II. In the Dark Backward

Jon Quill found himself staring worriedly at the back of Cantor’s head once again. This afternoon wasn’t going well, and Cantor was getting cranky. Oh, he tried to rein himself in, but there was an edge to his tone – and his distracted state made it look like he was trying to figure out a solution to some sort of particularly annoying problem.

What was worse, Jon had a growing suspicion that one of the problems vexing Cantor might be Jon Quill himself.

They were in Canterlot, in one of the older residential sections. It was all very nice. Admittedly, these were not the palatial residences of the nobility or the upper crust. But the homes here had an air of gravitas, of elegance, of propriety. The lots were narrow but deep – backing onto one of the cliff-walls on one side of the street, or backing onto a cliff-side drop on the other. Homes were surrounded by high walls, with narrow gates looking into carefully tended front gardens. The iron street-lamps were ornamented with brass fittings.

There were carved stone benches set every few houses. At the moment Cantor was sitting on one, catching his breath, and staring distractedly at the sky. Or perhaps one of Canterlot’s distant spires. Or maybe a ghost. Jon couldn’t really tell.

Valentina was at least as grumbly as Cantor. Her afternoon hadn’t been going well either.

Oh, the train ride from Ponyville had been fine. And by spending an extra two days with Nurse Redheart, the trio had managed to lay a bit of a false trail. First they had Cantor purchase tickets for Seaddle, with a layover in Dodge Junction. Then they’d made a bit of a show of boarding that train before immediately hopping (or, in Cantor’s case, falling) off one of the rear cars and sneaking back into town. For their actual ride to the capitol Valentina had purchased the tickets (with Hive Naught’s credit) and Cantor had been disguised when boarding the train. With luck Fether (or anypony else trying to track Cantor) would take the bait and head west.

No, the problems started after they got to Canterlot. Valentina was attempting to do the work involved in maintaining her cover-story – the whole “being a personal assistant to a famous actor” thing which had her checking out hotels, restaurants, and other travel accommodations throughout the realm. The original plan was that she’d get rooms for everypony and then Cantor could duck out to handle whatever family business was up with his aunt.

Jon Quill had the distinct impression that Cantor preferred to keep those family dealings private. Which, of course, only made Jon more curious about them.

But there were no rooms to be had in Canterlot. Of any sort. At any price.

Obvious, in hindsight. The Grand Galloping Gala was coming up within a little over a week. It was the premier social event of the season. Not just for the capitol city, but for the nation as a whole. Everypony who was anypony was coming to town. Even the ponies who couldn’t get into the palace grounds proper were still trying to be nearby for the festivities. There would be parades, fireworks, music, an air-show … as a result the city was already packed. Every possible room for rent had been booked months in advance.

Which had left Valentina, Cantor, and Jon Quill spending all afternoon chasing leads on possible room-openings at various bed-and-breakfasts or other such accommodations in the more outlying neighborhoods.

All with no luck.

Couple that with Cantor’s limping pace, and the frustration of slowly wandering hither, thither, and yon about the (admittedly lovely, festive, and scenic) streets of Canterlot while accomplishing nothing of use had even gotten Valentina into a sour mood. She looked rather like she wanted to punch somepony. Maybe Cantor. To hurry him up.

Further, Cantor wasn’t just tired. It had become obvious that he was intentionally dragging his hooves. Most recently he had insisted on stopping at a couple of stores and acquiring some odds and ends. Jon Quill had been stuck carrying the bags, and Cantor hadn’t said why he needed caramel apples, nor flowers, nor a children’s book of stories.

Cantor also wasn’t discussing his obvious reservations about taking his new friends to his aunt’s home. Even if that was now looking like their best option for securing a place to spend the night in the city.

Honestly, right now the only alternative looked to be ’take a night train back to Ponyville and stay there until the Gala!’

Valentina sighed. She managed to keep most of the annoyance out of her voice as she pointedly asked Cantor, “Are you ready to carry on, yet?”

Cantor winced. His mouth scrunched up. He sounded troubled as he replied, “Not quite yet, Valentina.”

Cantor looked directly at Jon Quill.

That was always a bit of a shock, Jon noted. Usually Cantor didn’t really focus on a pony. He kind of looked in their general direction … he looked around them, not at them. Jon still hadn’t figured out how Cantor’s gaze could manage to be both so very soft and so very intense at the same time.

“Jon,” Cantor’s obvious reluctance dripped like molasses over his words, “I need to ask you a personal favor …”

As Cantor began to speak, the pieces all came together in Jon Quill’s mind. Jon Quill felt his heart drop a bit. He had been right. The problem was Jon Quill himself.

Or rather, his profession.

But then Jon felt a rising surge of relief as he realized he knew just what to say. Finally! It was good to be able to solve a friend’s problem.

So Jon interrupted Cantor, “Yes, of course. I promise I won’t discuss or write up anything about whatever it is that’s going on at your aunt’s place, Cantor.”

Cantor blinked in surprise. He was also obviously relieved. Jon had been right. It was as if Jon’s words had shifted a great weight from his back. Valentina also looked surprised, her gaze flitted from one stallion to the other.

“Thank you, Jon.” Cantor’s gratitude was sincere. It made Jon feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Which also meant that he had to remember to actually keep this promise. His track record in such matters wasn’t the best.

“Well, boys,” Valentina chimed in, “Now that that’s finally sorted, is it much further to Dame Providence’s manor?”

Cantor grinned sheepishly as he rose to his hooves. “Not far at all. Third house up the street, on the right.”

So, up the street it was. The gate into the front garden was unlocked. The walk was graveled, with low boxwood-hedges on either side. The inner facing of the walls were set with some sort of metallic trellis on which old wisteria vines were growing. Their colorful blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent. Ahead, the path circled a small pool, filled with water lilies. A marble statue of a rearing unicorn rose from the middle of the waters. Just past that, a series of steps led up to the large front door – a massive affair of polished wood, carved with military scenes, and over which a half-circle of stained glass showed the rising sun flanked by unicorns and pegasi in antique armor.

Cantor limped up to the door and pulled on a bell cord that dangled just off to one side. A distant chime sounded somewhere deep inside the home.

A moment later an elderly earth pony in an old-fashioned suit-coat opened the door. If he wasn’t a butler, Jon Quill thought to himself, Jon would eat his hat – press-pass and all.

Normally such serving ponies are supposed to be all stone-faced and impassive. This fellow’s sudden smile was thus doubly surprising. It caused a flurry of happy wrinkles to appear around his eyes.

“Young Master Mortalis, as I live and breathe! Do come in. Dame Providence will be most pleased to learn of your arrival.” The butler glanced at Jon Quill and Valentina, treating the latter with a slight nod of his head. “And you’ve brought two friends I see. Young master Clearwater was not entirely mistaken.”

Cantor raised an eyebrow. He also held the door for Jon Quill, Valentina, and the butler to enter the richly paneled hallways beyond. “Cousin Arty was expecting us?” Cantor sounded more interested than surprised.

The butler let out a slight sigh, “He’s been in a state all day.” Noting Cantor’s sudden distress he added, “A happy state to be sure! But still quite worked up. He kept saying that six were coming for dinner. And that we needed to set three more places than usual. Master Clearwater has simply refused to come down and eat until, as he said, ‘they all got here.’ Now, here you are. I’ll let cook know we will begin serving at once … unless you need to refresh yourselves?”

“Perhaps a moment to wash some of the dust of travel from our faces,” Cantor replied. Valentina was nodding approvingly.

“Of course, sir.” Turning to address Valentina and Jon he added, “This way ma’am. Let me take your things and I will show you to one of the guest suites.”

Jon Quill caught Cantor’s mostly-under-his-breath mutter of, “Later, Morari. And I really don’t know.”

Jon frowned suddenly. This welcoming exchange had prompted at least a dozen questions. He had promised not to publicize any information he might glean here, but that shouldn’t stop him from inquiring, right? Inquiring minds wanted to know, as they say – and few minds were more inquiring than Jon Quill’s!

“So, Cantor … you didn’t mention having a cousin, his name’s Art? What does he do? What’s he like?” Jon stopped his questions there.

From the expression on Cantor’s face, it was immediately clear this was exactly what Cantor hadn’t wanted to bring up at all.

The butler was the one who answered. “Young master Artorious Clearwater is Dame Providence’s eldest and only child. He is a fine young stallion who lives a quiet and private life of leisure. He also paints.”

Jon looked at the portraits hanging on the walls. All unicorns, all with greater or lesser degrees of familial resemblance, all in military attire – generations of service-ponies of some rank, including two generals … though, judging from their attire, those two fellows had lived perhaps a century ago. “Did Art do these?” Jon gestured at the newer portraits.

“Oh no, sir. The young master’s works are kept upstairs.”

From upstairs, as if on que, there came a rumbling clatter, rapidly approaching. Moments later, a unicorn (pale blue, with a white mane and tail, splattered with paint and carrying something in one hoof) came rushing down the hallway with an odd, lurching gait before grabbing Cantor in a tight hug. This got several smears of paint on Cantor’s white coat and his black cape. Cantor didn’t mind the mess.

Cantor hugged the newcomer back. Cantor was happy to see his cousin too. It showed in his face as well as his voice. “Hello Arty! Are you well?”

“W-well. W-well … Vewy g-good, Cuz!” Art’s voice was thick and slow, the words he forced out sounded half formed. “Told … told them yoo wuhz comin’.” He stood awkwardly, holding a doll in one hoof, with his foreleg and head both tilting at an odd angle. He couldn’t seem to really look steadily at anypony. Also, his eyes were unusual: one sapphire blue, the other emerald green. His face seemed to glow with a child-like delight, his expression and tone that of a happy foal.

But this was no small child. Artorious Clearwater looked to be only a few years younger than Cantor himself. And thus several years older than both Jon Quill and Valentina.

Jon Quill felt a confusing mix of emotions and thoughts. First among these was a sudden understanding for exactly why Cantor hadn’t wanted to bring Jon along on this errand. While Jon Quill himself wrote about exotic magical phenomena and mysterious creatures – strange and paranormal wonders – the Yellow Star had plenty of paparazzi who would be more than happy to spread gossip about the personal lives of a modestly high society Canterlot family with what looked to be a storied military history.

Especially when that gossip included the fact that the son and heir to the estate had substantial developmental disabilities, both physical and mental. Possibly magical as well. Had Cantor feared that Jon might betray the trust involved in bringing him into his aunt’s home? Jon winced, recalling his visit to Doctor Fether’s office in Bedlam. Well … maybe Cantor had been right to fear that Jon’s fundamental need to acquire (and share) stories, gossip, and information might get the better of him. Jon Quill vowed to himself that this was all something he’d keep in strictest confidence. He’d tell no pony. He just had to remember not to talk about it.

And that might be hard to do. Very hard.

Meanwhile, Art turned to the butler, his tone and face reflected exasperation and triumph both, “Told yuh. Told yuh! Six moah fuh dinneh. Thwee platez.”

Which, Jon realized, was shocking all on its own.

It was Valentia who asked the question, “Uh, Cantor, dove. Does Arty know about …” her glance and the jerk of her head indicated the three ghosts.

Cantor just sighed. He looked resigned to the mystery involved and no more the wiser than either of his companions. He answered, “I honestly don’t know. Arty here sees the world … differently. Sometimes what he says doesn’t make very much sense or is clearly wrong. Other times it seems shockingly, impossibly accurate.” Cantor shrugged. “He might be some kind of a seer. We’re not entirely certain.”

Cantor smiled suddenly and gave his cousin another hug, “Well, we are certain that Art is a good egg!”

“G-good egg! G-good egg!” Art was delighted and patted Cantor on the back. Then Art handed Cantor the doll he had been carrying. “Yoo go now. Wazh hoovez. Dinneh time! Gotta wazh up.” Art grinned broader, “G-good egg. Yoo good egg too. Yoo h-hatch p-plans!”

Cantor let out a surprised laugh at Art’s joke.

But Art suddenly stopped smiling. “Y-yoo talk to papa? Papa tell m-me? Tell m-me?”

There was a flicker of old pain that crossed Cantor’s face. “Only what papa said the last time. He loves you Arty. You’re a good boy. You need to take care of mama now that he’s gone.”

Well, Jon thought, that was one more question answered.

Art frowned and poked at Cantor, “’n … ‘n … cuzinz too! I’m Tha Clearwatah now. C-clearwatahs have duty.” His tone, with that last pronouncement, was solemn. Firm. Stubborn.

He continued in much the same tone, “Now g-go! Wazh hoovez. It dinneh time.”

“Not another word, Cantor! Not one more word! You and your friends will stay with us here and that is final. I shall be quite cross with you should you seek out anywhere else in our fair city for your stay.” Dame Providence was a grand, matronly unicorn of advancing years. She was rounder even than Cantor, and dressed both elegantly and conservatively. Her gown would have been the height of fashion two decades ago. It suited her well. She also wore a pair of glasses clipped to her muzzle – a pince-nez. Dame Providence somehow managed to be both pompous and welcoming, genteel and gossipy, and … more than anything … prim and proper. But with an underlying feeling of unyielding strength that Jon Quill usually associated with galleons or other warships of the line.

Cantor gave up the fight with a grin and a shake of his head, “If you insist, Aunt P.”

“You’re too kind, Dame Providence.” Valentina chimed in.

“Not at all, young filly! Not at all! We look out for family here. And my dear, departed brother’s children will always be welcome under my roof. We will see to it that you are properly cared for and that you arrive at the Gala in style.”

“Thank you, Dame Providence,” Jon added.

“Of course, good sir.” Dame Providence’s gaze narrowed a bit as she considered Jon Quill. “You said you write for the … what was it? The Yellow Star?”

“Yes. I look forward to writing about the events of the upcoming Gala!” Jon chimed in.

“Yes, yes. I don’t recall hearing the Star mentioned …” Dame Providence’s tone indicated she was graciously offering advice. Good advice. Unsolicited advice. “So, young fellow, perhaps you should submit the piece to the society pages of the Herald or the Gazette instead? I could have a word with some of the board members I know. There’s a ladies luncheon I shall be hosting the Wednesday after the Gala. If you’ve something prepared by then, I would be willing to pass it along. If you are to do such writing work, sir, then it is important to publish in a paper with the proper reputation.”

Jon Quill tried very hard not to burst into laughter at the thought of the sort of reputation the Yellow Star had. Dame Providence was clearly the kind of pony who, if she knew of it at all, wouldn’t have even used that sensationalist rag as fuel to start a fire!

Indeed, when Dame Providence continued, her observations only reinforced Jon’s assessment. “And the Yellow Star has no reputation that I have ever heard of.” Further, Dame Providence’s underlying message was loud and clear: if she hadn’t heard of it, then it wasn’t worth hearing about.

Cantor looked a trifle embarrassed, or perhaps exasperated, by his Aunt. Cousin Arty was busy eating a caramel apple which Cantor had smuggled into the dining room for him. Valentina was using all of her dealing-with-high-society training to act the part of a fine young lady … and Providence seemed convinced that Valentina herself was from “good stock.”

As for Jon, he looked past the overbearing attitude and condescending tone to note the substance of Dame Providence’s conversation: she thought well enough of Jon Quill, based solely on their initial meeting and his friendship with Cantor, to offer him favors – to get him an introduction and put in a good word on his behalf with the type of news outlets that were vastly more credible and respectable than the sort of tabloid trash Jon actually wrote for.

Her heart, clearly, was in the right place. Thus Jon found himself more amused than annoyed. He even felt rather grateful to her. Especially since she was obviously the sort of pony to have a measure of pull in the circles of high society. Her good word could doubtless open quite a few doors. And while tempting, that, Jon felt, would be a true imposition on friends and their family.

So Jon replied, “Oh, Dame Providence, that won’t be necessary! We’re already imposing on you so much by dropping in unannounced and staying through the Gala.”

“Stuff and nonsense. If anypony is to host dear Cantor and help him and his friends make an entrance into society, it shall be I. For Cantor, a proper entrance into society is long overdue.”

Cantor managed not to roll his eyes. Once again he said, “Thank you Aunt P.”

Providence’s eyes narrowed again. After a slight hesitation, she changed the subject. “Cantor, are there any … other arrangements … that we will need to make for your … traveling companions? Artorious mentioned that six were coming to dinner and I only see three here.”

Cantor shook his head, “No, Aunt P. The others shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

“Others?” Providence raised an eyebrow.

Cantor sighed. “As Arty guessed, I’ve three of my … other friends … accompanying us.”

She blinked in surprise, “Three? Not one? That’s unusual, yes?”

Cantor nodded, “They are quite unusual haunts. It’s all very complicated, but I’m trying to help them. And they’re being a great help to me.”

She snorted and adjusted her pince-nez. “If they are well behaved ghosts then they are welcome in my home.” Her tone altered; Providence spoke as if making a mystical pronouncement, “Let all such spirits as Cantor would call friend enjoy the freedom of both house and grounds. May they come and go as they wish, finding safety and sanctuary in this place, for so long as they harbor no ill intent for those who live here.”

Jon Quill felt a brief tingle. A chill that made the back of his mane stand up. It occurred to him that the old districts of Canterlot were … well … old. This house, and its gardens, had been the property of unicorns for who knew how many centuries. Further many of those unicorns had been guards. Some had been royal guards, others had been officers in the military. It was entirely possible that there were warding spells and arcane protections known to those of a war-like disposition, old and ancient magics, that could secure a house like this from unwanted visitors … even, or perhaps especially, unwanted visitors of a supernatural nature. If the matron of the house were not to offer a welcome to the ghosts then, Jon suddenly suspected, the spooks might have a hard time of it here. Should Dame Providence retract her welcome and demand a haunt leave, well, they might suddenly find themselves banished to the street outside!

Canterlot was a city layered with enchantments on enchantments after all. Who knew how many old spells from centuries past might still ward against things like the Trotting Dead?

“Thank you,” Cantor said. He cocked his head to one side, listening. He pursed his lips and paused for a moment before adding. “Admiral Fairweather wishes me to convey his deep appreciation for your warm welcome. He says your house is a delight and that he is sorry he cannot convey his gratitude to you in person.”

Dame Providence’s eyebrows both shot up. “Admiral Fairweather? The Admiral Fairweather? Cantor, boy, you should have warned me! We’d have made proper arrangements. The house is hardly in a fit state to entertain such an honored guest.” She frowned, suddenly puzzled. “What sort of arrangements does one make for the visit of a ghostly Admiral? Should we prepare a room? A ... crypt? Is there to be a séance?”

Art chimed in, “H-he can h-have gran-pa-pa’s gwave!” His hooves and muzzle were quite sticky from the caramel. He also kept sneaking roasted Brussels sprouts from his plate onto Cantor’s own.

“Hush, dear,” Providence scolded. “Your grand-papa was only a commodore. His crypt simply wouldn’t do for an Admiral! Besides, your grand-papa is occupying it already. It would be most improper to share.”

Cantor glanced at Valentina and Jon, as if in apology for his family’s oddities. Oddities which might include Cantor himself. After a slight pause, he spoke up saying, “That won’t be necessary, Aunt P. If you wish to be extra hospitable, then I could select several volumes from the library and, should some pony on the staff be a loose ends, perhaps they could turn the pages once every few minutes?”

“Of course, Cantor dear. It will be done.” Dame Providence seemed happy at the thought that an Admiral would be enjoying her library.

“I am pleased to see that you are so accepting of Cantor’s gifts,” Valentina added. She smiled, a touch impishly or so Jon thought. Then again, Valentina had drunk several glasses of champagne with her dinner and that made her chatty. In addition, Jon had pegged Valentina for the sort of mare who got tired of being well behaved all the time. It was one of the many things he liked about her!

“But of course, dear!” Providence answered. “What else would they be but rare mystical gifts?” Her tone hardened, “We don’t have ‘mad ponies’ on our side of the family. It simply isn’t done. Only that mare,” and there was more than a hint of anger there, “and her ilk would be so uncouth as to suggest any other explanation.”

Providence leaned over to pat Cantor sympathetically on the shoulder. “Honestly, dear boy, I don’t know what my brother was thinking marrying her. If he wanted to spite our father there were far better ways! But I do know that I’m glad to have such a fine nephew as you as a result of his unfortunate infatuations.”

Cantor pointedly raised an eyebrow. Providence flushed, then continued, a touch hastily, “Your sister Rosa is always welcome here too, of course. She is a fine girl. That should go without saying.” She sounded a tad flustered. Then she frowned, “When you see your sister next, tell her that she simply must come and visit more often. Ponyville is not that far away. And Arty does so love it when we have family in.”

Cantor nodded, “I’ll pass the message along, Aunt P.”

“In the meantime, we shall have to see to it that you are properly prepared for the Gala. Have you picked out your attire yet?” Providence seemed quite pleased at the thought of getting her nephew Cantor properly spiffied up for a party.

Valentina chimed in, “I spoke with somepony in Ponyville – there’s a boutique not too far from here, ‘Canterlot Carousel’ I believe it’s called. I was hoping to get in a fitting for a dress there, and – while most of their fashion is for mares rather than stallions, I do hear that the couturier there will occasionally do haute couture for colts as well.”

“Quite right, young filly! The Carousel is one of the premiere fashion boutiques in Canterlot. Even if it hasn’t had the chance to age into proper respectability, the styles that have come from there are all the rage among a certain set of pony.” Providence’s tone indicated she generally approved, in her matronly way, of the particular set of ponies who would wear such modern fashions.

Jon Quill felt Providence’s attention settle on him. She was frowning. “Hmm. We’ll have to find something that will go with black for you. And you won’t be able to wear that ridiculous hat.”

Jon Quill blinked. “Uhm, what?”

Providence tsked. “I only wear black to formal events. You will naturally be attending the Gala with me. Cantor said he only has two tickets. Obviously he and Valentina will be going as a couple.”

Jon felt a bit indignant. Obviously? That shouldn’t be obvious at all! What if Cantor wanted to go with Jon to the ball?

Valentina looked rather amused. Cantor blinked in surprise. Then he flushed. Valentina raised an eyebrow at him, but Cantor was busy glaring at an empty spot elsewhere in the room.

Jon Quill was certain he saw Cantor quietly mouth “Shut up.” Probably to Magpie.

“Dame Providence,” Jon said, “I was planning on relying on my press credentials to gain access to …”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Providence interrupted. “You think they allow press at the Gala? Ridiculous! Unheard of! If you are to attend, it will only be as a guest. I have two tickets. Our family has always been invited to the Gala. Ever since my great-great-grandmother …”

Cantor cleared his throat.

Dame Providence took the hint, “Which is to say, while I but rarely attend since my late husband’s passing, I am still the recipient of two tickets as a matter of course.” She frowned, and there was a stormy insistence that seemed to gather in her tone as she continued, “There will be no funny business about getting into the palace, young colt. You will be going as my ‘plus one’ and that is final. Once there you will behave yourself.”

Jon Quill nodded. “Yes ma’am! I promise.”

Now this was a promise he could keep. After all, as he had once heard, very technically all activities a pony might undertake are some form of ‘behavior’ – so no matter what he did, he’d be ‘behaving himself.’

Even if that ultimately meant behaving himself badly!