Tricks Of The Trade Show

by Estee

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rarity, Slice of Life
Length: 16940

Rarity's mark has told her who she's meant to be, and she's spent too long postponing her chance to become that pony. However, it's never given her any hints on just how she's supposed to do it. Maybe her first trade show will help -- in some way.

Rarity's finally managed to start on the path to recognition and as the teenager sees it, that road goes directly into Canterlot. She has goods, a potential sales pitch, and a space reserved at the city's biggest fashion trade show. All she needs to do now is set up her booth and wait for somepony to Discover her.

The discoveries you make aren't necessarily the ones you were looking for.

(Part of the Triptych Continuum, which has its own TVTropes page and FIMFiction group: new members and trope edits are welcome.)

Now with author Patreon, SubscribeStar, and Ko-Fi pages.

Cover art by Harwick. Please contact him for commission rates.

Published 2017-03-14 06:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2017-03-14 06:10:02 UTC

Alone In A Crowd

On a beautiful spring day, father and daughter carefully pulled the laden cart down the old road under clear blue sky, and each used the travel time to try and figure out who the other was.

In a way, it wasn't truly their fault. The stallion was a professional hoofball player (his last year as such, he had sworn it would be his last and this time, he would be right), and it had led him into a life which was largely spent on the road, with occasional pauses for the actual events. This had twice been followed by somewhat longer stops, both involuntary, although it had given his family a chance to spend a little surprising in-season time with him -- at the hospital. Making the money required to support those he loved meant a life which was largely spent away from them, and when the season ended -- well, then there was recuperation, training, and scouting (the franchise had started to count on him as a scout, and it would lead him into the next phase of his career) putting him back on the road... He loved his spouse, and he loved his daughters. But to the elder of his children, it sometimes seemed as if he loved her as a concept: this is my offspring, therefore I must love her. Not that she would ever catch him using 'therefore,' possibly even within a thought. She used it now and again, both vocally and internally, and was sure he didn't know that. He didn't know her.

The daughter loved her father: she was sure of that. When she was small, she waited for the days when her father would be coming home and everypony else would be happy to see their father after such a long journey, so she would be happy because she loved him -- and then he would stagger in, sore from the lingering impacts of so many bodies, do his best to nuzzle her when every movement brought him pain, and eventually stagger off. It might take days before he could make it out of his bed for more than a few minutes at a time, and that would be when the training would resume. She came to him during some of those sessions, tried to get his attention, show him her sketches, but he would be diagramming plays and...

She loved him. She knew she did. But they had so much trouble talking, even during those precious weeks when he was truly home, the hours when there was no training and he was at his physical peak again, ready to show how the most stalwart of stallions could survive a little roughhousing with his daughters. He expressed himself through actions so much of the time, but ask him for his thoughts and...

He seemed to speak in clichés, and so many of them seemed to contradict each other. She tried not to blame him for that: it was yet another consequence of his life, that the shallow terms he used when speaking to reporters, all true meaning stripped away through the rasp of repetition, would emerge when dealing with his own family. He would tell her that she had to rely on her friends, her team, and that nopony got through without the entire group backing them. Then he would say that ultimately, you were out there on your own. And he seemed to treat both statements as being equally true.

She could make him look at her sketches, but it felt as if he was only doing it because he was expected to do so. He appeared to listen, but the visible rotation of his ears sometimes had them focusing on something other than her. She did her best to understand him, she'd felt that she was getting closer to it as she finished primary school, found her mark --

-- and then she'd been sent away from home for her secondary schooling. Because that was part of what he was working for: that she would have a better education than he, or so her mother had said while filling out the application forms accordingly. She had lived at the school, taken a boarder's bed, only gotten home for a few holidays which seldom seemed to line up with his, all the time waiting for the moment when she could seize control of her own life, for what her mother meant for her (and she wasn't sure he was fully aware of that) wasn't what her mark intended.

Not that it mattered to her mother. Her mother was the sort of pony who would argue with a mark, as long as that mark had appeared on her elder daughter. And only on the elder, which seemed more than a little unfair.

But school was over now, and far earlier than her mother had intended. (The matriarch was furious about that, and not quietly.) The daughter's future was in front of her: less than a third of a gallop away, in fact, and getting closer with every hoofstep. And her father, who was home, actually home, who'd even been there for several of the recent fights, if only as mostly-silent spectator...

He said that everypony was ultimately on their own, and he said nopony got through without support. He didn't seem to recognize the contradiction. But he'd watched his elder daughter loading the cart, and then he'd quietly hooked himself up to the secondary harness.

They had been trotting together for hours. Each had needed to adjust to the other, at least physically: he was unusually bulky for a unicorn, something which had not been lost on the fans of his sport, especially when they saw how he brought that mass to bear between the lime-sketched lines. The daughter had inherited none of that surprising strength: she had yet to reach her full size, but it was clear that she would fall well short. Her build was a pleasant one, but it wasn't all that useful when it came to hard physical labor, which a day of pulling a laden cart towards Canterlot certainly qualified for. He'd arranged the ropes so that he was taking most of the weight, and he still had to force himself to slow down before her pace could be matched.

Father and daughter were traveling together, something which had hardly ever happened. (He seldom saved his player's tickets for his family, only asked them to come when championships were on the line. Three times in total for his elder's life, and she had yet to realize just how unusually high that number was, much less recognize his hidden fear of having them see the moment when he finally fell.) But they hadn't spoken. Even with the echoes of those fights in all four ears, they didn't seem to have anything worth talking about. And if speech were to come... the elder child didn't know if he would understand her. She wasn't sure he ever had.

She loved her father: she was sure of that. But there were times when she wondered if she loved him as a concept.

"Your mother isn't happy." The words had been somewhat on the slow side. Deep-voiced. Surprisingly uncertain for discussing such a regular, even scheduled event.

She blinked: the slow-approaching towers of the palace vanished, returned. And then she softly snorted. (She would have to watch for that snort at the show, stop the thing before it ever arrived. It didn't fit her new image.) "Sun is lowered, Moon is raised."

"Huh?"

She hadn't inherited much from her father, she felt. Fur coloration often seemed to be about the whole of it. Eloquence certainly hadn't been in the package, and she knew she hadn't gotten that from her mother either. Part of her was still holding out on discovering the adoption papers somewhere. "I believe the subject was things which happen without fail every single day?"

He sighed, and that made her ears fully rotate towards him: it was a rare sound for the stallion. "She hasn't been happy since you dropped out of school."

"Then we are slightly closer to becoming even," she solidly stated, letting the open lack of caring have its way with every syllable. "I have not been happy since she sent me there." She had waited for the birthday which legally made her attendance into her own decision, and then she'd made one.

"She thinks you're making a mistake."

"I am aware." So were most of the neighbors, at least for those who weren't pegasi: the ability to hover also freed up forehooves, which could then be jammed against their own ears.

"You can't go back."

"I won't go back." Although 'can't' also applied. She hadn't burned that bridge behind her. Burn one bridge and there was a chance somepony might decide to build a new one in its place. The sensible thing to do had been detonating multiple verbal explosives along the gap, widening it into something nopony would ever be able to cross again.

He had no immediate answer for that, and the search for something he could say brought them visibly closer to the capital.

"Rarity..." A slow breath, and the last of the fading bruises along his ribs made it even slower. "She just wants what's best for you."

"What is best for me," she immediately said, "is following my mark. My mark did not suggest that I study subjects for which I am not suited. My mark had no illusions about wasting years being forced to chase a goal which I could never reach. My mark knows me, for my mark is an aspect of me, an aspect she never cared to recognize no matter what I told her, much less demonstrated. Believing that it was nothing more than wealth... My mother: a mare who would argue a mark." Her volume was starting to rise. "Who would try to control it, after it had already manifested." Tones were sharpening into knives. "And would do so with her own daughter, at least with one of them, and only one --"

"Don't make this about Sweetie."

The words seemed oddly soft, far too quiet for the strength they carried. And yet they did what her father had done to so many: brought her own efforts down --

-- if only for a moment.

(There was something of her father in her. She generally failed to recognize it, at least when she wasn't outright denying it.)

"Sweetie," Rarity stated, "gets away with murder." Not that her sibling had any violence in her, or even much in the way of mischief. Sweetie's true crime was in freely being allowed to be Sweetie, while Rarity had been told to become her mother -- or rather, the mare her mother must have once dreamed of becoming.

"Your mother was too hooves-on with you," her father eventually said. "She knows that now. But she can't stop, because she sees where it sent you and she thinks keeping it up is the only way to bring you back. But now she's going too far the other way with Sweetie. I've tried talking to her about it --"

"-- when?" The word had been intended to be bitter, and yet Rarity found herself shocked by just how it tasted upon her tongue. "When do you get to talk with her about anything?"

More silence, but for the hoofsteps along the old road.

There were train tracks visible on their right, about forty body lengths away. And for now, there were only tracks, for the train was something new. The railway network was being created one trestle at a time. Soon enough, Canterlot and Ponyville would be connected in a new way -- but for now, it was the road. Some residents of the capital trotted down it, especially during the summer: spending a day in the nearest neighboring settled zone. Shopping, exploring, and slumming. On hoof, it was just about a day trip. But once the trains came...

Rarity had read all about the trains. It hadn't taken her long to decide she hated them, with all of that based around timing. Her father had taken slow-ride carriages all over Equestria, and now there would be trains.

"This is my last year," her father finally said. "Last playing year."

"So?" It was amazing how words could have mass, the letters blasting against the air. "You've been scouting. You're on track to becoming a coach. Everypony knows it. All the reporters certainly do. They've been saying you've been coaching from the huddle for years. Now you'll do it from the sidelines --"

"-- money's good," he interrupted. "We saved a lot. But it wasn't enough. Didn't save as much as we could have: can't keep rein on the account when I'm --" and he hesitated "-- working. And we weren't..." An even longer pause. "...expecting Sweetie." Very awkwardly, "Took us a while before we got you, and we kind of thought -- you were gonna be it. Sweetie was..." Stopped.

She understood the hesitancy: a father who wasn't comfortable with discussing birth, because it might lead into his child considering the activities between her parents which led to pregnancy. Rarity had an excellent imagination, and thus when matters of self-preservation arose, knew just when she had to shut it down.

Finally, he resumed, and chose exactly the wrong words. "And your school was expensive, so --"

The sentence almost cut her. "That is not my fault."

Awkward now, a strange tone from such a large stallion. "I didn't say it was."

"I never wanted to go. I told her that from the start. She didn't listen. She never listens."

"She knows she's been --"

Furiously, "If anything, you should be thanking me for not having subtracted two more years of tuition and boarding invoices from the account."

Closer still to the capital during the ensuing silence. That much closer to her future. The future Rarity wanted.

"Why did you come today?" she finally asked (but not quite demanded of) her father.

"Road's long," he shrugged: the cart shifted slightly. "And you're not grown up just yet. I feel better knowing somepony's on the road with you."

And how was I supposed to feel when you were on the road without me?

But she didn't say it.

"The trade show starts tomorrow morning," she told him, " and I only booked the hotel room for one occupant. It only sleeps one. There's no room --"

"-- I've got friends," he replied.

She managed to repress the snort. "Yes. Friends." It wasn't just fans, although he could usually find a few of those in any place which didn't count for an enemy camp. There were ponies who had retired from hoofball and put their fame to work in new venues, becoming business owners, bankers, and yes, there was probably a hotelier or six. He would have a place to stay, and likely for free, simply through having made the request. Her father's name carried a certain amount of weight in select portions of the world, which was part of why she'd discarded it.

"Friends help."

"And yet we must ultimately do it all ourselves," she flippantly replied, tossing head and recently-curled mane in time with the words. She was still experimenting with the curls.

"Yeah," he eventually said. "Rarity -- what's with your voice?"

"Your pardon?"

"That. Right there. 'Your pardon.' That's not how you used to talk. Not those words and not that accent. That's a nowhere accent."

She at least knew him well enough to translate that: he'd been just about everywhere and her chosen intonations had come from none of those places: therefore, nowhere accent. "It helps," she huffily said, "to be somewhat distinctive. This is my first trade show. There will be other ponies participating, seeking the same goal. My work should stand out on its own, but anything I can do in order to assist --"

"-- it's your only trade show."

She stopped. He kept moving for an extra second and so the harness rammed into her shoulders, making her yelp.

"Sorry --"

"-- what do you mean, my only trade show?"

A slow breath. "You're still a kid and I've got a friend in the bank. I can see your records if I ask right. You're broke, Rarity. You spent everything you had on the fabrics, renting the cart, paying for the hotel room, booking your space -- you're broke. I don't even know how you're planning on eating tomorrow."

She'd snuck food out of the kitchen: it was deep in her saddlebags, under the emergency adjustment materials. "I know," she quietly said. There was a small security deposit attached to the cart rental: should those bits come back to her, that would be it. "But how does that make it my --"

"-- she's cutting you off," her father told her.

Rarity stopped breathing. It seemed to take far too long before she managed to start again.

"I did not ask for a tenth-bit from her. I spent my allowance. All the years of allowance I was unable to spend at school, plus all the coins I found in the dirt. Once she has gifted me with that money, she has no say in how I spend it, let alone for the funds I am able to collect from the neglect of others --"

"-- there won't be any more allowance," he finished. "She thinks that when you fail at the show, you'll have to go back to school. No job. No sales. Nowhere else left. You won't have the money to pay for another shot. So you'll go back to school." A brief pause. "Maybe another school, but..."

Her teeth ground. "When I fail."

"That's what she thinks."

Challenging now, "And what do you think?"

Sun illuminated highlights in the matching white coats during the silence, warmed old injuries for the stallion and failed to bring comfort to his daughter's heart.

"I think the show's tomorrow," he finally said.

"You'll let her cut me off."

"The show's tomorrow," he repeated. "Rarity, you chose this. You've got to do it on your own."

This time, she let the snort come, for they had privacy and she never recognized that it was his snort, the one he made just before the hardest charge was launched. "I made the dresses on my own. I booked the spot on my own. I will become recognized as a designer on my own."

Perhaps there was something he could have said, and there was certainly more ammunition she could have fired in response to his efforts. But neither truly knew who the other was, much less any means by which they could truly talk. And so they trotted down the old road under blue sky in silence.

Much to her surprise, her rented cart was still in the cheap hotel's stable the next morning, and mostly intact. A fast-fading field signature of frustrated magic let her know just how somepony had failed to break the standard security spells, and the scorch marks told her she wouldn't be getting most of her security deposit back.

Her father had taken his own path shortly after seeing her to the hotel. She'd spent some of her barely-able-to-sleep hours in planning her argument should he be waiting for her in the morning: no, she did not need him standing behind her at the booth, for he neither understood her creations nor how to sell them, he certainly didn't understand her, and anypony who recognized him and made the hire for that reason would be doing so for reasons other than the ones Rarity had carefully crafted into reality. He certainly didn't know how to put the booth together: upon receiving her confirmation ticket and booth number, she'd spent hours in her family's stable, assembling her space over and over again, trying out different configurations, placing some things on the vertical, doing whatever she could to maximize what was truly going to be some very limited area in square body lengths. She would just barely have enough room to stand within her final choice, and would need to move rather quickly if

when

somepony came in, just to be out of their way and not presenting the appearance of looming over their flanks. She had to let them breathe in her work. Give them what appeared to be privacy, simply the visitor and her own visions, and once they truly understood...

She wished there had been more room available. But she had booked rather late in the show, on limited funds (with no more coming, of course her mother had decided to cut off even that limited supply of bits) and had ultimately decided that she was best off spending the majority of her money on making the best pieces possible to place within that small area. Even so, a decidedly significant amount of negotiations had taken place regarding those materials, and if it hadn't been for her ability to locate her own gems -- well, that had actually been as double-edged as a hoofblade: nothing which glittered had required payment in bits, but she'd lost hours to the slow scraping digs which unearthed those finds from the ground. On the whole, she'd barely finished before the deadline, and that was with nearly a full moon of lead time following her having dropped out of school. But she had her creations, and her floor plan for that distressingly small amount of personal rented floor, and if her father tried to come along and put that large body into the tiny space...

But he wasn't there. And she supposed that meant ultimately, she was on her own.

She had a map of the city, painstakingly copied from the library's atlas. It guided her towards the beacon of the Björnvits Center, the capital's premiere hosting facility for gatherings of all sorts. Her father went there on occasion along with a hundred other athletes, field-signing autographs for loyal fans or those who wanted something to set on fire after seeing him bring somepony on their own team down. It occasionally held cooking events, was the first place to see all of the winter's best toys, and as for fashion -- well, it held several roles there. For starters, there was a week-long event dedicated to a yearly preview of what would be In, and the reason it would be In was because it had premiered at the preview. There were designers who would sell their souls (or, more practically in order to avoid the associated loss of creativity, their mother) to attend that event, and Rarity had missed it: the great gathering took place in late winter, all the better to warm the hearts of those who'd reached that pinnacle.

This was the spring event. It lasted but a single day, and was generally known as the Talent Search, although Rarity had seen a few trade magazines referring to it as Amateur Hour. Rent your space, put out your wares, and the established designers would wander around, looking at all the little booths. They would evaluate, judge, carefully weigh one design against another -- and then they would hire. You went to the Talent Search when you were ready to announce yourself. Designers who were waiting to be Discovered. All Rarity needed was for the right pony to wander past her booth. Given the quality of her wares, that might even be the first pony...

Hours. Hours away from her dream. Hers.

She hitched up the cart, started to trot. (It was a much slower process with only one pony pulling.) And moving under Moon so as to have her booth ready at the first sign of Sun, she headed towards her future.

The show manager looked at her ticket under both corona shine and open boredom. Rarity noticed that the brown eyes only moved across the spot number.

"Right side of the building," the manager yawned. "Around the corner, then the absolute end of the aisle. You'll see your number painted on the ground."

Rarity politely nodded. "And thank you for having me," she smiled, began to step forward --

"-- I said," the manager stated as her right foreleg stretched out, jammed itself against Rarity's front knees, "you're on the right side of the building. Outside."

Rarity stared at her for a moment. Then past her, into the warm lights and myriad colors of the building's interior. Ponies setting up. Dresses and saddlebags and suits everywhere. There was also a light smell of sweat in the air, and it was getting heavier by the second. She wondered if any of it was hers.

"...outside?" Surely there had to be some mistake. "Nopony put anything in my acceptance letter about being outside --"

The ponies behind her, each towing their own carts towards the open double-doors of the main vendor entrance, were starting to grumble.

"You booked the cheapest space," the manager said, perhaps more loudly than she could have. "And you booked it late. All we had left was the overflow area. Which is outside."

They hunt the aisles. They roam the halls. They look throughout the Center for the next Discovery.

Inside the Center.

One show. I can afford one --

"But --"

Perhaps none of the sweat was hers. However, she seemed to be monopolizing the local fear market, and the adult mare must have seen it on her face.

"Look," the older unicorn sighed -- and then added a small smile. "There's going to be an Event outside, at three this afternoon. One new designer rented a space so big, we couldn't host her indoors. She's going to be putting on a full outdoor production, and everypony who's coming in knows it. I understand if you're worried about losing visibility and traffic, and I won't lie to you: it'll be slow in the morning. But once it's time for her show, everypony is going to be trotting right past your space in order to reach her. That means everypony."

"...everypony?" Rarity managed, her face now alight with dream.

"Everypony," the manager confirmed. "You've got one of the best flow spaces at the Search. Once it gets close to three, there's going to be designers here who would charge down a dragon for your spot."

The grumbling seemed to be getting louder, and it led Rarity into the first mistake.

"Thank you," she smiled. "Thank you very much!"

She backed up enough to turn, which triggered still more grumbling and nearly set off two collisions. And then she happily trotted towards her destiny.

Her destiny was rather cramped.

The overflow area was huge. There was a wide swath of space bordering the Center, about three times the width of a standard street: some of the Events really did need a little extra room, especially for those which featured demonstrations of new magic that were both better off being outdoors and needed a little buffer zone because it was new magic and one never knew.

But that overflow area hosted four painted squares. Four. Tiny ones -- well, yes, it was the size she'd paid for and she'd certainly seen just how little was available to work with during all her trial gallops, but there was something about seeing it outside, with so much open space surrounding it, that made it shrink in something close to embarrassment. And despite the early hour of her arrival, with Sun yet to appear, the other three occupants were already well into their setups.

Glancing down to the left found a stage under construction: sturdy wooden planks, with a huge tent of what looked like exceptionally thick and what struck her as oddly-anchored fabric just behind it. She'd checked the Canterlot weather schedule, and the day had been designated as mild, with the occasional soft westerly breeze. Still, she supposed there were standard protocols to consider, even when they led into rather heavy and decidedly ugly ropes tied to thick metal stakes.

"Hi!" She looked to the right, and a cream-colored snout pushed itself between a group of hanging hats. "We're neighbors today!"

"Yes," Rarity said, and wasn't sure how it had come out. Nervous? Agreeable? Polite?

"Is this your first show?" Before Rarity could answer, the snout pulled back, and then the entire mare trotted out of the neighboring booth. An earth pony mare: light blue eyes, two-tone blue mane in a cut which was basically designed to go under a hat and leave just about nothing showing. Somewhat older than Rarity, but that was universal: it had only taken her approach to the admittance line for realizing that she was the youngest pony there, certainly the only one who should have

should not have

still been in school.

"...yes," Rarity reluctantly admitted. "Yourself?"

"It's my third," the mare admitted.

Rarity, still trying to pin down an exact age, suddenly realized that the earth pony had probably started coming at just about the same point in her life where the unicorn was starting now.

Three years and she's still here. In the overflow area. And I have one --

"You looked like it was your first show," the mare smiled. "You just look so young! And you're here a little late, because you thought late was early. A lot of the designers who've been here a while just set up inside the building the night before."

How long did it take to reach a 'while'? "Oh," Rarity said, and immediately decided the word had been too weak. "And yourself?"

"I didn't want to stay awake with my hats all night," the mare merrily replied. "They're good company, but they're lousy conversationalists. Anyway, I'm just about done, so if you need a little help setting up, I'll be free in a few minutes --"

"-- no, that is quite all right." After all, the mare had no idea of what Rarity had in mind, while her father had at least been caught glancing into the stable a few times. "But thank you for the offer regardless."

The young adult smiled again, then trotted back into her booth.

Rarity looked at her cart, carefully unhitched herself. Another look at the space she'd been assigned. She could overflow it in two directions without being in anypony's way, but the rules of the show had stated she had to remain within her confines. And she'd planned accordingly, but she'd thought she was going to be inside...

The Search went on until sunset, and all designers were required to stay for the entire duration. The Event was at three. And surely there would be ponies wandering about before that, those who realized there was an overflow area and that others might not scout it too early, giving them the first chance at a Discovery...

She didn't have time for a setup redesign and any show inspectors probably wouldn't look kindly on her attempting any degree of booth expansion: there were Rules, and most of her admission packet had consisted of their full listing, along with the oft-repeated penalty for breaking them -- something Rarity would never want to risk incurring. The best thing to do was set up, park the rental cart behind her space, and settle in to wait until the moment her future trotted up to meet her.

Rarity found a smile, and got to work.

It was different, outside the family stable. Everything seemed more real. The poles of her little roof frame didn't seem to slot together quite as evenly, and she initially blamed the materials before realizing that nerves were rendering her control over her field into something below her standard abilities. The roof itself, however, went on cleanly: a plain (but sturdy) stretched-out reflective white sheet. (There was no need for weather protection on a day like this, but some of her goods were cotton and until they were washed, could potentially yellow after too much exposure to Sun.) The frame itself simply provided an extra place to display pieces: dresses, a suit she'd done just to prove her range, several casual items (the same reason), and a few sample saddlebags. She arranged the hanging ones by color and intent, then brought out her folding tables and whimsically sorted their contents by gem hardness, wondering if anypony would catch on.

The tables had been placed into a horseshoe pattern, with the break at the front. She could stand just behind them (although technically outside her space), or within the hollow -- but either way, she had left an open invitation for anypony to simply walk in. Her booth ticket, number and name, had been hung over the entrance, as the rules had stated it had to be.

Newly-raised Sun shone on her fabric. It illuminated the highlights in her dyes, glowed upon and within the gems. The booth danced with the light of possibility, shone with hope.

Rarity stood within a future which could be but minutes away, and smiled.

The cream-colored snout poked in again.

"You stopped moving," the earth pony said. "I heard it. I guess that means you're done..." The rest of the head came through, and those light blue eyes looked around.

The mare whistled.

"Your first year," the mare said.

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"...yes?"

The earth pony smiled.

"You," the mare stated, "are good." The head turned left, right, taking it all in.

Rarity, in search of something flattering to say in return and with all of her attention no longer focused on her own wares, finally and truly looked at the hats on display.

"...your third year?" she asked after a moment of pure daze.

"Yes," the mare said after a moment. "Why?"

"Because," a shocked Rarity half-whispered, "you're better."

The brims came with their own loft. Colors danced, flirted, proposed to each other and trotted into sunlight to seek their mutual joy. Styles had been born in that booth. There was only so much anypony could do with a hat, and this mare had found the border just before kicking it down...

"Well," the mare eventually said, a sad half-smile lurking on the left side of her mouth, "it's really nothing special. Plus it's more of a specialty item. And it's Canterlot: there's not as much call for hats with unicorns. And I... sort of made mistakes my first two years. A couple of -- big ones." More quickly, "But ponies come here from all over the continent, so being in Canterlot shouldn't be a problem all the time, and I don't make those mistakes any more."

Rarity wasn't completely listening, not to the pony. Her hearing was focused on a pink creation of sine and wave, which was telling her just how good she'd look while wearing it. "My father wears a hat."

"Is he a unicorn?"

Rarity nodded.

"What kind of hat?" the mare curiously asked.

"The kind you would never sell," Rarity strongly declared, quickly followed by "And never should. Please trust me there. My mother has been trying to get rid of that hat for years. It's one of the few things we agree upon. And in his travels, he has had so many enchantments placed upon it as to ensure that no matter what she does to lose it, the thing just keeps coming back. I would much rather he had one of yours, but I see nothing for stallions -- are those on the other side of your booth? Would you be willing to --" and stopped, feeling the blush starting to rise under her fur.

"I don't do much for stallions," the earth pony admitted. "But I have a few pieces, and I've got my catalog -- what's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Rarity repeated, buying time while trying to fight back the blush.

"You look embarrassed. Was it something I said?"

Rarity sighed. "No. I simply do not have the funds at this time. And even if I did, I should not deprive you of any piece which might catch the eye of the searchers."

A slow nod, and then an awkward "Um... would you like to see my catalog anyway?" Rarity nodded. The head withdrew and a few seconds later, the mare trotted in, book carefully held between her teeth. She set it down on a dress in a way which didn't produce a single wrinkle in the fabric. "Here you go."

Rarity looked at the name embossed into the cover. "Is that your name, or that of your label?"

"Both," the earth pony said, and presented a forehoof. "I guess I should have said something earlier... Hi. I'm Coco."

She returned the gesture, pressed her hoof against that of the other designer. "Rarity."

After that, she just went through the catalog for a while, with Coco standing at the front of Rarity's booth, all the better to keep an eye on her own. It was a beautiful collection, and Rarity was having a hard time keeping herself from becoming lost within it. The jarring montage present in every image helped.

The hats were beautiful. The hats were perfect. And every hat had been photographed next to a newspaper. The Palace Bugle, from what little she could generally see of the masthead. Most of the images just barely managed to include the upper right corner of the front page, but that element was present every time, never mind that there were at most three hats which went with the pages and ink transfer would be a constant threat for all.

Finally, she closed the book, allowed her field to pass it back. Coco returned it to her own stand, then poked her head through the hanging hats again.

"Can I see yours?"

Rarity mustered a small smile. "My catalog?" Coco nodded. "I have none. It is but my first year --"

only year

"-- and as all the pieces I was able to make in time are currently present, there was no compilation of prior efforts to display --"

Which was when the expression on Coco's face finally reached Rarity, for horror could only be denied so long.

"You don't have any catalog?"

The question confused Rarity. Coco's expression was starting to scare her. "I didn't need one --"

"-- sketchbooks! Do you have your sketchbooks?"

"I brought a blank one in case I had an idea..."

The head withdrew. The mare nearly galloped into Rarity's booth.

"Watch my hats!"

"...what?" was the best Rarity could manage, and even that took a few seconds.

"Watch them! Please! I'll be back as fast as I can!"

And without a word of explanation, the mare raced away.

Rarity, locked into confusion, had stood in front of her booth for nearly an hour, all the better to watch both spaces. It allowed her to see the hoof and wing traffic out of the corner of her left eye, heading into the Center proper. She thought she recognized a few of the ponies, even at that distance, and none more than those stepping off the personal air carriages. Power was moving into that building, and soon it would be trotting over to her.

She longed to rush over to the entrance queue. To make contact, work her way through the reporters doing quick interviews for the fashion trades, greet those who were her light and inspiration, her future. But she had to stay with her space, and -- they would come to her.

A brief moment of panic kicked her ribs, and also a location somewhat further back along her body. She'd forgotten something. Something fundamental...

I can just hold it.

All day.

Until sunset.

Yes. I can absolutely do that.

No matter what my body just insisted as revenge for my having had that thought, I can do that.

Yes, Coco would watch my booth for me. I am sure of it. But I cannot ask her to sell for me, any more than she could ask me to sell her hats.

Actually, those hats can sell themselves. Possibly through talking, although the visual language should be more than enough.

Her third year. How can a talent like that have waited three years for Discovery?

-- and the mare was back. Rarity stared at the freshly-laden saddlebags.

"Got them!" Coco panted. "Has anypony been by yet?"

"No, they're just going into the Center now. You didn't miss --"

"-- then there might still be time." The cream-colored head turned back, flipped open the left saddlebag and extracted the contents. "You can do this faster than I can. Take each of your pieces down, one at a time, and take a picture. Hold this in the lower left corner of the shot. And make sure it's visible."

Rarity stared.

"I don't understand --"

"-- just start taking pictures!" The light blue eyes were wide open, and every part of their hue was drenched in fear. "I still have to get these developed, and that's more time! And it took me too long to find the right paper! I was digging through -- please, Rarity, just start! I brought lots of film: I'm sure we've got enough, and the stationery stores opened early enough that I found a book, but you need the pictures, and that has to be visible in every one of them!"

"But if I get ink on my --"

"-- you're a unicorn! Just keep them separate!"

"The glow from my field -- my colors will be --"

" -- Rarity, please! You have to trust me!" And now the hyperventilating had begun. "I know we just met, I know you don't have any reason, but this is my third year and I don't want to see you go through what I did! I don't have time to explain right now! I've lost too much time just from telling you I don't have time for it! Please!"

Rarity started taking pictures. She didn't truly know why. Only that there was fear, and that panic required a response. If taking pictures made it go away, then she would take pictures, and so the camera flash went off, over and over, field raising and lowering, one object held steady and the other moved close by -- but not too close.

She didn't understand what she was doing. She just did it, and the understanding would only come later, some time before the failure.

This time, Coco was back in just under fifty minutes. Fifty excruciating, confusing, Discovery-free minutes.

"Here!" Another head tilt, and the extracted book was presented. "I didn't have time to get your name embossed, but the important thing is the pictures. I put them into the photo album. You can sort out the order later, but you have them -- did anypony come in?" Breathing far too quickly, with visible sweat in the cream coat, "Did you have anypony show up in your booth? Anypony at all?"

"No," Rarity reluctantly told her. "It's just been me. Well, myself and the others." She nodded in the general direction of the remaining overflow occupants: a suit specialist and that rarest of creators: the pants designer. "I suppose everypony is still searching the interior --"

"-- then you're safe." Coco slowly exhaled, and the smile gradually came back. "You're safe. I'm glad. Just put the book where it's visible, Rarity. Leave it open, since your name isn't on it. I know it's table space, but it'll make you safe."

Which finally let her ask the question. 'How does it --"

-- and then she saw the stallion, steadily approaching, gaze trained on the overflow booths. The saddlebags. The logo on the saddlebags, matching the colors of the pony who'd made it famous.

Her eyes went so wide as to hurt.

"That is Tone Lintflicker!"

"Then we were just in time," Coco sighed. "Oh, thank Celestia I had the money for that speed developing process..."

Rarity blinked. "Speed developing --"

"I had to get back here quickly. Before he did. Or anypony else who would --"

Rarity's mind immediately resorted priorities. "Tone Lintflicker is coming towards our booths! Get inside yours, Coco! Quickly!"

"But --"

The rest vanished under the sound of Rarity's own pounding hooves. They only had to cross three body lengths, and they still did so quick as a teleport. She arranged herself within the space, practiced her smile, got ready to move out of the great stallion's way, prepared to appropriately genuflect --

-- the book. It was still within her field: she'd taken it on instinct, moved it with her. And so it was hanging in the air, providing that much less space for one of the world's greatest designers to occupy.

She cleared a little room on a table with as much haste as she could politely muster, straightened out all fabric wrinkles, worried about the way the one hem was now draping the edge, and finally flipped the cover open.

Rarity could hear him trotting now. Every precise hoofstep. She'd never been so close.

I wonder how he gets them to echo like that?

It was possible to track him on sound alone. She heard him stop in front of Coco's booth --

"You're back," the great stallion said.

"Yes," Coco replied, with her tone oddly lacking in deference.

Well, we all have our characters to play.

"Pity," Tone stated, and Rarity could not hear sincerity within the word --

-- but then he was in front of her booth.

Tone. Lintflicker. Was. In. Front. Of. Her. Booth.

"You," he observed, "are new."

He smiled. He stepped inside.

"And you," he mused, "have talent..."

Rarity's future moved towards her.

She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to breathe. Hold her breath and perhaps she could hold the moment, preserve forever the instant in which she saw fascination in his eyes, right next to the intent to acquire.

He's Discovering me. Right now. I am being Discovered.

No: she was jumping the starting gate ahead of the signal. He hadn't said anything to truly make the dream real yet. But that look in his eyes...

"Do you mind?" he politely smiled, and his horn ignited. After some rummaging, the red field extracted a rather fine camera. "I love your presentation, but I find I do better when I can review in private. Not your work needs much in the way of review, but we all have our habits..."

Rarity breathlessly nodded, half a second ahead of the soft gasp from the neighboring booth. "Yes, of course! But if it would save time --" which had to be spoken over the noise from fast-moving hooves "-- you may simply recapture the images I have already gathered." Her field seized the book, shakily floated it over to him. "I realize you have other fresh arrivals to examine --"

-- and his smile was gone.

"I see," the great designer coldly said.

She was breathing now, and all the air was ice. "Sir?"

"I see," Tone Lintflicker repeated, "that in the view provided by a slightly better light, you are not worth my time. Good day, and a better one for me, leaving your creations where they are. I hope we will not meet again."

He turned, and her future trotted out, tail lashing with rage.

Rarity's hind legs collapsed. Her curled tail splayed, twitched.

"...what?" she whispered to an uncaring world. "I just... what did I..."

Coco's head poked in.

"If I'd been two minutes later," the mare sighed. "Just two minutes..."

Rarity's head whipped around. Her horn ignited without her conscious intent and she welcomed it, saw the spiking of her field displayed in the waves of soft blue which flared against her rejected creations and the wide-eyed earth pony who had somehow destroyed her life.

"The book! He was about to hire me! Yes, he was going to review my work in private, but he loved it, I could see that, he was going to hire me and then I showed him your book and --"

"-- then he knew he couldn't steal your designs."

The scream died at the same moment her field winked out and her barrel went crashing to the ground.

"...steal?" Rarity whispered from much closer to the road. "He was going to... how do you...?"

Coco softly sighed. "It's why you need a book. It's why you always need a book. And now you have one. Please, Rarity -- keep it updated."

After a minute, Rarity forced herself upright, brought the book closer and stared at the first picture. Her dress. The white opals set against the jet fabric. And the bit of newspaper visible in the lower left corner, just enough to show yesterday's date.

"It helps prove you made the dress first," Coco told her. "Enough that you could at least fight him in court and maybe get a portion of his sales if he tried to take it. It's better if you take a few pictures of the creation stages, too. You don't have to do that on every dress: just enough to show that you will do it. Sketchbooks can be reverse-engineered, or at least that's what lawyers will say. It's harder to argue with a newspaper that shows a date four moons before he starts production, and I have a receipt for your pictures: that's extra proof. It helps. It all helps. A camera and photo catalogs, Rarity. Every show, every time. Please."

She nodded, and it was all she was able to do.

Sun, as indicated by the glow against her fabric roof, had moved across the sky. She'd eaten the first of her snacks, taken her first drink, and was starting to truly regret the latter action.

Ponies had trotted by. Not many. Most had just been ponies off the street who'd seen the overflow area, didn't feel like paying the admission fee for the Center, and wanted to find out what was going on: Coco had sold one of them a hat. Two others had stopped at Rarity's booth. One had offered to buy a dress which just happened to fit that mare's body, and Rarity had politely declined: she needed to save all her wares, just in case one of them was the piece which got her Discovered. The other had noted the presence of her book, then silently departed.

But there was some traffic flowing now. Unfortunately, none of it had any interest in her creations, especially since they had dreams of their own to worry about.

Rarity frowned as she watched the last of the rolling racks being pushed by, held back her comment until the final pony was out of earshot.

"Gauze," she observed. "Pink gauze. Why?"

There was a little laugh from the neighboring booth. "That's your first look at her work? It's a Stormy Day piece."

Rarity frowned. She'd missed so much of the trades while trapped at school, and Ponyville's library was sadly lacking in what she needed to fully catch up. "Who?"

"The mare with the big tent," Coco told her. "She's having her help bring the goods in for the fashion show early."

"A full-fledged show," and Rarity sighed with badly (not at all) repressed jealousy. "Of gauze. The color isn't bad, but the material, and those puffed-out layers... it is as if one would be trapped within a pink cloud, only one with somewhat less cohesion. That dress is going to tear the first time a mare brushes against anything more dense than it is, possibly including her own body. And she is here to be Discovered?"

"It's more of a public coming out party for her own line," Coco replied. "She's had a few private showings: her mother paid for the guest list on those. And the tent on this. The models... well, it's Canterlot gossip. All the local designers know about Stormy, especially with all her mother's money and connections. We knew she was going to take the big outdoor spot moons ago, but she's been really quiet on exactly what she's going to do... You don't live here?"

"Ponyville," Rarity reluctantly admitted.

"You don't sound like you're from Ponyville."

"Good."

It felt as if she could hear the nearby smile. "There's worse places to be from. So what do you do when you're not sewing?"

Rarity managed a breath. "I -- don't have a job. I only left school recently. I am meant to do this. So I am doing this."

"You just graduated? I thought you looked younger than you are --"

"-- I... left school."

And this time, she did hear the sharp little inhale. "Oh."

"You have a job?" She didn't know why she had to switch the focus: she just knew it had to be done immediately.

"Wherever I can find one. It's hard, though. I need a lot of hours for design and execution, and most of those are at night. I stay up too late when I should be sleeping, come in late for work, and... well, I've gone through a few jobs. What does your family do? Could you work in their business if you had to?"

The snort emerged, and she failed to recognize its origin. "My mother raises her children. The income for that is pass-along, although judging by her results, low skill level should not be a barrier to entry. My father --" she hesitated "-- does something I cannot and could never manage. That occupation is closed."

And all she'd done was enhance the unseen (but very audible) curiosity. "What?"

Rarity sighed, then told her.

After a few seconds, "What's your full name?"

She winced. "Rarity Belle --"

-- and the earth pony raced into her booth.

"Your dad is the Belle-Ringer?"

The wince didn't seem to be leaving, and she found herself looking slightly away from Coco's wide eyes, all the better to hide it. "...yes."

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted him dead?"

Rarity's head whipped back towards the mare. Coco was already starting to blush.

"Um," the milliner said. "I... um. I... root for the --"

"-- yes," Rarity cut her off. "It's not exactly a rare sentiment. But you'll be happy to know he's retiring after this season. Although --" and the words remained bitter "-- I believe he will wind up in the coaching ranks."

"He probably can't teach that charge," Coco decided, skin fire-red under the cream fur. "So it's still an improvement. For my team. I... um... you've got his fur. And something of his eyes. Not for shape, but... look, I didn't mean anything by that death thing, it's just sports fan stuff. You're his daughter: you probably get it all the time."

"I don't tell most ponies about my being his daughter," Rarity stated, "in order to get it somewhat less of the time. I decided to use my first name alone not only because it looked more elegant on the label, but to allow me a chance to stand apart. I generally do not give my full name --"

"You told me."

Rarity felt the soft words sink in.

"You left your booth for me," the young unicorn finally said. "You -- went for the pictures. He really steals designs?"

"A lot of them do," Coco quietly replied. "Not all of them started out that way. Some of them... well, even when you have the right mark --" a brief nod towards her own flank "-- you can have bad moons. I can always make something which I think is good. But when you have a creative talent, you're always going to be dealing with everypony else's tastes, and that's before you get into fashion cycles. One turn, one fad, enough ponies start to question what you can do and if it's good enough any more... some of them start to steal. He's just one of the more blatant about it, because he's so famous that the fame is almost a defense in court. There's more subtle ones out there, and different methods of stealing."

"None of this," Rarity shakily observed, "is in the trades."

"Who pays for the advertising pages?"

She winced again. "What are some of the other ways in which ponies steal?"

Coco told her, and so she was ready for the next.

It had started so well. The mare had come in, looked around carefully. She'd stepped back outside for a few seconds, but it was only to let her view one dress from a different angle. Rarity wound up temporarily exiting the booth to allow her more freedom to roam. Her visitor had seen the photo catalog, silently nosed her way through it, and then gone right back to checking out Rarity's creations.

"Would you come back in, please?" The light green mare's voice was soft. Pleasant. Inviting.

Slowly, Rarity trotted back into her rented space.

"This is your debut," the mare stated. "I would remember you if it wasn't. I don't. So may I ask you a few questions?" Rarity nodded. "First: why aren't you wearing any of your own dresses today?"

"I wished for the focus to be on my creations, rather than myself," Rarity replied. "Additionally, to see me in a dress is to gain an image of how I wear it -- not how it might appear on one's own form."

The mare slowly nodded. "That is -- surprisingly mature. My next question: why are you out here, instead of inside the Center?"

She held back the sigh. "I signed up rather later than would have been advised. There were... previous claims on my time. They are no longer in force."

"You're not getting much traffic," the mare noted.

"I'm told it will become more intense before Stormy Day's show begins."

That got her another nod. "True. But you haven't had many ponies so far."

Just about none. "Yes."

"So that brings me to the last question." The mare looked directly at her. "Has anypony offered you a job?"

Please. Oh, please, Celestia's hooves, Cadance's mane, please let this be real...

"No." Her voice did not tremble. Only her tail.

The mare's head went back. Her mouth rummaged in the right saddlebag. A sheaf of papers emerged, followed by a quill.

"If you want one," the mare said, "sign this."

She set it on the table and Rarity, all four knees trembling, forced herself to approach the future.

The young unicorn read the top lines on the first page. The company. She knew that company. She would be part of it. The storied history would hold her name.

She reached the salary. Nothing impressive to start, but enough to live on (although that would be a little harder with the higher prices of Canterlot), and there was an automatic raise structure built into the contract, along with a potential promotion schedule. If she lasted, she would reach a rather enjoyable standard of living within a few years.

And then she read on, with the mare watching her, all the way to the end.

Her field set the little sheaf down.

"You would own my designs," Rarity said.

The mare silently nodded.

"The company publicly grants all credit to the lead of the project I am assigned to. I would not be permitted to claim that I had created my own work."

Again.

"If I sketch at home, those creations belong to the company. Should I simply make something for myself, that design is company property. Should I be fired or quit, all my work stays with the company. If I move to another job, perhaps open my own business, and create something which you could state was inspired by or derivative of my work with you, then you would take custody of that as well."

"You can reach the point where we give you a sub-label under our roof," the mare said. "If you read all of those things, then you read that too. Work hard, do the job for us, and you'll get there."

"Yes, I read that," Rarity admitted. "Perform to expectations, then exceed them. And in time, I will be granted my notice." Her field took up the papers again, flipped pages until she was looking at the number she'd already memorized. "In fifteen years."

She set them down again. Looked at the mare.

"You're young," the adult said. "Exceptionally so. Fifteen years only feels like a long time."

Rarity's horn ignited one final time, picked up the quill. And when she was done, she closed the mare's saddlebag.

"Thank you for your interest in me," Rarity quietly said. "Goodbye."

It was well past noon now. Coco had sold four more hats.

"You should let a dress go," the earth pony said. "You've had three offers so far. That's high, especially for something fitted."

"I need my pieces," Rarity continued to insist, although that insistence seemed to have less strength than before. "Do ponies really come here to shop?"

"Not really," Coco admitted. "But it's easier when you're outside and they don't have to pay the admission fee. I have enough hats to convince the right pony. The wrong ponies come in after the show is over. Before then, it doesn't hurt to defray my expenses. Plus some ponies recognize me."

"After three years," Rarity said, and her voice felt hollow. "They know you after three years."

"No," Coco cheerfully said. "I do craft shows once or twice a season. When I get an off-day which lines up with a street fair, I try to book it. So there's some ponies who know me. Some of them even look for me, or ask for custom orders. It's a sideline."

"You're selling your creations?" Of course Coco was. Rarity had seen it happening already. They sold themselves. "So why not get your own shop?"

"In Canterlot?" It triggered a laugh. "I don't have that kind of money! Store rentals here are -- well, they're high. Really high. You'd swear every realtor was trying to book the palace. And it's not like Ponyville, where there's a weekly outdoor market -- I took the day trot once, Rarity, so I saw. I can barely manage the craft show space rentals on my budget, but I usually get most of it back, and sometimes I even make a little money -- which has to go right back into the next hats, or covers me after I oversleep and lose a job. But it keeps my hooves in the door between Searches."

Sun shone through both the fabric roof and some of her dresses, covered Rarity's body in color. None of it seemed to carry warmth.

"And besides," Coco added, "now I can answer one of the questions."

"Which question?"

Rarity wasn't asked it until sometime after two in the afternoon.

"How do your pieces sell?"

She looked at the stallion for a few seconds. The question stayed in the air.

"This is my debut," Rarity said. "I have no sales yet."

"You," the stallion stated, "have no public reception which anypony can judge by."

The audience at the school play liked it. "No."

"Regardless of how your goods may appear," the stallion decided, "they can't be judged without a sales history. I can't hire somepony whose creations have no retail experience."

Rarity took a breath.

"How," she inquired, trying to keep the words polite, "does one acquire experience without a job? Until somepony takes a chance on me, sir, I will have no experience at all. I will never gain experience until somepony makes the first leap towards the hurdle. It would take a bold pony to risk the unknown. But you seemed to believe my work is worthwhile. Something brought you into my booth. Why would it not attract others?"

His brown eyes narrowed.

"Do you know what kind of ponies ask questions like that?"

Unemployed ones was the first answer to go through her mind, but she didn't voice it. The stallion's hard-stomping tread back into the street said it for her.

She waited until the last echoes were gone before glancing towards the little wall of hats, where Coco's snout was already beginning to poke through.

"There's no right response for that one," the mare sadly smiled. "But you tried, Rarity. Some ponies are just afraid to declare Sun is in the sky without a full herd echoing them."

"This is your third year," Rarity quietly said. "Your pieces are beautiful, Coco. I have seldom attempted hats, even as part of an onsom. I know how tricky they are, just getting them to work with a single dress. And with what you create... Why are you in the booth next to this space? Why are you still here?"

A long silence answered her and for a while, she thought it would be the only thing which did.

"My first year," Coco finally started, "I didn't have a book. I just had a lot of hats and excited ponies around my booth, taking pictures. And then all my hats were in the stores, only I hadn't made them and I didn't have any proof that they'd been my designs, at least not which held up in court. I... didn't even do sketches for a while. I had to learn how to draw on paper, because I usually just did it in fabric. You were ahead of me there on the first day, Rarity. My hats sold really well. They were the talk of the trades, and so were the ponies who claimed they'd created them. I was just... this kid nopony cared about. And maybe some of the trade reporters had seen me at the Search and knew they were my designs, but who buys the advertising? Who gives them exclusives and free dresses? There was a pony who wanted to speak for me, and he told me he'd be fired as soon as he tried to get the first article set. And without proof..."

It was nearly a minute before Rarity could speak, and the first words emerged as a protest. "But -- Coco, that's horrible, it's a nightmare, but -- the second year! They knew your things would sell! You had a sales history of sorts, and even if you could keep them from stealing again, they knew you were the designer...!"

"Most of them said I was derivative." The smile was a weary one. "Of myself. Others got mad because they couldn't steal from me. And then there were contracts. You saw one of them today. There's worse ones than that, Rarity, lots worse. Canterlot... takes advantage. Sometimes I think it's a little worse when you're an earth pony, but then I realize it's because I'm a milliner. I started young, I was naive, and I thought I just needed the right pony to Discover me. They did. They discovered I was young and naive. They took advantage. So the second year, there was anger because they couldn't any more, and they said my styles wouldn't sell in a new cycle, not that they were my styles, and... the rest was contracts. Maybe some of the offers were even good, but I'd just spent a year listening to nearly everypony tell me my dreams didn't belong to me, and it made it really easy to see bad everywhere. To keep saying no. It took two moons after my second Search to even try making a single hat. But after that... I reworked my basic styles. I started doing the craft shows. And I thought maybe I could find another way. Except..."

She giggled, and Rarity stared at what had seemed to be fully sincere mirth.

"Except?"

"I wanted to give it one more try," Coco finished. "'Third time pays for all': you must have heard that somewhere. Three tries and then I'd know the Search wasn't for me. No matter what happened here today, I wouldn't come back. But I didn't make that decision until a few weeks ago. I booked late, and all they had left was the overflow. So now I'm outside, with you. In my third year, and you're in your first, and... I didn't want you to go through what I did. I was hoping you'd get the right pony. But the day isn't over yet for you --"

"-- maybe I did."

Confused, "Did what?"

"Get the right pony." And the question finally emerged, something a broke young unicorn had been too pained to let herself think about. "Coco -- even if you went home for your camera, you surely didn't have quite that much film, and you had to pay for speed developing, plus the book --"

Smiling, "Forget it."

"I owe you. Everything you have said --" she doesn't have money, it sounds like she's just barely covering her costs "-- means I cannot leave that debt unpaid. I -- do not have funds at this time, but if you tell me where you live, when I do have money once again, I must --"

"-- Rarity, you're just starting. You're as young as I was. Unless your family is helping you --"

"-- my father helped me bring the cart to Canterlot, and will presumably help me pull it home." And the bitterness was back. "My mother believes I should chase her dream instead of mine, and will freely advise me on every way in which I might change my path. That is all the assistance I can rely on."

Ultimately, she was out there on her own.

"Then you can't afford it right now," Coco gently finished. "And maybe not for a while. Don't worry about me, Rarity. And just help somepony else when you can."

Rarity silently sat in what wasn't truly her space, basking in what was solely her guilt.

"Rarity?"

And it all came out.

"You're better than I am. I thought... one year, just one show, and... all I have is one show. I spent the last of what I had to prepare for this, Coco. I have no support coming. I don't know what I can do for a job if I have to try and work while I wait. I -- left school for this, because school was wrong for me. I couldn't get into a fashion program without finishing that school and it was two more years, then trying to get my parents to back me for that, when my mother wishes something else and my father is hardly ever there... it was two more years I could not stand, with no hope of the classes I wished for on the other side. I'm self-taught, I read and I sketch and I sew and my mark makes me feel I'm doing it right, but... you're better than I am, and it's been three years for you. I don't know if I..."

The words ended, and the tears took over.

The cream-colored head pulled back, vanished among the hats. After a few seconds, the pony trotted in. "You're too close to your own work and you're feeling miserable. You're better than you think you are. And I told you the day wasn't over."

"It feels over."

"It's getting close to three. Maybe when -- do you hear that?"

And Rarity did.

"Hooves," she said. "Wingbeats. A lot of --"

Coco scrambled out, getting back to her own booth just in time. And by the time Rarity's view was clear, the stampede was upon them.

Ponies. Dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds when you counted those from the trades. Racing and flying and going down the aisle, talking and chatting and eager and ready and looking for something new. So many fur colors, more hues than either mare had in her booth. Rarity recognized many of their bearers, longed to know most of the others, wished she could kick a few --

-- and then she was looking at the Center, with absolutely nothing blocking her view.

She waited a few seconds. Two stragglers went by, hurrying to catch up.

After that, she poked her head out. Ponies were claiming recently set-up benches near the big tent. The doors out of the Center were swinging shut. The ground in front of the booth had picked up some trash. And there were several pegasi high overhead, starting to circle. She didn't understand why. Perhaps there was some scheduled weather maintenance in progress.

Rarity went back into the booth, sat down again.

"Well," she finally said, "I have learned a lesson. One of many, from today."

"What's this one?" Coco called over.

"To be aware when somepony is using precision of language," Rarity wearily replied. "When a mare tells you that 'everypony is going to be trotting right past your space in order to reach her,' she means exactly that: 'trotting right past your space.' Without stopping."

"Oh..."

"I don't seem to have much faith for what they might do on the way back, either. Presuming the Event itself doesn't last until sunset." Part of her anatomy twinged. "I feel trapped, Coco. I am at the Search, with the best chance to fulfill my dreams that I may ever have, and I feel trapped..."

The fabric roof rustled. Rarity sighed.

"Just a few more hours," she said. "And then I will have to explain events to my father. Perhaps he will trot here to meet me. I may see him at my hotel. It gives me time to think of something, I suppose. Perhaps a way to beg."

The wall of hanging hats shifted again, and Rarity turned towards it. No snout poked through.

Then that wall swayed.

The first blast of wind rearranged Rarity's tail at the same moment her roof frame jumped.

It went up four hoof-heights, came crashing back down. Two dresses were shaken from their hooks, and her field lanced to recover them.

"What?" It felt like a legitimate question. "I saw the weather schedule! A gentle breeze, nothing more! What are they working on up there?"

Rarity poked her head out again, looked up --

It didn't take long to work out what was going on. Stormy Day was having an Event. The Event, so well-attended by the trades, had to be Spectacular. And fabric with the consistency of gauze and look of a pink cloud might ripple in interesting ways when impacted by wind. So the pegasi, no part of the city's weather team, were creating that wind, sending it across the stage in front of the tent. It just seemed that their most effective route for doing so involved sending small tempests through the overflow area.

Either that or they were simply incompetent. Rarity seemed to have a choice of ways to bet.

"STOP!" she screamed towards the sky as her roof jumped again. But the wind took her words, or they were ignoring her, did not care, had perhaps been paid not to care --

-- and then she heard a much closer scream, one muffled by the pole in the mare's mouth.

Her head spun, and she saw Coco, whose teeth were clenched around one leg of the milliner's own roof frame. The hats had even less mass than Rarity's dresses, each had a dome which the wind could beat against, and the back end of that frame was starting to lift. There were shouts from pants and suit sellers, both desperately scrambling to keep their own goods from flying away, but Coco didn't have a good angle for a mouth grip and the wind was getting stronger by the second --

-- Rarity's horn ignited, her corona instantly surging to a full single, then threatened to go beyond it. Her field speared, lanced in dozens of directions, her eyes watered, her spine felt as if somepony had just planted a hoof into it, and the headache instantly slammed in -- but she had it.

She had all of it, or almost so. She'd missed her booth ticket, and could only watch as it began the first of its adventures.

Coco's mouth opened. It had to. There was no other way to let the amazement out.

"What are you doing?"

Rarity felt it was a question with a slightly obvious answer. "I'm holding it!"

The mare was staring at her. There seemed to be a better use for that time. "How strong are you?"

"I'm not!"

Her corona was starting to approach double now. The full single had been bad enough in a high wind. One object being blown into her horn hard enough to make sharp contact during a single corona would create a backlash significant enough to injure her. A Stage 2 would do much worse.

"But you're holding hundreds of hats! And your own dresses, and the tables -- !"

It was true. Everything inanimate within the two booths, regardless of shape or size, was coated in soft blue. She'd even managed to get the books. But she could feel every last object within her field. The disparity of the coverage. The strain.

"That's not strength! It's field dexterity! There's a difference! And I can't keep this up for long! Please, Coco, you have to get your pieces to safety! Your cart is right behind your booth, the same as mine! Everything you can place within it is one less item I have to hold! The faster you move...!"

Coco lost another second to staring at her, then looked up at the pegasi. Went back to her own fabric roof.

"Can you release those cords? The ones binding the roof to the frame?"

While still holding everything? The headache was starting to increase, and that was just from thinking about the attempt. "I -- yes, I think so!"

"Do it! Release them and let the roof go! It's just a sheet -- it won't hurt anypony when it lands! And it'll be less strain on the booth!"

Rarity's eyes nearly scrunched closed as she tried to focus, fighting against the pain while trying to block out all sensory impressions which did not come from feel. The bindings were within her field. She simply had to split her attention more than she already had, and the fact that it felt like it was splitting her skull didn't matter...

Over and under and around and through and oh why did she have to be so good at knots? A stupid question. They were designers who worked with fabric. When it came to loops which were designed to stay together, they were all good at knots. And the wind was howling, her mane was completely disrupted, her tail curls were gone, one piece of dense trash whipped into her horn would put her in the hospital and if she got hit by one of her own roof poles --

-- the last knot came undone, and Coco's sheet took to the air as those poles crashed to the ground. The strain lessened somewhat, and then did so again as Rarity released her own roof -- but she was still holding just about the same number of objects, with every hat and dress trying to act as its own sail. The sample saddlebags were especially bad. And she felt for the other two designers, who were now chasing their own merchandise, but she was at her limit. She had hundreds of objects to deal with: she could not add hundreds more. She shouldn't be doing this much to begin with, and certainly not for this long against so much force.

It hurt.

She screamed, and then added the pain to her effort.

"Take them down, Coco! Please!"

But the mare was already moving. Teeth carefully nipped at hat after hat: Rarity released her field from each in turn and Coco raced to her cart, nudged the lid open, dropped the hats inside, went back for more. Over and over again, as ignorant pegasi flapped overhead and the distant sounds of unearned cheering being directed towards the Event filled Rarity's ears.

It took, at most, seven minutes. The pain dropped with every fresh put-away column of hats. But it didn't vanish. She'd strained herself, and there would be a price to pay for that. She was going to keep paying it for hours. But she couldn't afford to lessen her effort, release a single thing before it was safe, not hers and not Coco's.

But then the tables were put away. The poles were practically kicked apart. Everything in the one booth had been mouth-tossed into the cart. And Rarity was left holding her own merchandise and nothing more -- but even with so much of her attention freed, she still had no ability to reach out and rescue what remained for the other two overflow designers: the strain was still there. She could attempt almost nothing new, and once her current effort was finally and fully released, she might find herself magically defunct.

"Are you okay?" Coco asked immediately after slamming the cart's lid for the last time, raising her voice to get through the wind. "You look like you're hurting. You are hurting. I can start taking down your dresses --"

"-- no," Rarity managed. "There is an order. And a certain pattern of folding before packing. The gems... I have to put them away in a given pattern, or they will tear each other. I'm sorry, Coco. I know you want to help, but it will take me far longer to tell you how each should be folded than to do it myself."

"But you're in pain."

"I can manage." She could. Or rather, she would.

Almost begging now. "Please tell me there's something I can do for you."

"You can get out of here," Rarity told her. "Quickly, before things become bad enough to shift a cart. And you can be happy."

The mare looked at her for a while.

"You don't owe me anything," Coco told Rarity. "Ever." She trotted towards her cart as Rarity's field began to fold the first of the dresses -- then paused.

"I think I'm leaving Canterlot," the slightly older mare said. "I know there's a chance waiting for me out there, and the right pony. But I don't think it's here. Rarity, if I don't see you again --"

"-- we will," Rarity broke in, and didn't know if it was a lie.

(It wasn't. But it would be years, and it would be too many of them.)

Coco smiled.

"You're good," she said. "You're better than you think you are."

She hitched herself to the cart, and trotted away.

The wind had mostly died down. What was left mostly had the strength of a gentle westerly spring breeze, although what Rarity now insisted was the incompetence of the technique-weaving pegasi overhead provided the occasional surprise gust, just to keep her on the edge of her hooves. Most of their inferior efforts now seemed to be put into producing an unseasonable snow flurry, and the increasing chill wasn't doing anything for Rarity's mood, much less her headache.

She was the last designer in the overflow area. The suit and pants sellers had cleared out what they could, at least for what was left. The pony who'd had the pants, rather than face packing all of them up, had silently taken about half her stock and deposited it within something very unlikely to blow away. And within minutes, Rarity had seen the first street traveler investigating that dumpster. She supposed that was what Coco had meant by the wrong ponies, and wondered just how many designers ended their day by kicking out their stock -- and how many ponies tried to claim and sell the results as their own. Perhaps some of the rejections were intended to trigger rage quits --

-- it was the pain talking. Nothing more.

Less than a dozen dresses, two tables, and her poles were still outside the rental cart. She had the option to set back up, but another gust could be produced by the mismanaged weather at any moment. She could even go inside and try to file a complaint, but she would definitely want to have all of her creations packed and locked up before that happened.

Of course, she would then be complaining about a pony whose mother had money and connections. But the show manager might listen. It was a hope. It might even be a chance to get her booth fee back.

Rarity sighed.

And perhaps there are concessions inside. With headache medicine on the side. And bathrooms. There have to be bathrooms.

Inside it was, then. Of course, her booth ticket was gone. So unless she found the manager at the door or could get somepony to check her name against the attendee list, they would probably try to charge her admission.

She carefully folded another dress. Put it away, repeated the process. And in doing so, lost in work and pain, completely missed the angry stallion until he was right on top of her.

"Where are you going?"

She turned. It gave her a close-up view of flaring black nostrils.

"Home," she said, and looked away.

"Do you know who I am?" the nostrils demanded. (There was presumably a mouth somewhere around there, but Rarity didn't care to look.)

"No," Rarity admitted, and went back to her labors.

"I work for the Search!" the stallion yelled. "I make sure there aren't any rule violations!"

"Ah," Rarity softly said, and then turned back. "Good. In that case, I would like to inquire about the rule for weather alterations which completely disrupt --"

"-- there is to be no departure before sunset!" he screamed, completely ignoring everything she'd said. "There are supposed to be four designers in this area! I only see you, and you're almost packed! You just told me you're going home! Do you know what the penalty is for going home early?"

It felt as if she'd known once. Years ago, in a dream which she'd woken up in the middle of. All she could remember was that she'd once possessed that knowledge, and all she could feel was that she didn't care about it.

"No," Rarity said, and went back to packing.

"If you pack before sunset," the stallion shouted, now starting to shake with rage, "I kick you out!"

She stopped. Turned. Looked him over, from mane to tail, taking in all the black, along with the little highlights of red. She drank him in, then spit him out. She wanted to remember the sight and taste of such stupidity forever.

"So if I want to leave," she said, and the words felt oddly airy, "you make me leave."

"YES!!!"

"Well, then," Rarity shrugged, and folded a dress before putting it away.

She felt the heat of his stare. The weight of stupidity, Rules substituting for Intelligence. "That's it! You're banned! You are never coming back to the Search again! Now give me your booth ticket!"

"I can't," Rarity simply said. It was time to pack the tables.

"I order --"

"-- I have no idea where it is. You can go search for it if you like. In fact, you can start on that right now."

The rage dropped down, became the tones of cold fury, soft and ephemeral as the nearby snow. They were the sounds of petty power denied, rendered impotent. The notes of danger backed by stupidity. And Rarity didn't care.

"Give me your name," the stallion said, "so I can ban you."

There was a master attendee list inside. Rarity knew that. He could look at it any time he liked. This was just another stop on his power trip. "No."

"Do you have," and the words were nearly a whisper, "any idea what I can do to you?"

She turned, one last time.

Her head hurt. She hadn't been able to risk galloping for a bathroom all day. There had been wind. Attempts at theft of all kinds. Challenges and questions and doubt during her one show, and at the end, she was being banned from a place she would never return to anyway.

She was many things. She was young. Tired, and in pain. Her soul hurt from the agony of a chance forever lost. But when somepony cut her to the core...

The stallion took a step back. Just one, and the hind left hoof slipped as it landed.

None of the support poles wavered. The four thin metal rods stayed a mere hoofwidth from his head, ready to close that last crucial gap with a mere thought.

"Do you have any idea," Rarity whispered, "what I could do in return?"

...they would find her father's daughter.

He turned. He bolted. And when he was back inside, looking for the form with her name so she could be banned forever, Rarity quietly packed up the last of it, then hitched up the rental cart and trotted away.

Her father found her outside the hotel, well past sunset, as she sat quietly with her face hidden by Moon-shadows.

"Tried to find you at the show," he said as he trotted up. "But you'd already cleared out. So I was hoping you'd come back here, instead of trying the road back alone. So how did things --"

She rushed him, the one tackle he could never avoid or block. And then she was crying into his coat.

After a moment, one foreleg came up, awkwardly rubbed against her. She took it as permission to weep on.

He had paid for the second night in the hotel. She'd wanted to trot home immediately, turn her back on Canterlot and all which had happened, plus there was a chance that the final stallion would have tried to press charges for an assault which had never truly occurred. But even the old road was a little more risky at night, and he'd refused to let her take the chance. It had been too long a day, she was tired, she shouldn't be hauling the cart back by herself -- and by the time he reached the midpoint of that argument, she'd already fallen asleep, with her face pressed against his fur.

They were back under Sun now, heading for Ponyville, the new train tracks visible with a simple glance to the side. Neither had looked. And once again, there had been silence.

It didn't last.

"What now?"

"I don't know," Rarity quietly confessed. "I could find a job somewhere. Something. Save up money. Put another line together. I'm banned from the Search, but Canterlot isn't the only city. I could try again. But I'd need a job, and money, and... time."

Two years? Three? Fifteen?

"That nowhere accent?"

She blinked.

"You lose it when you get upset," her father said. "You've gotta be careful about that. You start sounding like you again."

"I am me," she softly protested. "This is me. The me I want to be. Not... not Mom's me. The pony she wishes she'd been."

"The pony she was," he told her, "brought her to me. And that led to you and Sweetie. Do you think she hates that, Rares?"

And for the first time, she heard the true pain in his voice.

"I think she's a little embarrassed about the how."

He chuckled. She didn't know if it was true mirth. "Yeah. She shouldn't be. Rarity -- you got one show. She's not going to back you for another, any way at all. And as for jobs... do you know anything you could do? Anything that comes natural, which isn't your mark?"

No. And out of nowhere, "You could back me."

He shook his head.

"Your decision. Your life, as best as you can make it. Ultimately, you're out there on your --"

"-- so you're consistent," she told her father. "You were never there for me before. You won't be there for me now. And you justify it by saying I need to do everything on my own."

She saw the exact moment when the words hit him.

He didn't break stride this time: he was the Belle-Ringer, after all, and he was stronger than that. But his knees bent, the spine seemed to cave in on itself, and even the mustache drooped.

"You read hoofball stats."

"Do not," and the fury was building again, "make this about --"

"How many players die in the game?"

This time, she stopped, and the cart went into him.

"...enough," she whispered.

"Yeah," he simply said. "Long career I've had. Really long for a player. Broken up by a couple of hospital stays. Rares... I wasn't there so you'd have enough. So you'd be better off than me. That's all I wanted. And... because that was how I could make things better -- I couldn't be there, and... I didn't know if I was gonna be there. You had to make it on your own because you couldn't count on me."

"But it's your last season." It seemed to be all she had.

"Tackles go into the sidelines sometimes. Hard ones." He sighed. "I got an opposing coach that way once. Not on purpose. Look -- when it's me out there in the game, I know I've got the team behind me. That's the plan. And plans are what go wrong. Plays are broken up. I get isolated. I need to know they're with me, and I have to be ready for the second they can't be. What's the idea which isn't me? Do you have one? Or is the game over because you had one bad day?"

She simply stared at him for a while.

"Am I right?" she finally asked. "Or is Mom?"

He thought about that, under Sun and calm blue sky.

"I think you're you," he eventually said. "Maybe she'll figure that out. The plan was that show. Play's wrecked. Game's still going until you drop. What now?"

It was her third loan officer, and that was just for Ponyville's main bank. They had passed her up the line one by one, perhaps so everypony could get their very own look at this strange specimen, just before they drove it into extinction.

"Again," the battered-looking stallion said.

She tried not to sigh. "I want to buy the old beauty shop. The one which closed last year. It's been sitting empty for moons now and I know nopony's interested or the signs wouldn't still be up. It doesn't work as a beauty shop. There's too much space, too few stations. There was room to expand and they never did. Things are too far apart for gossip to flow: that was half of the reason they folded. But the building is good, and the upstairs space they could never do anything with -- I can convert that into an apartment."

"But the downstairs space?" the stallion openly questioned. "You're going to put a high-end dress shop there? In Ponyville?"

"Yes."

"Explain why. Again."

"We'll have the trains soon. Ponies already come here from Canterlot on hoof, when the weather schedule allows a day trot and they're in the mood for one. Once the trains are running, it'll be easier. I think we'll get a major increase in tourist traffic. Ponies with money in their saddlebags, hoping for lower prices than they find in the capital. But they're used to quality, and I can provide that. Once they know it can be found in a new place, I can start to build a sales history. Eventually, I might be able to start some degree of bulk production instead of modifying base pieces to fit customers. After that, I could begin selling to other shops. You can see the chart with my sales plan. The way we start attracting high-end customers as a settled zone is to have high-end goods, and until the first pony tries to jump that hurdle --"

"You have," the third loan officer pointed out, "no experience."

"I was born," Rarity said, trying not to shuffle on the uncomfortable bench: it felt as if that would make her look weak. "I had no experience of living. I had to figure that out. I'm still alive. Nopony starts with experience. You get experience in a job by doing that job. This is my mark. I have the talent. I just need to do the job, and then I'll have experience. Somepony had to trust you could become a loan officer. Somepony else had to trust that they could establish a bank. Somepony has to take a chance, every time. You can't rely on what's been done before every time, because nopony's ever done everything."

He just looked at her for a while.

"It's a ten-year loan," he said. "You miss two payments in a row and we foreclose. That's our risk for a business with no record, for an owner with no experience, who isn't even an adult. It's not a small amount of money. You're not just borrowing enough to buy and refurbish the building: you need stock, materials, advertising, employee costs --"

"-- it'll just be me until I start to draw more ponies in. That will keep some of the expenses down."

"Which means that when you're sick or out of town, there is no business." He snorted. "This isn't high-risk, this is suicide. I'm not going to commit the bank's money to a pony whose idea of driving a new enterprise along is to aim it for a cliff. I'm sorry, Ms. Belle, but --"

Which was when the very large unicorn stallion behind her took one step forward.

"Blitz?" he softly said. "Let her have it. For me."

The former teammate, who'd gone into banking, stared at his old line companion.

"You're cosigning? If you're on this, then I can --"

"No. She's paying it back herself."

"Then what's our assurance that we'll see the money again?"

"I'm saying she can pay it back."

"Ringer --"

"-- this bank will drop before she will."

The two stallions looked at each other.

"Show me the sales plan again -- no, pass it over," Blitz finally said. "In fact, let me have it. And some ink. I need to write this into a workable-looking lie..."

She was on her own. He'd told her that. The loan was hers to repay. The shop was hers to restore. The dresses were certainly hers to design.

"But I might paint," he finished. "Place needs some paint."

She rolled her eyes. "I've seen your color palette, Dad. When you were asked to make something for the fans to vote on, for the new uniforms. You don't have the best eye."

"So you tell me what to paint," he shrugged, staring at the outside of what needed so much work to become her new shop. "Ten years, Rares. Can you do that?"

"Steadily?" She had to be honest with him. "No. There's going to be slow periods, especially at the start. I'll try to negotiate down my costs as much as I can, save some of the loan money and use that for a few payments. And whenever I can, I'll get ahead. But -- I don't control it. I can make the dresses and I'll own all of my designs, but somepony still has to buy the results. I know some of the tricks to watch out for now, but I'll have to learn more, and --"

"You really sound like you right now."

It made her smile. "Which me?"

"Does it matter?"

Still looking at the shop.

"Got a name yet?" her father asked.

"Still working on it," she admitted. "It'll come. And the upstairs is roomier than I thought. I may get a pet, just for the company."

"So you've got a plan. Ten years, and the shop is yours. Your work is yours the whole time. And eventually..."

She nodded.

"Got a back-up plan? For when things totally break down?"

Rarity snorted. His snort. "Slow sales, yes. Changes in trends, I'll have to try and keep up with. A lot of my expenses will be going for magazines, even if it has to be the trades. Maybe I can set a few trends myself. But breaking down? Mares will wear dresses. Different colors and styles and fabrics, but they will be dresses. That won't change."

"But if something goes crazy --"

"Dad. It's Ponyville. Sometimes the Everfree sends us a reminder that it's there. We get a monster, or a wild weather system. But that's just Equestria. We're in Ponyville. Nothing," Rarity said with complete assurance, "is ever going to go crazy."

It took some time before she found out she was wrong. Less than it would take before she saw Coco again -- but time passed before a fresh-off-the-air-carriage unicorn showed her just how crazy things could truly become. A level of insanity which never fully died away. And there were times when she relied on her new friends, and others where she found herself out there on her own, patching the broken pieces of a plan into something which had a chance to work. Either way, it was just one more thing she had to do without dropping for longer than the brief time-out of a well-planned dramatic faint. After that, it was back to work, mission, or just living, which was something she was still gaining experience with. But no matter what happened, the loan payments were made.

She was, after all, her father's daughter.