up.”
“I shall keep salt, then,” Nightingale replied cooly.
“We don't know that will solve every problem,” Agate insisted. She trotted around him and set herself in front of him. It seemed he would refuse to look at anypony unless he was forced. Even then, there was no hint he actually saw her. “Even if it did, there's no saying it would show up right here. If I may ask, Sir, why are you so set on having that balcony open? You can see the sea just fine with the doors sealed.”
“See. Not hear, not smell, not feel the air.”
“We have a porch, Sir,” Agate said, gesturing in its vague direction.
“Which is low, and open,” Nightingale said. “And, for that matter, occupied.” he raised an eyebrow. “It seems you have security covered, at that.”
“The sec—you mean the scarecrow?” Agate asked. “He's not keeping anything away, Sir. And he'll be gone tomorrow anyways.”
Nightingale's eyebrow lifted higher, flirting with an actual expression. “You will be moving him tomorrow?” he asked.
“No,” Agate said. “He's there for the Scarecrow Festival. Every year this day ghosts come and—” She paused and blinked at Nightingale. “Please don't change the subject, Sir,” she said.
Nightingale waved a hoof. “Doors stay sealed,” he said. “What is a Scarecrow Festival? I've never heard of it.”
Agate gave a long-suffering sigh. She knew better by now than to expect he had dropped the matter. “You wouldn't have,” she said. “It's... unique to our village. Every year, on this night, the village and surrounding area is overrun with ghosts. It's... ponies say it's the day the world dies, so ghosts can pass over. A few years before I was born, somepony realized that if they left a Scarecrow out, the ghosts would take it, and leave their house alone. We...” She folded her hooves and snorted softly. “Well, Sir, some ponies like to make it into a bit of a party. I don't understand it myself, but I suppose we don't celebrate Nightmare Night. It seemed... well, like asking for trouble. So I suppose they just wanted something to celebrate.”
“Princess Luna does not...” Nightingale began, but trailed off as though he had become weary of speaking. He sighed. “Why do the ghosts take the Scarecrows?”
“Who knows?” Agate said. “They're ghosts. Who can say why they do anything?”
“Humm,” Nightingale said, a sound so deep and quiet that Agate felt it more than she heard it. “...You call them ghosts,” he said. “Ghosts are... ponies, yes?”
It was Agate's turn to lift a brow. “...Well,” she said, “I don't know that they're ghosts of anyy. But they do look like ponies... but so did the Forerunner.”
A gleam emerged in Nightingale's eye for just a moment, but quickly dimmed. “...Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I suppose. Still.” He breathed deeply and sighed. “You invite them to our home. You cannot be overly concerned.”
Agate shut her eyes tightly. They had made their way around once again. “I take precautions,” she said.
“Humm,” Nightingale replied.
“I'm just... trying to do what's in the interest of our safety, Sir,” Agate pressed.
“I do not need taking care of.”
Agate grimaced and walked around Nightingale to pick a book up off the back of the sofa. She might have disagreed, had he not been her employer. “Please, Sir, be sensible about this. Or at least sympathetic. You might not be afraid of what's out there, but I am. Not all of us are monsters.” She turned back to Nightingale and started violently.
Nightingale had turned to stare at her out of the corner of his eye. There was an intensity to his gaze, like an ice cube pressed against Agate's soul. It was not angry, or even annoyed. More than anything, Nightingale looked disappointed. Agate covered her mouth as she realized what she had said.
“I see,” Nightingale said.
“Oh no!” Agate said. She took a cautious step to Nightingale, lifting a hoof. “Sir, I'm sorry, I—“
“Agate,” Nightingale interrupted. His voice was soft, like a breeze through autumn leaves. “Please go.”
Agate lingered for a moment after Nightingale turned away from her. Neither made a sound. “I'm sorry,” Agate said. Nightingale did not reply. So Agate left, closing the door softly behind her. The last she saw of Nightingale he was staring out the darkened glass doors.
Agate breathed deeply. She told herself that it was not her fault that Nightingale was so stubborn, and that she had not meant to hurt his feelings. For that matter, she reminded herself that she was not certain she had done so. Nightingale so rarely emoted, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. She told herself that perhaps he had simply seen her side of things, and had no more need for conversation. After all, a stallion like Nightingale must surely have thicker skin than that.
None of it helped.
Agate walked downstairs and began to draw the curtains for the night. In the fading light she could see the fog, already creeping its way up the coast. She estimated that a ghost would come for their Scarecrow in an hour at most. She checked the seals on all of the sliding doors one last time, as well as the locks on the doors, and put a kettle on. She hated being awake when the ghosts came, but it wasn't too much of a problem if she could be upstairs and in bed when it arrived.
So she took her tea and retired upstairs. She had acquired a book of summer poetry from the library, and delighted in reading passages that made her forget about the dreary weather and the gloom of specters. With the tea warming her belly and a thick quilt wrapped around her shoulders, she let time slip away.
Outside, fog crept around the house like a slow claw, tightening its grasp with each passing moment. It crept up the porch steps, climbed the walls and crawled across the rooftop. The fog peered through the windows, borrowing bony trees to tap upon the glass. It whispered sweet nothings to anypony who could heard. In the fog, upon the porch, the Scarecrow stirred.
Agate knew none of this. She was engrossed in a poem of transient love, where the in-between places of the heart were filled with romances as bright and temporary as a flash of fire. She sighed happily and sipped at her tea.
A slam echoed through the house, distant but undeniable. Agate sat bolt upright in bed, poetry forgotten. It had come from the kitchen. She slipped out of bed, covers wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the sudden chill, and slowly made her way to the door. “Sir?” she called, peeking her head out.
The hallway beyond was dark, and silent. She had dimmed the lights on her walk to bed, and even Nightingale's light had been snuffed out. The only illumination came from the moon, filtered through mist and funneled through the arched window behind her. The light faded in mere feet, leaving the hall to stretch infinitely into the inky blackness.
Nightingale's room was closer to the kitchen than hers; surely he had heard the noise. He did not answer, however. Agate moved as fast as she dared, feeling her way along the wall and looking all around her as she did. She had no idea what looking would do for her in such a darkness, nor even what she was looking for, but she wasn't taking any chances. She knocked sharply on Nightingale's door, looking over her shoulder.
The door drifted open, creaking on its hinges.
Agate peered inside. She half expected to see Nightingale there, still staring out the doors, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She walked inside, looking around. The books were left where she had stacked them on the coffee table. Nightingale's blanket was folded neatly on the sofa—neater than Agate had last seen it, in fact, and with his pillow placed very deliberately on top of it. His coat, however, was missing.
Agate chewed her lip, cursing under her breath. She lingered in the room for a moment longer, calling upon her heritage as the daughter of a sailor to add a few more choice oaths, then trotted back into the hallway.
A dark notion began to form in Agate's mind. She knew Nightingale to be many things, and believed him to be many things more, but surely he was no fool. Perhaps he had simply wandered into the kitchen and knocked something over by accident.
The lights had been doused downstairs, but that meant little. Silence reigned, but that too, meant little. Agate shivered and pulled her covers tighter around herself. She made a mental note to put a bell on Nightingale. “Sir?” she called out. “Is everything alright?”
There was no answer. Across the sitting room was the door to the kitchen. It was an inky abyss, somehow darker than the rest of the house despite the sliver of moonlight within. The moonlight gave Agate pause; she was certain she had closed the curtains tightly.
Agate became aware that she was very deliberately not walking towards the kitchen. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, barely even breathing. She scowled, chastising herself. She had lived in this house for years. Nothing but the ghosts came on the Scarecrow Festival, and as long as there was a Scarecrow out they never bothered the house. She set her shoulders and strode forward into the kitchen. “Sir!” she said sharply, throwing on the lights.
The kitchen was empty.
Agate sighed, sagging like a deflating balloon. The curtains on the door had come loose; the source of the moonlight. Steam still rose gently from the kettle. Agate crossed the kitchen and peered out the window, confirming her fears: She could see Nightingale's back, crossing the field beside the house as easily and casually as if he was taking a Sunday stroll. Further beyond him, rapidly disappearing into the gloom, there was another figure that Agate did not recognize. She squinted, straining her eyes to make it out. The figure was a pony, but its movements were strange. Awkward and unhindered, almost random, as though it had no bones.
A slice of moonlight pierced through the fog, illuminating the bright orange head of the figure. With a start Agate realized it was the Scarecrow, ambling like a spider towards the nearby forest. She stepped sharply away from the window, as though afraid the ghost within would feel her eyes upon it. She was clearly wrong about Nightingale. Nopony but a fool would willingly follow after that.
Agate took another step back. In spite of even the blanket around her, she felt desperately cold. What was Nightingale thinking? It was one thing to not be worried about ghosts, but it was another thing entirely to actually go out and follow one. What could he possibly hope to accomplish?
She leaned over the counter and held her hooves above the kettle. The steam drifting around them helped to alleviate the cold. Whatever the reason, she assured herself, Nightingale would be fine. He had been able to defeat a Forerunner. Well... Agate had helped. Nevertheless, he would be more than able to handle whatever it was he expected to happen. It was hardly her responsibility to try and stop his foolishness. There was no reason for her to put herself in danger just because he had done so.
She poured the hot water over her hooves. It had cooled enough that it was no longer scalding, but pleasantly hot. She ran it over one hoof, then the other.
Was he trying to prove a point? That he would be able to take care of himself even if the fog got in? That was hardly what Agate had worried about. Was he trying to prove he was not a monster? That could hardly be the case; Agate could not imagine how this was meant to prove anything. And yet... and yet, his expression still stung at her. She shook her head, chasing the thought away. She would apologize, in the sensible way, at the sensible time, when Nightingale was back safely. If he got back safely. He had made his choice, it wasn't her problem.
She splashed hot water over her face and grimaced. “Fine,” she said to nopony in particular. She scrubbed her face with a towel, wrapped her blanket tight around her shoulders, and stepped decisively away from the counter. “Fine!” she said again. She strode into the sitting room and glared at the lantern there. It hung from the stairs, exactly where she had left it, and flickered in a manner that was almost expectant. She took it up, wrapping the chain around her foreleg, and plunged through the sitting room, through the kitchen, and into the night.
In the mere minutes Agate had looked away the fog had thickened. It stood before her like a wall of cotton, dyed a dark and eerie blue by the light of the moon. Nightingale was nowhere to be seen—in fact, most things beyond the porch where nowhere to be seen. Agate payed it no heed, however. She nearly leapt off the porch, calling out after the master of the house.
The fog was cold as ice, and several times wetter. Agate's impromptu shawl was soaked through in a matter of moments. A deathly chill seeped through with them, clinging to her shoulders and working their way deeper inside with each passing minute. The grass beneath her was damp and muddy, coating her hooves in a thin film of grime. Agate was heedless, lifting the lantern above her head. “Sir!” she shouted into the mist. “Nightingale!”
No answer came, but Agate strode forward regardless. The light of the lantern, dim though it seemed, was remarkable at cutting through the fog. It seemed to fade away before her, like a crowd bowing before a king. She could already see the outline of trees in the distance, no more than twenty meters away. Nightingale had no doubt disappeared within already. As Agate walked closer, however, her pace slowed. There was a figure there, standing in a wide gap in the trees, but it couldn't have been Nightingale. Nightingale was built like a wall, with legs as thick as tree trunks and a barrel fully twice as wide as Agate. The figure in the fog stood on legs as thin as stilts, sleek and elegant in poise and build. It's neck, however, was grotesquely thick and long, rising the full height again of the figure.
Agate was struck by a powerful impression that the figure was staring at her, almost expectantly. She swallowed hard. It must have heard her calling, which meant it must have passed Nightingale to watch her, or have come in behind him. It was no risk, then. At least, no risk to Nightingale. Agate breathed deep and set her shoulders, resuming her stride.
The figure twisted sharply, its thick neck swaying at unnatural angles, as though it had no bones. Indeed, as the figure seemed to turn away from Agate its neck twisted back, head turned fully around to give her one last look, before bounding into the forest. When Agate arrived where it had stood moments before there was no evidence of the creature, not even a print in the mud. The only thing that remained were several tattered straws, which Agate considered quizzically as she passed.
The forest beyond was dark and claustrophobic, a dense brush of birch and aspen. The trees were white as bone, stretching from the misty carpet below and up to the thick canopy of fog above. Fortunately for Agate a path had been cut into the forest, a deep gulley between the wooden cliffs on either side. The floor was strewn with leaves in colours that, in the daylight, Agate would have found beautiful. Now, however, in the dark and obscured by fog they brought to Agate's mind images of viscera and of old blood. She shivered again, and it was not only the chill that caused it.
The fog, at the very least, was lighter here. The trees blocked it and choked it out, leaving only a light haze. Unfortunately a haze was enough, and Agate could not shake a creeping feeling of... something, in the forest with her. She looked over her shoulder, but saw nothing. Even the entrance to the woods has disappeared, swallowed by the winding path. On two sides, wood. On two sides, darkness.
Agate shook her head, brushing back a stray lock, and brandished the lantern. “...Bringing that stallion back,” she said aloud. She said it again, louder, as though challenging the forest to stop her. “I'm not leaving until I've found Nightingale Smiles, and convinced him to come back where it's safe!” she vowed.
Her ultimatum echoed in the emptiness of the forest. Then it was gone, leaving behind it a profound, all-encompassing silence. Agate lingered, and the longer she lingered the more she imagined she had gone deaf. A brief gust of wind whistled through the trees, reassuring her. She breathed deep, calming breaths and closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of the wind and the rustling of leaves on the ground, and the gentle creaked of the chain wrapped around her leg. She opened her eyes, calmed once more, and carried on.
There was still no sign of Nightingale, save for the heavy hoof-prints carved into the leaves. The gait matched his slow, ambling pace. If Agate kept up her pace, she knew, she would catch up with him before long.
She adjusted the quilt around her shoulders, letting it slack and droop away from her face. Still soggy, it did very little to keep out the cold, and there was little enough wind for it to shield. It dragged along the ground behind her like a train, covering the subtle sounds of the forest with a steady, leafy hiss. She had just begun to fuss with it when a flash of movement caught her eye.
Agate stopped so sharply the lantern rocked back and forth, the shadows it cast twisting and dancing. She cursed herself and stilled the lantern, gazing out once more into the trees. Beyond the treeline was a very different sort of darkness. It was a black that did not suggest emptiness, like that before and behind her, but rather guile. A subtle, inky slate that distorted when one turned their head to disguise what lay within.
Agate tried her best to stare it down, but she could barely look it in the eye. Heart thumping and sweat beginning to bead on her neck, she turned back to the road just in time to see something dart between the trees.
She gave a sharp yell and leapt back, tangling her hooves in her blanket and stumbling to the earth. She searched desperately, but saw no sign of her guest. Another breeze flowed through, sending a chill down her spine. She could swear she head laughter on the wind.
She paused. She had heard something. She strained her ears and caught another snippet upon the breeze.
...my love, you will arise
upon that day and wander down the air
obscurely as the unattended flower,
it mattering not...
Agate's heart leapt in her throat. Even on the wind she recognized that brassy, dusty timbre to be Nightingale's. She scrambled to her hooves and leapt after it, quilt forgotten. She would pick it up on their way home. It would just weight her down, now. She cantered after the voice, calling out, “Sir! Sir, it's me, Agate!”
The path curved in a tight bell, winding to avoid the crumbling ruins of some long forgotten structure. Before Agate was a river, crossed by an ancient-looking bridge, and in the distance another sharp turn. Beyond there, Agate was certain, she would finally see Nightingale. She could hear his voice now, even if she could not make out the words. His rich bass cut through the night, and even through Agate's ragged breathing. By the time she reached the turn she was completely out of breath, dry and gasping, but it didn't matter. If she could at least see Nightingale, she knew it would all be over soon. She turned the corner and lifted her lantern high, searching for the stallion.
What she saw instead was a ragged creature, long of limb and round of head. He shambled into the light of the lantern before Agate could even slow her stride. A Scarecrow!
The scarecrow, head made from an un-carved pumpkin, was dressed in what had once been somepony's Sunday Best. A dapper suit of faded blue, the garments had been worn down by time and use, fraying along the edges and riddled with holes, straws poked through his clothing at odd angles. It, combined with the shambling, boneless gait gave the creature a patchwork feel that sent a wash of panic over Agate. Not that she needed much help where panic was concerned. Had she not already been short of breath she would have screamed.
The scarecrow ambled towards Agate on awkward legs. Its legs moved wildly in front of it and its head bobbed and swayed with each step. It was clearly unused to its body. Despite this it moved with a astonishing speed; it was nearly upon her already. Agate summoned the last of her breath. “Nightingale!” she screamed.
Once again, there was no answer.
She turned on her heels to run. More scarecrows had appeared behind her, however, each one of them a shambling makeshift figure. Some were faceless, like the first, but others' heads were carved or painted into grins that did nothing to lessen their menace. In years passed, it had been considered tradition to give the scarecrow a happy face, as though it would inform the temperament of the spirit within. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Agate remarked upon the pointless hope of this.
She stepped back on trembling legs, trying futilely to distance herself from the approaching scarecrows. She knew, though, that there was only one place to run. As the pumpkin-headed scarecrow stepped within arms reach of Agate she spun around and leaped into the forest.
For the second time that night she ran with everything she had. Everything she had was greatly diminished this time, however, and she struggled to make her way through the underbrush. Thick bushes clung to her legs like bony hands. They clawed and pulled, threatening to drag her down with each step, but she pressed on.
She breathed in ragged gasps and splutters. The fog was thicker among the trees, so thick it felt like breathing soup. Her lungs burned and her legs cried out from exertion, but she pressed on.
She had lost all sense of direction. Trees stretched up around her, obscuring her vision in all directions. Their ghastly white streaked against the shadows of the night. There was no detail. There were no markers, but she pressed on.
Panic had infected her mind. She had no idea how much time had passed, how far she had gone. She could have been running for hours, or mere moments. She could be miles from the scarecrows, or one could be just around the next tree. She did not care. Her entire body bristled with a fear that flirted with madness. Creeping, weeping, primal terror. It whipped at her mind, but she could no longer press on.
Her legs finally gave out from beneath her. She collapsed against a tree, fighting for breath, and lifted her lantern to search for the scarecrows. They were nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief as a weight lifted off her. Slowly, carefully, her mind let go of panic.
She would wait here for a time, she decided, and then return to the path. She didn't know what to do about Nightingale. The sensible thing, she supposed, would be to trust he could take care of himself. It would have been the sensible thing from the very beginning. She slid down the tree, resting the lantern on a solitary island of brown earth in a sea of fallen leaves. She felt so terribly tired, surely whatever the right course of action was it could wait a few moment. She leaned back against the tree, and let her eyes drift shut.
She felt oddly calm there, put at ease by the stillness and the silence. The mist swirled around her like a blanket, as soft and as downy as she had ever known. She felt like she had as a filly, huddled with her father and mother, protected. Her eyelids fluttered, and through blurred half-vision she saw a silhouette approach between the trees. Tall and thick-necked, yet thin-legged. Her mind steeped with sleep and ease, she could not open her eyes enough for a second look. “Nightingale?” she murmured.
“Agate!”
A sharp shake wrenched her back to wakefulness. Inches away from her face was another, eyes replaced by two pools of golden light. Agate screamed and swung the lantern wildly. It struck soundly on the side of the creature's face, but the creature barely moved.
“I see,” it said.
Agate blinked. “Nightingale?” She asked. Her heart leaped for a moment before she remembered herself. “That is, ah... Sir? Is that you?”
Nightingale stepped back, rubbing his nose. “Mm,” he said simply. “I apologize. I am not a pleasant face to wake up to. Are you alright?”
“I... yes, Sir,” she said. Had she slept? She had felt no time pass at all.
“I am glad,” he said. “I heard your scream.” He stood still for a moment. That his eyes were obscured by their glow made his expression no easier to read. “I... was worried,” he said finally.
There was something about his stance that made this simple admission somehow profound. His shoulders and neck were slack, and his ears drooped forward. A hint of a frown played at his mouth.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Agate said. “I followed you out to make sure you would be alright, but in the end...”
“No,” Nightingale said. “You needn't apologize. I should have considered your feelings when I left. I did not think... I am honoured to know you cared.”
An awkward silence passed between the two of them. “I... suppose,” Agate said slowly, “That we should get going, before the scarecrows come back?”
Nightingale blinked. “Agate.” he said simply. “The scarecrows found you in the forest. I confess...” he said, rubbing at his nose once more and flaring his nostrils, “my own senses are troubled by this fog. They lead me to you so I could carry you here.” He gestured to the side, and for the first time Agate took in their surroundings.
They were surrounded on all sides by worn and aged stone, no doubt the interior of the ruined building she had seen before. Judging from the heavy constructions left laying around, it had once been a lumber mill. That must have been some time ago, now. The wood was assaulted by dry rot, and any trace of metal had rusted pure red. The placed seemed to be held together by mildew and dead climbing vines.
Most everything was shoved to the sides to make room for the enormous fire pit in the center of the building. Surrounding the fire, numbering in the dozens, were scarecrows of every shape and size. They were dressed n ornate, if worn, clothing and in rags. They had heads made from pumpkins, carved or whole, heads made from painted buckets and heads made from sacks of leaves.
Agate gasped and shoved herself away from the fire. Nightingale sighed faintly.
A single scarecrow removed himself from the group and left the fireside. As he came closer, Agate realized it was the scarecrow she herself had made, though he seemed to have made some changes of his own. The sides of his shirt were split open, letting out longs tufts of hay, and he had carved his smile broader. “Now now,” the scarecrow said. His voice was hollow and rasping, as far-away as the light in Agate's lantern. He spoke with a pronounced acadian-fancee accent. “We're not gonna 'urt you. I'll tell you, it's been too long since we've 'ad living company at our little festival.” As he came closer his mouth distorted, smiling wider still. “Ca bien?”
“Oui,” Agate replied instinctively. “Oh, yes, I... hmm.” she slowly sat upright, unwinding the lantern from her leg.
The scarecrow laughed. “Oui!” he replied. “Did I 'ere right? Dis fellow calls you Agate?”
“Yes,” Agate said slowly. Bizarre as it seemed, something about this scarecrow struck her as familiar—and not simply because she had put it together. The scarecrow laughed again, and the straw poking out of his sides bristled like the pinfeathers of a pony she had once known. “Grand-pere?” she asked.
“Oui!” The scarecrow roared with laughter. “My little Agate! You 'ave grown so big!” His grin took on a cheeky quality and he leaned forward, patting her cheek. His 'hoof' was strangely warm. “But you are still so little! What brings you out in de fog? You were always such a careful fille!”
Agate peered over at Nightingale, who had moved to sit by the fire. “Oh,” she said slowly. “I was worried about Mr. Smiles...”
“Smiles?” her Grand-pere asked, looking over his shoulder at Nightingale. “Oui? Il'est Smiles? C'est bonne! De last was when I was jus' a colt, you know?”
In spite of the oddity of it all, Agate could not help but smile. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I remember your stories, Grand-pere.” She got to her hooves and, after a moment's awkwardness, put her hooves on his shoulders. “Grand-pere, is that really you?”
He laughed, bristling his wings once again. “As ver' real as dose special books you did not want your mere to see, eh?”
Agate blushed crimson. “Okay, that's enough,” she said sharply.
Her Grand-pere laughed harder and wrapped a leg around her shoulders. “Come, come,” he said, gesturing towards the fire. “I will explain to you.” He lead her to a log by the fire where they sat, her Grand-pere on one side of Agate and Nightingale on the other. He gestured to the crowd of scarecrows before them. “We are all,” he explained, “ghosts. Every last one of us was once a living, breathing pony, as you are.”
“In Canterlot,” Nightingale offered, “it is said that ghosts are the spirits of ponies who died unpleasant deaths, or have unfinished business.”
“Per'aps,” Agate's Grand-pere said. “Some of us 'ave 'ad nasty deaths. But I died peacefully in my sleep. Most of us died 'appy.” She shrugged. “De trut' is, we don' know why we are ghosts. We just are.”
“We think it's the Fog,” another scarecrow, a tallish thing holding a fiddle, put in. “That's where we are for most of the year.”
“It is only dis day dat de fog blows in far enough and long enough for us to come ashore,” Agate's Grand-pere said. “Most of the de time we drift, an' we talk, but dis is de only time we can...” He lifted a leg and gave it a shake. “Ghost don' feel,” he said.
“But scarecrows do?” Agate asked.
“Not as much as as a real body,” the fiddle-wielding scarecrow said. “But we do feel a little bit. The Fog, it seems, is good for more than just summoning ghosts.”
That made Agate shiver. Ghosts and spirits were bad enough, She didn't want to imagine the Fog doing something else on top of that.
“Whatever de cause,” her Grand-pere continued, “we take advantage. Since everypony is 'appy to leave de scarecrows around, we take dem an' come out 'ere.”
“A scarecrow festival,” Agate remarked.
“Oui!” Grand-pere agreed, beaming. “We come 'ere to feel de burn in our muscles as we dance, an' de warmth of de fire, an' to 'ear de music. Music!” he turned and addressed the crowd. “C'est bien, oui!”
A chorus of agreement sounded out, though it sounded more like a dusty echo than a cheer of any sort. Still, a palpable excitement rumbled through them.
Grand-pere laughed. “So you see?” he said. “Der is nothing to fear from us. Whatever else might live in dat fog, we only want our cheer. An' now we 'ave you and Monsieur Smiles to share it with, an' all are well, so more's de cheer!” He stood up, straw wings bristling with excitement, and clapped his straw-stuffed hooves. The scarecrow across from him grinned, no mean feat with a painted sack for a face, and launched into a tune.
It was a jaunty song, a sailor's tune that Agate remembered from when she was a young filly. The tune hopped and jumped, and the player bobbed with it, very nearly bouncing off of of his perch with enthusiasm. It was infectious, and before too long the scarecrows around him were hopping happily to the beat. A chorus sprung up, hooves stomped and clapped in time. Even Agate joined in, in spite of her misgivings of the assembly. Her hard hooves stood out rather starkly against the weak patting of straw upon straw.
It was not long before the first of the scarecrows stood up and moved to the center of the circle. They bowed to one another, grins spreading across each face as they readied an exchange that Agate could only guess must have been tradition. “Be three mare?” Asked one.
“After a year,” said the other, an unmistakably stallion-like quality to his voice, “I'm certainly willing to try it!”
The two leapt into the dance, perfectly in time with the beat. To and fro they span and leapt around the fire, joined shortly thereafter by more couples who did the same. In a matter of moments the fiddler was almost downed out by the clapping and the stomp of the dancers. So he played louder.
Agate bobbed in time with the music, still clapping along. She did not realize how much she had let herself get into the music until she swayed into Nightingale's shoulder. Agate staggered for a moment. The impact was like walking into a wall. “I'm sorry, Sir,” she said, looking over at him. “I—are you alright, Sir?”
“Hmm?” Nightingale asked, as though he had not felt the blow in the slightest. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
Agate hesitated for a moment. “W-well Sir,” she said, “it's just that you look...”
Nightingale was staring straight ahead at the fire. Here in the light the glow had departed from his eyes. His mane hung low and shaggy, shading them further, but Agate could still see the dullness in them. He barely held his posture, slouching his forelegs over knees. Solid as he was, he looked as though he might topple over at any moment.
“If I could say,” Agate said, “It's just that you look sad, Sir.”
“Hmm,” Nightingale said.
The jovial atmosphere seemed diminished, and not merely because of his dour mood. He seemed to suck the very cheer out of the air around him. To see a stallion so still in such a situation felt almost wrong. “Do you not like the music, Sir?” she pressed.
“It's beautiful,” he said. “H—I like it.” He blinked and slowly shook his head. “I apologize. There was something on my mind. I am being rude.”
“No, Sir,” Agate said, waving her hooves. “It's only that I was worried, on account of...” She looked down, and then back up. She found herself grappling with words, unsure of exactly what to say. “It's only you left so soon after what I said earlier, Sir.” she finally managed. “I... wanted to apologize for that. It was terrible of me, and I didn't... mean it poorly, but I still should have thought—“
Nightingale breathed out a long, heavy sigh. He lifted a hoof to rub at his neck, a glacial motion. “Agate,” he murmured, “What does the word 'Nocturne' mean to you?”
Agate blinked. “N-nothing, Sir,” she said.
“Nor I,” Nightingale said. “And yet, it is the name of me.” He smiled, although there was no humour in it. “A title for our tribe of two, my brother and I. Our mother gave it to us. There are in this world no more than one hundred ponies who will tell you they know what they word means. With you, seven creatures might claim to know one.”
Agate's jaw dropped. “O-only seven ponies?” she asked.
“Seven creatures,” Nightingale corrected. “Myself, my brother, our mother and two uncles, our employer, and you.
“A name means nothing. We are but two; what good is a name for us? A name cannot tell ponies what we are. Nor could it prepare them to understand us. Thus, we keep to ourselves.”
“That... must be lonely,” Agate said. She could only guess at how it must feel. Even living alone as she did—or had done, at least—she still saw ponies from the villages when she bought groceries.
“No,” Nightingale said. “Not typically. I am a solitary creature by my nature. It is my fortune. But sometimes... yes, sometimes I am lonely. It is difficult for me to relate to ponies. I spent more time among them, once. I even took a lover. Yet, when they looked at me—even him—I could see the fear in their eyes. I was not angry with them. I understood.” Nightingale closed his eyes. “I know what I am. I think my existence, to you, must perhaps seem tragic, but I do not resent what I am, and I do not resent being alone. I did not follow the scarecrows because of what you said, but to look for something. I thought that I might find... well. There are only more ponies. No matter. I apologize for frightening you.”
Agate did not know what to say. She had an inkling, however, and the more she stewed on it the more fully-formed it became. “No, Sir,” she said.
Nightingale peered sidelong at her, but did not speak. That suited Agate fine. “It was still wrong of me to treat you that way,” she said. “Can you truly tell me that what I said didn't hurt you at all?”
Nightingale seemed to hesitate, his typical silence long and so still that even the revelers around them slowed. “No,” he said finally. “I cannot.”
“Then please, Sir, accept my apology,” Agate said. “Because you aren't a monster, Sir, no more than our scarecrow friends. I was frightened of them as well, but only because I did not care to see them. I'm not afraid to say, sir, that if I had been a little less sensible and a little more clever, we might have saved ourselves some trouble this evening.”
A small smile played across Nightingale's lips, perhaps the warmest Agate had ever seen him. “Perhaps so,” he murmured. “Sensible solutions spill blood...”
Agate smiled in kind and placed a hoof upon his shoulder. “You've saved my life, Sir,” she said. “Twice now, even, and if things keep up, it may be more than that.” She laughed and rubbed her nose, adding, “But I hope it isn't, I'll tell you. You aren't a monster, Sir, and I am honoured to call you my master.”
Nightingale smiled wider. “Then, it is a title I am honoured to receive,” he replied. “Thank you, Agate.” He peered up at the revelers, too desperate in their quest for sensation to have noticed what occurred. “Equally, I would be honoured if we might dance?”
Agate's smiled widened. “I'm an awful dancer,” she warned.
“Good,” Nightingale replied. “So am I. But when in Cloudsdale, they tell me, one does as the Pegasi do.”
So they danced. They joined with the revelers in glorious celebration of nothing in particular, bounding and swaying to the fiddler's manic tune. They danced through the night, relishing in the warmth of the fire and the light of the stars that peeked through the crumbled ceiling. Strangely, Agate even relished in the mist that lingered around the hooves of the dancers.
She lost all sense of time, and in what seemed to Agate like hardly any time at all the sky began to pale. The first rays of dawn peered through the windows, and the fog thinned to a gauzy haze. The fiddlers music slowed, and with a final series of sharp, lingering strokes, the music came to a close. All at once the dancers bowed to one another, and the music was replaced with a great chorus of laughter and applause.
Agate's Grand-pere emerged once more from the crowd, clapping as furiously as his straw-filled limbs allowed him. “C'est belle!” he cried as he approached Agate, “And de music was fine too!” He laughed, clapping a hoof on Agate's shoulder. She wonder idly if this is how Nightingale had felt when she bumped him. “Agate, dear, you dance beautifully!” His smiled lessened, but turned warmer, and he wrapped her in a hug. It was a hug that Agate happily returned.
“Thank you, Grand-pere,” she said.
“Non, thank you!” her Grand-pere replied. “To see my grand-fils!” He stepped away from her and held her shoulders. “You grew up so beautiful, my dear.” The cheekiness returned to his grin. “Even if you do speak only Equestrian! It was wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Grand-pere,” Agate said. She could not help but feel a pang of sadness, however. “Does this mean you have to go, now?”
“Oui,” her Grand-pere said sadly. “De fog goes to sea, and we go with it, I am afraid. But fear not!” he patted her cheek. “De world, she turns, an' in a year's time, she comes around again! We will be back next year, to dance and to drink and to feel the joy of life once more. And what greater joy dan to see my grand-fils, happy and brave and beautiful?”
Agate laughed. “I don't know about brave, Grand-pere,” she said. “I didn't exactly make a show of being brave in the woods.”
Her Grand-pere scoffed and waved dismissively. “You see any other villagers 'ere?” he asked. He waved again then, shooing the question out of the air unanswered. “You are very brave, Agate, and I am so very proud of you. Next year, you tell me all about yourself, oui?”
“Oui, Grand-pere,” Agate said. “Next year. But what happens this year?”
“This year, we take the warmth with us,” Agate's Grand-pere asked. He stepped away from her, his back to the flames, and declared to the gathered scarecrows, “De morning comes! If we cannot dance, I say at least we are warm until next year!” With a great hurrah, he leapt back into the pyre. Agate gasped, but her Grand-pere laughed. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Warm at last!”
One by one the scarecrows approached the fire, throwing themselves into and laughing. They hugged one another as their bodies burned away. Mist leaked from them, stained blue and flecked with gold that sparkled and crackled as the wisps rose into the sky.
Soon there was a single scarecrow left. The fiddler, dressed in stained dockworker's denim and wooly flannel. His head was a lumpy sack of chaff painted with a grin that looked somehow melancholy. He approached Nightingale and held out his fiddle.
Nightingale took the fiddle, running a hoof over the smooth wood. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Play us something next year, sir.” the fiddler said. “Please be happy. There's more here than us. You might just find what you're looking for.”
Nightingale's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he bowed his head. “I... will do my best,” he said.
The fiddler nodded, and then he too submitted himself to the flames. He breathed out, a warm and happy sigh, and laughed. His mist poured out, flowing into the sky and taking his laughter with it.
Nightingale and Agate lingered for a time, taking in the scene. Where so much life and cheer had been just moments before, there remained only the burnt-out husk of a lumber mill and a dying pyre. It was oddly cold, even this close to the flames.
When she could no longer bear the silence Agate trotted past the log seats and collected her lantern. She stifled a yawn, and it only now occurred to her just how tired she was.
“Quite so,” Nightingale said as he plodded over to her. “It has been quite the night, I think. Shall we go?”
In spite of her weariness, and the lingering sense of loss, Agate smiled. “Yes, Sir,” she said. “And, ah... if I could just say, while we're walking back, we should keep an eye out for my quilt.”
