“This will be the death of you, you know.”

“At least once, I would imagine. But this is also too important to just ignore.” The pale unicorn rested the side of his head against the wall-paper, watching the clouds roll past outside the window. The gentle hum of the airships’ engines, as much as the frosty air, was soothing. Airships tended to run cool, especially the smaller models where the gondola containing the passenger compartments was attached beneath a rather ornate gas-bag. Even if the thing bore a passing resemblance to a dragon, heating was one of the few luxuries you wouldn’t find up here in the clouds.

“Not that, you need to remember to eat and sleep. You worry too much. And we are quite capable of keeping watch. Trust me, I know what it is like to be ridden hard by an idea and unable to concentrate on such niceties as dinner and napping – muses can be such temperamental and inconvenient things.” It was a pleasant voice, with a low masculine burr to it.

The unicorn said nothing, but his stomach rumbled in agreement to the suggestion of food. He’d half a dozen sandwiches packed in his satchel. Eating would have to wait until tomorrow. You’d think, he grumbled to himself, that with the past few weeks of hard work and short rations a little more of the pudge would have vanished from around his middle. But cheap food tended to be something that packed on the pounds, and he hadn’t exactly been doing the sort of physically strenuous labor that builds muscle either. Just walking around was challenge enough some days.

“The transoceanic crossing, from what they said, will take at least five days. So there’s nothing you can do until we make landfall, and you’ve been worrying with this too long. It has been months, and as far as we know, it could be months more. Right now, you need rest. That will help most with perspective.”

More silence. The pale unicorn’s blue eyes drifted shut. Judging from the dark circles beneath them, it had been some time since he had gotten enough sleep.

“’ead’s up – Stewardess inbound. The cute one!” this voice was considerably more nasal and feminine.

The pale unicorn’s eyes opened cautiously.

“Good evening sir, may I bring you some light refreshment?” A perky smile; a short, smartly cut mane; and a professionally friendly tone of voice. Further, only the hint of an accent betrayed this pegasus’ origin as an Albion native.

The pale unicorn smiled up at her. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Ponies told him his voice was musical. Some even described it as enchanting. After a slight pause, he went on, “It’s very kind of you to ask.” Then his stomach growled again. That sound was more percussive than melodious.

She raised an eyebrow. He grimaced and rolled his eyes.

“Sir, may I at least bring you some water and crisps? Having a passenger faint from hunger on the very first day of the flight simply won’t do. Fainting isn’t on the schedule until Thursday.” She pronounced schedule with a soft ‘c’ – more like ‘shed-ule.’ Definitely Albion raised.

“Take her up on the offer. You look dehydrated.” His voice offered quiet encouragement.

“Oy, yes. Have a nosh.” Her tone was considerably more pushy.

The unicorn sighed. “Very well. I’ll take whatever you recommend.” He smiled, focusing his attention on her nametag and – for the first time – really looking at her. Body the color of cream, mane and tail the color of strong tea, eyes the color of honey. Stewardess uniform of the Grav lines, complete with little hat … and her cutie mark was a steaming cup. If he had to choose one word for her it would be “vibrant.” The pale unicorn didn’t really look at ponies all that often. He had spent years learning how to look around them without actually seeing them. Bodies were distracting. “Thank you again, Valentina.”

She smiled, and this time it was entirely genuine. “My pleasure, sir!” And off to the galley she went.

The pale unicorn rubbed at his eyes, “Hopefully I shan’t have to dine and dash,” he muttered.

“Given that we are several hundred feet above the ocean, dining and dashing would be a poor plan. Even if you were a pegasus, which you aren’t.” The hints of amusement shone through in his academic-lecturer tone.

“Too right! Long swim back to New Amsteerdame. Gettin’ longer by tha minute.” She seemed to find the thought amusing.

“They call it Manehatten now, Magpie. Get with the times.” Again, that hint of disapproval from him. A touch of frustration. Hopefully they wouldn’t quarrel too loudly. Usually they didn’t. If anything, their disagreements had become something of a game for them both.

“Bah. Can’t be bothered to remember all o’ that.” Magpie's nasal voice was flippantly dismissive.

Magpie probably wasn’t her name, the pale unicorn thought, but it was what she preferred to be called. Speaking to ponies in the fashion they preferred was just common courtesy. “Oh so smart” and “oh so pleasant,” both, as it were. The pale unicorn eyed the rest of the room.

The Grav Zeppelin Airship Westphalia (with transoceanic service from Gnuark Airfield, Manehatten, Equestria to Hedgerow Airfield, Lunadun, Albion) had a small dining car that, at present, wasn’t half full. There were a pair of smartly dressed business ponies on their way home from overseas, from their discussion they made this trip frequently – and from earlier conversations overheard in the airport it was clear that they both lived in Canterbury but did extensive business in Fillydelphia.

There was still no sign of that researcher from the Museé de Antiquités, Bel-something-or-other (though that wasn't the name on his passport.) But this was probably just as well – that stallion had managed to be both arrogantly pushy and a little too charming back in the Manehatten terminal. He had been upset about some business involving his paying extra due to the weight of a crate he was shipping overseas. Further his insistence on being addressed as “Doctor” probably reflected an over inflated ego. The pale unicorn rather hoped that stallion stayed in his cabin for the bulk of the trip. So far, it looked promising as the passenger in question had taken dinner there rather than in the public room.

Presently one of the two big tables (big being a relative term) was hosting was a family of the Canterlot elite. Four unicorns who were on their way to a prestigious polo match somewhere upcountry. The parents had their hooves full as it was their two fillies’ first trip overseas and both girls were quite excited about the flight. The children were full of energy. Considering the circumstances, they were surprisingly well behaved.

Finally, there was an orange and yellow earth pony who looked comically like he was a field reporter for a newspaper. His name has the word “Quill” in it somewhere. Quiller? Quillian? Quilt? The pale unicorn hadn’t really been paying attention, but the reporter’s name had made him think of flowers for some reason. The reporter was dozing in his chair, at the corner table opposite the pale unicorn's own. His pencil had fallen to the floor, only to be replaced in his hat-brim a few minutes later by one of the cabin crew. Swift, discrete, efficient. They were quite something.

The antique tables were small, the lushly upholstered chairs were cramped. The polished wooden paneling, the art-deco crystal lights, and the soft carpet were all quite elegant. The wall paper had a floral pattern and tastefully understated colors. The windows looking out of the airship offered a magnificent view of a near cloudless sky and the sparkling blue sea below. With a crew composed predominantly of pegasi, the weather for the crossing was as just as perfect as the brochures had advertised.

Of all the twenty four passengers aboard, the pale unicorn (in a rather shabby cloak with a weather-beaten satchel and his well-worn leather-and-steel leg-brace) looked the most out of place surrounded by the luxury inherent in the Grav airship line. But tucked away in one of the corners of the dining room (which did double duty as the sitting room) at least he shouldn’t draw too much unwanted notice. Unlike the other passengers, he didn’t have a sleeping cabin to which he might retire. Very technically, his ticket had him on board as something more akin to luggage.

“Lucky my sister loaned me the money for any kind of ticket at all,” he muttered to himself.

“Apologies, what was that?” Again, his tone was that of an academic seeking clarification on some point of research.

The pale unicorn shook his head. “Just talking to myself. A bad habit, I know.”

Just as well the other passengers couldn’t hear the resulting pair of snorts.

The pale unicorn frowned. Over at the family’s table, the father had just put down a newspaper, The Times, and something had caught the pale unicorn’s eye amid the rustling newsprint. Not much of the article had been visible, even in the close quarters of the dining cabin, but he was sure he has seen the word “fire” and an illustration. Rising, and automatically checking the metal and leather brace on his left rear-leg, the unicorn made his slightly clumsy way over to their table. Funny thing about an airship, he kept expecting it to lurch or sway like a boat but it was as stable as any ocean liner.

The unicorn tried on a charming smile as he said, “Pardon me, sir – but might I have a look at that paper?” His tone was friendly, with just the right amount of deference. Oh, he could be quite good at the whole ‘social pleasantries’ thing … quite good indeed … it was just so terribly tiresome and draining. And there was always the temptation to use magic to lean on the pony he was talking to. A subtle … or not so subtle … push. Like me. Agree with me. Let’s all be friends. Survival skills, as he thought of them. And the biggest one he had picked up over the years was not to push at all. Not with magic. When it wore off, ponies noticed. And they weren’t happy about it. Over the years, he’d gotten pretty good at talking – he didn’t need a mystical crutch to get through most days unscathed.

“You can have it if you like, I’m done with it.” The father’s accent was definitely high Canterlot. The tone was carefully neutral, and (points to the Polo-pony) he managed not to stick his nose in the air as he said it.

“Mommy, it’s the crazy colt who talks to nopony!”

Of course the younger filly would speak her mind. Children often did. Her mother hushed her and her father started to turn a rather angry looking shade of red. But the pale unicorn only smiled pensively as he gathered up the borrowed paper and said, “Well, sometimes I think out loud, that’s true. A bad habit from my school days,” before returning to his table.

The family began to sort themselves out so as to return to their suite – if a double-room barely wide enough for two ponies to turn around in could deserve such a luxurious title. One of the fillies wanted to go up front, to the nose of the airship’s gondola. She wanted to look out the big windows there. It either didn’t occur to her, or didn’t matter to her, that the nose of the gondola housed the piloting controls and was too busy a place to host tourists. Her father made “perhaps later” sorts of excuses to the child’s thankfully somewhat restrained “I want to go there now” demands.

The pale unicorn wondered if part of the elder Polo-pony’s reserve was not merely good manners but rather had something to do with the pilot, one Grav Gunther Schwartz, being a Griffon. A fairly fierce fellow to be sure. He even sported an eyepatch.

The newspaper was only three days old. That didn’t seem possible given the travel times between Albion and the mainland of Equestria. The pale unicorn might look into the oddity later, time and energy permitting. Ah there: front page, bottom left. “Cleanup Continues after Cemetery Fire.” The picture was of a mausoleum in flames. A shocked Pegasus in the foreground in a classic “Oh the Equinity!” pose. The pale unicorn scanned the article quickly, noting the location as Whitstable by the Sea.

“Anything of interest?” He sounded cautiously hopeful.

The pale unicorn nodded. He used a touch of common magic. A silvery light picked up a spoon and with it he lightly tapped a few key sentences in the article: chief of them was the fact that the constabulary still had the area cordoned off.

“This sounds exactly like what we are looking for.”

“Hmph. So we’re lookin’ fer this sort of stuff now?” Magpie's sarcasm bled through in the question. Not that she generally reined herself in.

“Yes. And hoping not to find it.”

“I think you mean ‘hoping to find it,’ if we are to make any further progress in dealing with our little problem. Leads have been few and far between.” When he adopted that tone, Cantor thought, one might as well be back in the university, listening to their professors belaboring a point.

“Oy, yes. Nonexistent would be ‘few ‘n’ far between,’ now, wouldn’t it?” Magpie could manage snark in her sleep. Not that she ever slept.

The pale unicorn ‘hmm-d’ somewhat uncomfortably, then went back over the whole article much more slowly. Half-way through this re-reading, a plate was delivered to the table.

A dozen steaming hot waffles with fresh, chilled fruit. A pot of hot tea with cream and sugar. A carafe of ice-cold water and a crystal glass.

It smelled like heaven. Considering how this airline operated, it likely cost the earth.

“I-” he began. Words failed him. That didn’t happen often.

“Compliments of the house,” the stewardess’ tone was insistent.

“Oy! She does like you.” Magpie sounded smug. Then again, she almost always sounded smug. When she didn’t, she usually sounded annoyed.

“Hush.” He quieted her.

The pale unicorn swallowed hard and blinked twice. His eyes had teared up. Just from hunger, he lied to himself.

“Kindly tell the house that I am grateful beyond my ability to repay.”

She smiled. “If there’s anything else we can get you …”

He nodded, and then carefully began to pour himself a cup. It tasted even better than it smelled. The same was true for the waffles. It was hard not to devour them like some wild beast. The Times had been discarded to one side, open, now to the theater section.

“Ask ‘er for a bed!” Magpie's voice was chipper, and there was a slightly naughty undercurrent to it.

The pale unicorn choked and snorted and nearly dropped his cup.

“Wot? Don’t give me that look. I meant for sleepin’.” Magpie didn’t sound annoyed enough to be entirely sincere.

“Is everything alright, sir?” Valentina shot a quizzical glance at an empty spot in the room to which the pale unicorn’s shocked gaze had suddenly leapt. There wasn’t any pony there. Well, not any pony she could either see or hear.

“I’m fine Valentina. Sorry! Even fishes shouldn’t try to breathe tea.” The pale unicorn noted he must be more tired than he had thought, and he wasn’t giving himself high marks in alertness at the moment. Usually he didn’t react so brazenly to his companions’ banter. That was another survival trait he had developed. There were fewer inconvenient questions that way. Fewer straight-jackets. Fewer torches and pitchforks.

She produced a towel, and as she cleaned up the spill, Valentina’s eyes fell on the newspaper. “Ooo! Looks like ‘the Maltese Griffon’ has been held over! It’s been at the National for a month already, or so I hear.”

The pale unicorn glanced at the advertisement: the triumphant return of Hoofrey Bogart to the stage after a long absence … and there was a logo that he recognized – a beehive around a capitol “H” over which was a smaller “0.” The sight of it made him very happy. But then worry and care leapt on that reaction and wrestled it down to something less unmanageably optimistic.

“That should be quite the play, and a return to one of his iconic roles from yesteryear” the pale unicorn commented. His pleased, and pleasant, tone almost managed to hide a somewhat wistful tinge, “have you had a chance to see it yet?”

“Oh, no sir. I’ve been on the continent for the past two months. Manehatten, Canterlot, Baltimare. My sister has seen it, and she tells me the twist at the end will make you scream.”

“Wot's this? Cantor makin' small talk with a pretty lass? Well bless me buttons! Never thought 'e'd loosen up 'nough fer that!”

“Hmm. It sounds to me like he has some sort of additional interest in the play in question. We can add it to the list of 'things to be discussed in private.'”

“Oy! There's a list that we'll never be done with!” Magpie sounded disgusted.

“Interesting. Do you have any idea what the surprise might be?” Small bites and little sips, the unicorn reminded himself. Manners and behavior. He’d already made a poor enough impression on this high-class floating hotel just by being himself.

“Oh, not a clue! So many rumors. And those that have seen the show, and are willing to talk at all, aren’t saying anything believable. They do go back. So tickets are very dear, when they are available at all.” The stewardess’ eyes twinkled as she adjusted her wings a bit more smartly to her sides. “I shall leave you to your snack, Mr. … Luggage?”

There was a slight pause.

“Tip: she’s asking yer name. Play nice.” Magpie's voice was as good as a sharp nudge in the ribs.

The pale unicorn had mastered the self-deprecating smile. It was one of his best defense mechanisms, and had gotten him out of a lot of trouble over the years. He deployed it now, along with an introduction “Cantor Mortalis. That’s Can-tor as in sing, not Can-ter as in run.”

“Very well, Mr. Mortalis, you will let me know when you need anything else.”

“Cantor will be fine, Valentina.” Cantor thought for a moment. The fact she hadn’t phrased that as a request was not lost on him. Cantor grinned, “Or I’ll answer to Luggage, if you prefer.”

Valentina was holding in laughter on her way back to the galley.

“Nicely done. A friend on the staff will make this trip much more pleasant for you.” He sounded quite pleased.

“Good. Getting on this airship was our first big difficulty. The next one will be getting off of it.”

Author's Note

In this chapter, shortly after we first hear Magpie's name dropped, Cantor thinks the line: "'Oh so smart' and 'oh so pleasant,' both, as it were." This is an intentional reference to the 1950 black and white movie Harvey.

In that movie, the full line (as delivered by James Stewart's character Elwood P. Dowd) is: "Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be,' – she always called me Elwood – 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me."

And, while Cantor and the other, as yet unnamed voice are the only two characters who thus far seem able to perceive Magpie, the Author would like to confirm that she is not, nor has she ever been, a Pooka.