Half past nine, right after Fleur’s toast to new opportunities and the dawn of summer, Spoiled realized she’d seen this stallion before. Not that she’d been watching him on purpose—that would be rude; he was married, after all—but he made himself impossible to ignore.
Normally being another earth pony in a herd of Canterlot unicorns would be more than enough, but even then, he spoke quicker and louder than Canterlot earth ponies. He and his young wife—of course he had a young, pretty, perfect wife—had appeared at Lyrica’s New Year’s party nine years ago and won some sort of dance competition. If that hadn’t been the first time Spoiled saw him, then it was certainly when she’d started watching him.
He’d sporadically pop up at a benefit here, a business conference there, walking an old money walk and talking a new money talk. Sometimes he’d trade witty repartee with the socialites, but more often than not he didn’t bother. He couldn’t have been a Canterlot regular. A lazy drawl curled under the quick patter of his words and came out to play when he’d talk economics or sling back one too many martinis. When the stallion spoke, she knew what he meant, too. No second guessing sentences, no hidden words between words, no double talk. Spoiled had nearly forgotten such a thing existed.
The stallion had attended Cypress Song’s funeral last year. He’d worn a black seersucker suit with silver buttons, and when it came his turn to speak, his light reminiscences and bittersweet stories left more ponies laughing than crying. His wife hadn’t come with him, then. Spoiled tried to talk to him when they bumped into each other on the way out, but by the time she’d found something substantial to say, he’d already laughed it off and moved on.
Oh, and his laugh. The Canterlot elite kept their laughter on short leashes, with little chuckles and polite giggles. Not him. It boomed and rolled through the dance halls and garden parties, rich and full and honest. They’d barely spoken five words between them, but she knew—she knew—every single time he laughed, he meant it. He absolutely meant it.
No wonder it took so long for her to recognize him. Bent over in the corner of the bar, nursing a salt lick and staring holes into Fancy Pants’ marble floor, the stallion had hardly spoken a word all night, much less laughed. Occasionally, he’d grumble under his breath or pull out his pocket watch, as if calculating how soon he could leave. Watching his still, sullen face, Spoiled wondered if she’d mistaken him for somepony else.
He lifted a hoof for the bartender. “’Nother block of rock salt, Cosmo.”
The voice sealed it. That was him, no question. Spoiled eased onto an adjacent stool.
Cosmopolitan—some mouthy unicorn fresh from bartender’s school—eyeballed the spare grains on the counter. “Don’t you think that’s maybe enough salt for one night, Mr. Rich?”
Spoiled couldn’t help but smile. Even the stallion’s name went right to the point.
“Well, if I did, I wouldn’t be orderin’ another one, would I?” Mr. Rich tapped his hoof on the counter and smacked his dry tongue. “And add a Manehattan to that, please.”
I should say something. A mare couldn’t stare at somepony this long and not say something. But something told her this stallion wouldn’t be interested in rumors of Paradise’s affair, or Silver Frames’ ugly new hat, or the recent Silk Stocking scandal…or Spoiled’s opinion on any of those things.
Mr. Rich’s left ear got an antsy little twitch, and he shifted in his fine tailcoat. The cuffs scarcely covered his fetlocks. Spoiled watched for a telltale flash of gold under the sleeve, but the dim lighting couldn’t quite catch it—presuming there was anything to catch. He gave the bartender a grateful nod as she broke the salt block into smaller, manageable chunks.
“Thanks, Cosmo.” He popped a tiny chunk of salt in his mouth and chased it with a swallow of the Manehattan. Without turning to look, he sighed and said, “Miss, I don’t want to be rude, but can we please get this over with? Just ask me what you’re gonna ask me.”
Spoiled double checked the empty stools and the unicorn cleaning shot glasses. No, definitely speaking to her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mmhm.” Mr. Rich tucked the salt chunk under his tongue, slowly rolling a blue eye in her direction. “And I bet you haven’t been watching me half the night either. You just happened to be lookin’ in my direction, right? Even though the party’s all the way back there.”
He jutted his head towards the ballroom. Distant echoes of some neo-classical jazz rendition of “Midnight With the Stars and You” drifted across the hallway and into the dim refuge of Fancy Pants’ bar. (Nopony at this estate actually liked jazz, but Fancy Pants called it charming last month, so this month everypony agreed on its veritable genius.)
“Near everypony else asked me about it already,” he sighed. “You might as well.”
Spoiled flicked her tail and pursed her lips. “I’ll have you know that I planned on asking no such thing. I only wondered why a stallion of your station would decide to sit all alone in the dingiest part of the house at one of the biggest social events of the season. Pardon me for noticing something unusual. And maybe…”
Her ears drooped. Maybe what? What did you think would happen here, Spoiled? You’d just swoop in, strike up an elegant conversation, and be married before the week’s out? What a joke. It didn’t work the last five times, what makes you think it’ll work now? Spoiled squared her shoulders against the nagging thoughts, but it didn’t stop the poise from draining out of her voice.
“Maybe I just felt curious. Or concerned. Maybe I wanted to talk, Mr. Rich.”
The stallion’s expression softened. He hummed under his breath and took a small sip of his cocktail. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don't think I’m in the mood for socializing.”
“Neither are half the ponies at this party.” Spoiled gave a wry tilt of her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me after all the time in Canterlot you still haven’t learned how to fake it.”
“Of course.” He gave a bitter little chuckle. “That don’t mean I’m good at it.”
Mr. Rich shifted in his seat to reach for another chunk of salt. Spoiled followed his hoof across the counter and watched the cuff of his sleeve slide up high enough to confirm the hope she’d dared not hope. Her ears perked high and she leaned forward on the stool to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.
Good fortune so rarely delivered itself into Spoiled’s lap, and nine times out of ten it ended in false alarms, disappointments, or some devilish proviso. So when she saw the worn impression of a wedding band above Mr. Rich’s fetlock, Spoiled couldn’t help but feel annoyed when her heart skipped a beat.
Stop that. You ought to know better.
“My wife always did better at this sort of thing. She’d cover for me when I didn’t feel the mood to schmooze.” Mr. Rich cracked the salt chunk in his teeth. “She’s halfway to Fillydelphia by now, I expect.”
Spoiled prayed her little smile read more sympathetic than eager. “Oh. Not a round trip, I assume?”
He shook his head.
This marked the point in the conversation when a mare ought to clutch her chest and say she felt ever so sorry…but Mr. Rich had already caught Spoiled in one lie tonight. “Her loss, then, Mr. Rich. It’s a wonderful party.”
“Fancy’s always are.” Rich fiddled with his bowtie—the other reason Spoiled hadn’t recognized him at first—with a sheepish shrug. “I do feel a little bad for hidin’ out in the bar like this. He came all the way down to my office trying to drag me up to Canterlot. Got my secretary and the V.P. and everypony in on it, too. Twisted my hoof so hard I thought it’d fall off; you’d think it was a darn intervention.” He snorted and rolled his eyes. “A couple extra hours of work never hurt nopony, right?”
An intervention wouldn’t have surprised Spoiled. Work exhaustion wasn’t unheard of in earth ponies, even when pushing pens instead of plows. “I don’t know, Mr. Rich. How many would you call ‘a couple’?”
He looked askance and coughed into his hoof. “Anyway, he went to a lot of trouble. The least I can do is try to have a nice time.”
Spoiled inclined her head thoughtfully. “Mm, that is a toughie. If only you had some way to show it. Like, oh, I don’t know, chatting up ponies at the bar instead of sulking over lumps of salt?” Her ear twitched as the bartender walked by. Spoiled lifted a hoof but didn’t waste time with eye contact. “Haymaker on the rocks.”
An incredulous look breezed over the stallion’s face. His eyes flicked up to stare into hers. He laughed, warmer this time. “Now, madam. You do know it’s not proper to flirt with somepony on the rebound, don’t you?”
“Of course. What sort of mare do you take me for?” She folded her hooves and gently leaned in Mr. Rich’s direction. “Good thing you’re not on the rebound anymore.”
If so, then it couldn’t be earlier than the last stages. After a few years, a pony knew how to spot these things. Stallions on the rebound tried too hard, laughed too loud, and danced too wild. They drank like fish and stuffed themselves with so much fun they almost forgot how sad they were. Then the bottom fell out, leaving a pony alone and feeling silly under a mirror ball without a ride home. No, Spoiled had had her share of stallions on the rebound.
“You’re just being sulky, that’s all.” She patted his elbow and let her right hoof rest on his sleeve.
Mr. Rich rolled his eyes, but they had a glint of amusement to them. He let the hoof stay.
“I’ve seen you before, you know. You seem so different without your red tie.” Spoiled grinned and breathed in the scent of cologne. “Not that I’m complaining, Mr. Rich.”
Indeed, he cut a handsome figure in the navy blue tailcoat, and the grey accents complemented his mane nicely. Tiny silver bit signs shimmered on the black bow tie, a far more playful accent than the stallion wearing it. Somepony must have tried to give him a hint. Spoiled brushed the silk edge of the tie. “Who is this by?”
Mr. Rich blinked. “Pardon?”
“I mean, who designed it? It doesn’t resemble any of the big three. Is it custom?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He adjusted the tie proudly. “Local and custom tailored. A Rarity—that’s the designer, I mean.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Rarity. You say she’s local? Hm, let me guess.” Spoiled propped her chin on her hoof, squinting in concentration. “Manehattan, Van Hoofer, and Applewood are all too far away. Too classy for Dodge.” She’d have guessed Fillydelphia, but he’d said his ex had hightailed it there, so that couldn’t be it. Unless he’d a pair of wings tucked under his waistcoat, Cloudsdale and Los Pegasus were out of the question. That left one major Equestrian city. “Baltimare?”
“Nope.”
“Then I have no idea.” Spoiled frowned. “Unless you’ve really been an eccentric Canterloter this whole time?”
“Afraid not.” He lifted his head with a proud little smirk. “I’m from Ponyville.”
Spoiled raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“Ha! Come on now; don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Ponyville!” Mr. Rich tipped back on the stool, holding the counter with one hoof and gesturing with his drink in the other. His accent leaked between the words, and it sounded like sunlight pouring over the mountains. Spoiled swore the bar got a little bit brighter with every word. “It’s only the sweetest little place you’ve ever seen, ma’am. It's about, oh, twenty miles down yonder of the Canterhorn.”
Spoiled suppressed a chuckle. Down yonder. Adorable. “The name does sound familiar…and you say it’s close by?” That’d make it convenient for commuting between cities.
“Right down in the valley. In fact…” Quicker than Spoiled could process, Mr. Rich took her hoof and swept her off the bar stool. “It’s clear tonight. I think we can see it from here. D’you mind?”
“Um. Not at all, Mr. Rich.” Did she need her shawl? No matter, she’d grit her teeth and deal with the weather.
“Cosmo! Do us a favor and have somepony bring our refreshments to the veranda?” He winked back at Spoiled, as if he’d made a deal under the table. “Between you and me, I’ve had my fill of salt, but that stuff’s ten bits an ounce. I’m rich, but I’m not crazy.”
The bifold doors parted into themselves like curtains and let Fancy Pants’ veranda spread wide before them. The night air breezed under Spoiled’s taffeta skirt and tickled her hocks. She inwardly cringed at the pollen and honeysuckle petals dusting the green tile and ebony tables. Mr. Pants ought to have a stern word with his cleaning staff. They were getting sloppy.
Mr. Rich led Spoiled past the couples-sized tables and abstract statues to the glass railing overlooking the mountain. She kept both hooves on the railing and peered down at the valets and buscolts ushering the late arrivals and emergency departures to their carriages. A bit farther out, the moonlit river spilled down the violet crags of the Canterhorn. Her eyes traced the silver ribbon of water through the forests and fields. The river tapered to a stream when it met a tiny cluster of lights and thatched roofs and farmland.
Spoiled tilted her head. Calling the place a town was generous; it couldn’t have been much larger than a village. The forest edged too close for comfort, and farms outnumbered houses two to one. An unremarkable place, really.
“There it is.” Mr. Rich grinned like a schoolcolt. “That’s Ponyville.”
“It is kind of cute,” Spoiled had to admit. Not much else, though. “So, you were born there, or…?”
“Born, raised, and living there, yes. Always have, always will.”
Spoiled squinted over the railing to see if there’d been something she’d missed. She didn’t have a subscription to Filly 500, but she knew for certain Mr. Rich could easily afford a high-scale Canterlot villa or Manehattan highrise. “Is Ponyville some sort of business retreat? Does it have vacation homes?”
It did seem like a decent place to get some peace and quiet. Mr. Rich might have been the sort to rent cabins in the woods for the real work and wire all the info back to a head office in the city.
Mr. Rich shook his head. “Oh no, nothing like that, although—oh, thank you.” He nodded gratefully to the waitstaff dropping off their drinks at a nearby table. “Although that does remind me, I should actually use that cute little cottage at Horseshoe Bay sometime.”
“So Ponyville’s a rapidly expanding boomtown, then.”
Mr. Rich rolled it through his mind. “Give it another ten years or so. It is getting there, but not quite yet.”
“Then it’s a popular spot for business ponies.”
“That’d be news to me.”
Spoiled wrinkled her nose. “Then why?”
He chuckled under her breath. “It’s my home. I like it.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s all.”
Spoiled twitched her ears thoughtfully. She blinked at the cluster of lights again. “…Huh.”
“Alright, it’s also because my granddaddy had a hoof in founding the place.” Mr. Rich took a seat overlooking the view and sipped his Manehattan. “It’s mostly that first reason, though.”
Spoiled could believe it. He gazed at Ponyville the way some ponies gazed at their mothers. Nothing like the way Spoiled looked at Canterlot. She frowned down at her haymaker. They’d forgotten the straw. Again. Celestia forbid somepony remembers some of us can’t levitate our glass.
Mr. Rich set down his drink, staring out at some unseeable blip in the cluster of lights. He watched it for a long time until the light ran away from his face. “Still can’t understand how she came to hate it so much.”
The wind kicked up a flurry of honeysuckle petals. Spoiled took a sip of her drink and shrugged. There wasn’t really anything to say to that.
“I know plenty of ponies can’t get the knack for it, and fair enough—it does sit right next to the Everfree—but to despise it that much and for no good reason…” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’ve been taking over the conversation, haven’t I?”
“A little,” Spoiled said. Not that she minded.
“What is it that you do, Miss…?”
She looked up with a start. “Oh. I’m…” Spoiled swirled the ice in her haymaker and felt her mouth go dry.
She hadn’t kept up with the gossip in Canterlot for the past few months, and Mr. Rich likely didn’t keep up with rumor mills anyway, but one never knew. Upper Crust had bucked Spoiled’s name around enough garden parties and black tie benefits for a reputation to stick. (And she’d never been especially fond of her name to start with.)
The pause had gone on too long. Mr. Rich frowned and blinked.
Spoiled felt flush. She took another small sip to fill the silence gap. “I’m a—ahem—wedding planner.”
Mr. Rich blinked again. “A wedding planner? That’s it?” He laughed one of his golden, booming laughs, the sort that cleared the air and made other ponies laugh with him. “Sweet Celestia, mare! The way you looked, a pony’d think you sold locoweed to schoolfillies. Goodness, planning weddings ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”
“I suppose not.”
Spoiled tried to smile, but the laughter from her sister's wedding echoed in the back of her mind. Well, you know what they say, Sis. Those who can’t do, plan. At least you’re good at helping other mares get married, right?
That had been two years ago. Honeymilk—the baby of the family and nearly a decade younger—got married only two years ago. And she had a colt in the nursery already. With another foal on the way. Spoiled already ordered the present for next Friday’s shower.
The amassing years breathed down Spoiled’s neck and clawed crow’s feet into her lush, pink coat. She glanced up at Mr. Rich and found a smooth face hardly touched by time, still fresh, still new. He’d dark, tired circles around his eyes, but that was all. This stallion had all the time in the world.
Ugh. Knocking back cocktails and flirting like a mare half my age. “Celestia, what am I doing?”
“Sorry?”
Spoiled’s ears went flat. She’d said that aloud, hadn’t she? Great. She ran her hooves over the hard purple curls of her mane and stirred up the courage to meet his eye. “Mr. Rich, I…I think this might have been a mistake. I’m not sure if I can do this again. I’m too old for it.”
A beat of silence passed over them. Mr. Rich’s brow knit together, and his smile went stiff. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do.”
“Oh, well, that’s…” He hadn’t been kidding, before. Mr. Rich couldn’t fake-smile to save his life. He scratched the back of his neck and let his frown be a frown. “Look, I dunno what all this might turn into, but it’s not like I’m some spring chicken, either. I grew out of games a long time ago. If you really want to stop—”
“I don’t.”
A lock of mane flopped down Mr. Rich’s cheek when he leaned over the table. “Well, then?”
“I don’t want to stop, it’s just that…” Spoiled checked over her shoulder. Hardly above a whisper, she admitted, “I’m forty-one.”
“Okay. And I’m thirty-four, so what?” Mr. Rich popped a chunk of salt under his tongue and shrugged with a nonchalance that Spoiled would have found infuriating in anypony else. He smiled and watched her, waiting for the clouds to dissipate, waiting for her to smile too.
When it didn’t happen, he brushed his mane back into place and sat back on his cushion. “Listen, if I wanted somepony two-thirds my age, I’d have one. I already walked down that road—didn’t turn out so good.”
“But—”
Mr. Rich gently laid a hoof on Spoiled’s, and he leaned forward to look her in the eye. “I’m a business pony, ma’am. I value experience.”
The privilege of being picky had zoomed by Spoiled ten years ago. Anypony—any pony—of decent society and willing to go down the aisle would do. She’d steeled herself for a dull march of loveless years with a greying cob. Or sleeping alone in a Canterlot mansion while her husband buried his nose in the mane of whoever he really loved. But this…
Everything about this was just too good. A mare had a kind husband or a handsome husband or an affluent husband. One might get two out of three, at best. Spoiled wondered how long it would take for the other horseshoe to drop. She’d just have to keep going until it did.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Rich.” Spoiled glanced away, but she did let a smile creep upon her face. “I don’t know how you get away with it."
“Well, what can I say?” He dipped his head in self-congratulatory acceptance. “There’s a lot that a pony with my assets can afford.”
They shared a light chuckle and let silence settle over them. Somewhere in the depths of Fancy Pants’ mansion, the band kicked up a slow brass rendition of "What Good Will Wishing Do?"
The breeze whispered through the balcony. Without a word, the ball went rolling again.
This, perhaps, could really work.
“You never did tell me your name.” Mr. Rich arched a playful eyebrow. “I’m not quite as practiced in the decorum like some of these Canterlot socialites, but I’m still pretty sure introductions are customary.”
Well, he had to hear it sometime. “Spoiled,” she said. Her bare shoulders hunched and she watched the cocktail olive bob in the haymaker. “Spoiled Rotten.”
The merry nonchalance faded from him inch by inch. “Really.” Mr. Rich’s jawline drew tight and something severe settled behind his eyes. He reached across the table to cup Spoiled’s hooves in his. “Do you know what my first name is, Spoiled?”
She thought about it. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Filthy. Filthy Rich.”
Spoiled stared at him a moment. Then another. “Filthy and Spoiled.” A grin too wide for polite society wormed across her muzzle. She laughed into her cocktail glass—a low giggle that blossomed into a rollicking, stuttering chortle, complete with a little snort on top. She hadn’t snorted since grade school.
Mr. Rich tilted his ears toward her and smiled. “That’s some pair of names, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes, exactly like the mighty power couples of Canterlot: Fancy Pants and Fleur De Lis; Shining Armor and Mi Amore Cadenza; Royal Ribbon and Fine Line; Fashion Plate and Trenderhoof.” She shook her head with a laughing sigh. “And now, Filthy Rich and Spoiled Rotten.”
“Hey, at least it’s memorable.” Mr. Rich gave a casual shrug, but his tail twitched and lashed behind him. “Guess I can’t deny that.”
Spoiled leaned back and rattled her glass. Little more than a swallow of haymaker was left, but going all the way back to the bar to get topped off would be too much trouble. She popped one of the ice cubes in her mouth and let it numb her tongue before she bit it. “I still don’t know,” she quietly said, “what possesses somepony to name their foal that way.”
“I can’t speak for anypony else, but my daddy always told me it’s supposed to make a pony tougher. And keep 'em humble.” A mild sneer wrinkled Filthy Rich’s muzzle. He stared holes into the table.
“Hm. That answer’s not good enough, is it?”
“I can understand his logic, but… No, it’s not.”
Spoiled nodded sympathetically. Still better than no answer at all, though. For a moment, she almost wondered what her own mother’s reasons might have been, but pulled back before she got that far. Best not to sour such a nice evening.
The muffled, echoing music faded back into the ballroom. Another song didn’t start up. Carriages began to pull away from Fancy Estate in twos and threes.
Spoiled angled her head over the railing and watched Cross-Wire stumble across the lawn to dry heave into the koi pond. “Looks like the party’s winding down.”
“Looks like.” Mr. Rich finished his Manehattan and licked his lips.
“Too early, if you ask me. The night’s still young, Mr. Rich; Celestia won’t raise the sun for another five hours.” Spoiled swept in closer, letting her tail tease across his. “We could take in the Canterlot nightlife, maybe a walk through the gardens. I got a patch of irises for mine last week, but never got around to planting them.”
“Really, now?” Mr. Rich’s eyebrows rose a few centimeters. He grinned. “What kind are they?”
She grinned back. “Pretty little pink and purple ones, with long, soft petals. The soil’s fresh and all set for planting. You could help me till it, and I could show you the peach tree.” It grew no peaches, but blossoms still bloomed upon the branches. Still a perfectly good tree.
“Well, I do have some experience gardening at night.” The tip of Filthy’s tail brushed Spoiled’s flank.
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Rich.”
“You know, I bet you’re the type with one of those big, lush, manicured lawns. Am I right?”
Spoiled nodded. “White rose bushes, too. And kingcups.”
“Kingcups, you say? Why, Miss—” Filthy Rich’s ears pricked as the clock chimed the first hour. He let his tail fall back into place and glanced over his shoulder at the twinkling lights in the distance.
When he turned back to the table, the look in his eyes made Spoiled’s ears droop. She fell back onto her cushion, frowning. “…Something the matter, Mr. Rich?”
He ran his hoof through his shiny, pomaded mane. “Please don’t take it the wrong way, Miss Spoiled. It’s a wonderful offer—I mean that, it is—but I really can’t.” Mr. Rich nodded at the little town at the foot of the Canterhorn. “I need to get back to Ponyville before dawn.”
“Ah.” Spoiled brushed back her mane and tried not to appear too disappointed. “Work in the morning, right?” She wondered if proposinga carriage ride home would be too forward. Probably, but she’d try it anyway.
Before she got the chance, Mr. Rich shook his head again. “I’m still on vacation, whether I like it or not. No, I’ve just gotta be back before my best girl wakes up.”
And there went the other horseshoe. “Um. I-I’m sorry, what?”
“Hm?” Filthy caught Spoiled’s bemused expression and laughed. “Oh, honey, no. No, no, I mean my daughter, Diamond Tiara.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Spoiled held her hoof to her chest and let her blood pressure get back to normal. “I didn’t know you had a foal, Mr. Rich.” In retrospect, she should have figured it out; he’d been married long enough for it. It explained his drastic disappearance from the Canterlot social scene a few years ago, and why he so rarely appeared since.
“Sure do.” Mr. Rich blinked as it came together. “I’m sorry; I should’ve said something before. I’m so used to everypony and their dog knowing us back home, I guess I forgot to mention it.” He idly rubbed the back of his ears. “Is that a proble—”
“No!” Spoiled stood so fast the salt rattled on the plate. “No, it’s not a problem at all.”
She froze at the clink of glass and voices murmuring from the bar. Both ponies looked up to find Fancy Pants relaxing with a cup of tea, while Fleur mulled over what cocktail to order. Filthy turned towards them, an unsaid question on his lips.
Fancy surveyed the situation with his monocle and slightly lifted a blue eyebrow. He shrugged with a chuckle and lifted his teacup to them. No worries about being shooed out.
Spoiled coughed into her hoof. “Anyway, I’m fine with foals.” And thank goodness for it. Children so often ended up as a deal-breaker for a relationship, one way or another. Some things couldn’t be helped, no matter how hard a pony tried.
“Nice to know,” said Mr. Rich. “She’s—”
“Do you want any more?” Spoiled hadn’t meant to say it—not tonight, not so soon—but the haymaker slicked her tongue and it came rolling out. “Uh. Foals, I mean.”
Filthy blinked. He popped a little chunk of salt in his mouth and sucked on it as he thought it over. “I’m not opposed to the idea, but…” He rolled his shoulders, angling his neck to observe the mare in the moon travel across the sky. “I love my child with all my heart; more than I can bear. But more than one of her?” Filthy’s booming laugh climbed into the scattershot stars. “Celestia, I think I’d die. No, I think I’m good for now.”
The tension eased out of Spoiled’s shoulders. She sank into the cushion and let herself laugh. “That is absolutely fine by me, Mr. Rich. I’m sure your daughter and I would get along wonderfully.”
Early’s colt seemed to like Spoiled well enough, after all. True, she couldn’t quite say the same for all her nieces and nephews, but nopony could find fault there. When Early Rotten insisted on letting his fillies gallop through the halls shrieking their heads off and making an awful mess, one couldn’t help but become a little perturbed. Spoiled loved her little brother, but he and his husband needed to learn the word “no”. Those fillies would be sunk when they finally reached greater society. A shame, really.
Mr. Rich smiled. “I do hope so, Spoiled. My little Diamond’s a gem, but she is spirited. Very spirited.” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “You want to see?”
“I would, yes.” Spoiled eyed the dozens of photo edges bursting from the wallet seams. She wondered if he’d left any room for regular business cards. “Though something tells me I don’t have much choice.”
“Guilty.” A roll of laminated photographs spilled across the table, almost all of them of his little filly.
Spoiled leaned forward for a better look, half-fearing rough edges or piercings or mane dye. She needn’t have worried. “Why, Mister Filthy Rich! She’s magnificent!”
Mr. Rich lifted his head with a proud smirk. “Yes.”
“Magnificent” undersold it—the filly was absolutely perfect. The very image of everything a mother could want in a daughter. In one photo, Diamond Tiara clutched a stuffed pig, peeking out at the world from under beautiful, spiraling white and lavender curls. In another, natural sunlight brought out the soft pink of her coat as she reached for a cookie. A winning smile beamed at the camera, half buried in the plunders of Hearth’s Warming. Bright blue eyes stared at a schoolhouse with trepidation.
“I can see why you’re in a hurry to get back home, Mr. Rich. She’s such a doll.”
Exactly the sort of sweet little filly who always said her yes-sirs and no-ma’ams, and who never ran indoors. Who spoke sweetly, yet firmly. A towering social butterfly by day and an elegant angel by night; a winner in every regard. So well-named, too: Diamond. Perfection. Spoiled could see it now: the two of them playing chess in the conservatory, feeding swans in the pond, strolling through the countryside with parasols…
The last photo—the one where Diamond laughed along with some pink unicorn filly—had no creases running through it or dog-eared corners. Probably quite recent. “How old is she? Five? Six?”
“Six right now.” Mr. Rich lingered over the wallet photographs before his eyes flicked back up to meet Spoiled’s. His daughter had inherited those gorgeous eyes. “She’ll be seven, come the top of August.”
Spoiled rested her chin on her folded hooves and smiled. Seven: barely past the bratty independent stage and long after the screeching toddler stage. Still some years to come before the rebellious angst and directionless anger of adolescence kicked in.
Plenty of mares near Spoiled’s age had foals around six and seven, too. She admired a photo of Diamond and Filthy riding the little boats at Whinnyland. Why, one could imagine Spoiled in such a photo without any trouble at all—as if she’d always been there. Even Diamond’s and Spoiled’s coat and mane colors matched.
“You say she’s seven in early August…” That’s what, ten weeks from now? Spoiled thought back to the golden ticket on her bureau she’d bought months in advance. I can always make next year’s Gala. “Do you know what she wants for her birthday?”
Mr. Rich’s smile wilted. He flicked an ear and rubbed the worn fur on his right fetlock. “She hasn’t mentioned anything to me.” His eye trailed up the line of photographs until he reached the second one from the top: the one with young Diamond Tiara holding one handle of a winner’s cup. Filthy’s ex held the other handle. “But I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Oh.” Spoiled followed his gaze. “I see.”
A multitude of questions rolled through her mind, all of them absolutely inappropriate to ask tonight—not for a long while. She wondered if it had been a slow decay of little disappointments or a sudden, irreparable fissure. Or maybe his ex had always been a terrible pony and it had taken Filthy years to realize it. That last option ought to have brought Spoiled some smug comfort. It didn’t.
“I’m not used to my little Diamond wantin’ something I can’t give. I’m not.” Sorrow pinched the corners of Mr. Rich’s eyes. He suddenly looked twice his age.
“Well...” Spoiled tried to think of something comforting to say. Failing that, she went with honesty. “You’d better get used to it, because this won’t be the first time. Not even the Princess can give somepony everything, Mr. Rich.” She gave his hoof a gentle pat before he started rubbing his fetlock again. “These things take time, right? I’m sure Diamond will be fine.”
“I hope so,” Mr. Rich sighed. He stared at Spoiled’s hoof on his fetlock and clicked his tongue. “I just can’t help but wonder if we could’ve done somethin’ different. Tried harder to grin and bear each other. For our daughter’s sake, at least.”
Spoiled gave him a flat stare. “Do you really think that would have worked?”
Her eye trailed down to the lovely, golden mare with the winner’s cup and short pink mane. In under six seconds, she found no less than fifty reasons to despise this mare with all her heart.
Mr. Rich followed her gaze. He focused on the winner’s cup until his ears went flat. Darkness crept into his voice when he spoke again. “No. I don’t.”
“Then it’s not worth wondering about. And frankly, Mr. Rich…” Spoiled folded up the wallet and slipped it into his breast pocket. “It’s her loss if she can’t know a good thing and a good pony when she sees it.”
That made him chuckle, a sound warm and tattered at the edges, like an old, cozy blanket. “You really are a determined young thing, aren’t you, Miss Rotten?”
“I’m an earth pony, Mr. Filthy.” Spoiled shrugged and tipped her glass to him. “I’m afraid it’s just in my nature.”
Mr. Rich bowed his head, donning a solemn little smile. “Alas. Such is our fate.” He stood up, took a deep breath of night air, and held his martini glass high over Canterlot. “To our better natures, Miss Spoiled Rotten?”
The last days of spring rolled by a long time ago. So be it. The breeze stirred up another flurry of honeysuckle petals. Spoiled watched them swirl under the railing and down towards the distant light of Ponyville sparkling in the dark.
Dawn arrived in a few hours; Equestria’s first real day of summer. For the first time in years, Spoiled looked forward to it and all the summers to follow.
“To our better natures, Mister Filthy Rich.”
The clink of empty glasses echoed across the veranda.
Author's Note
