Sandpiper Waltz

by Rocket Lawn Chair

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia, Rarity
Length: 8767

Midst the hustle and bustle of the Hearth's Warming season, Rarity encounters an old friend from Ponyville, and learns something mysterious about her past.

Rarity has been dragged away to Canterlot Carousel during the Hearth's Warming rush. Though her heart remains at home with her friends, business is business. She knows her friends understand.

Two things she didn't expect to find on her trip: Octavia, the cellist from Ponyville, and a ghost. In helping these two, she learns that Hearth's Warming has a strange and magical way of bringing ponies together.

Credit for beautiful cover art goes to PaintedHoofprints

UPDATE: Small edits, thanks to helpful feedback from 7th Outpost and Bad Dragon

Published 2017-06-02 04:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-06-02 19:10:12 UTC

Chapter 1: Scherzo

*****

Lilies sat in an elegant crystal vase on her table, teasing a warm ambrosia through the air. Shadows of snowflakes fell through the frosted windows beneath the glare of street lamps. Her table sat right beside the window, three tables between her and the stage at the back of the Creme De Lys.

It wasn’t the highest society restaurant in Canterlot, to be sure; it barely even attracted the attention of Sourpuss Buds and his rather widespread tastes, at least as far as the food critic community was concerned. The atmosphere and food combined were enough to be a distraction from the norm of Canterlot eateries, a form of cuisine escapism in much the same way riding a bike is an escape from taking a carriage. That’s one of the reasons Rarity preferred the Lys over other restaurants.

A glass of wine hung in the air beside her head—a seamstress’ familiar for desperate times. She took a silent sip and sunk her chin into her hoof, a sort of wistfulness hanging on her face. She wished her friends could be with her that night, one night before Hearth’s Warming Eve.

“I could sincerely use their help right now,” she thought, swirling her wine idly. She smirked, then let out a slight hiccup. “Trouble is, I know that’s exactly what they’d want to do. Still, ten unique outfit orders? All by next Wednesday night? Oh Rarity, please tell me you’ve bitten off more than this before.”

She reached for her pen and cast some diagrams on a piece of paper sitting on the table in front of her. There were plenty of scribbles on it at this point—how long to make the trim, should the collar be Victorian...no, avant-garde felt better, but she still couldn’t decide on the shade of chartreuse she preferred a particular gown to have (it was for a Spring wedding, but she wasn’t in a Spring-inspired mood yet. Incessant Hearth’s Warming carols may have had something to do with that).

She didn’t know what possessed ponies to think that ordering new outfits one week before Hearth’s Warming Eve was okay—especially from a boutique as new as hers! Rarity’s Canterlot Carousel manager, Sassy Saddles, had been completely caught by storm, forcing Rarity to travel out and assist her. Thankfully, it meant business was good. But missing a holiday with her friends was something she hated to do. Of course she’d gotten them all gifts, but it wouldn’t be the same if she couldn’t be there with them, enjoying a warm mug of Applejack’s spiced apple cider and getting tickled pink by one of Pinkie’s outrageous Hearth’s Warming stories.

“Celestia help me, this better not become a habit,” she thought, taking a quick swig from her glass. She emptied it in another gulp, then filled it up from the friendly-looking bottle beside her hoof.

“Enjoying the music?”

There was an older mare sitting across the table whom Rarity. She whipped her head around briefly as if expecting to discover a vanishing cabinet or a puff of smoke she'd mysteriously appeared from.

“Oh! I… ” Rarity reached for the correct reply midst her surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there before! I must be going in over my head with business.”

The mare was a kindly, grandmotherly figure. She had deep grey eyes and a smile framed by a comforting set of faint wrinkles. Rarity thought it odd that she wore her chestnut muffler and steel blue woolen snow cap indoors. The colors didn’t match very well either.

“Sit and listen for a moment, dear. Take your mind away from life’s troubles. You don’t hear music this lovely every day!”

Rarity smiled back. She set her pen down and listened to the music. It was indeed, as the mare had said, lovely.

Another reason she preferred the Lys was for their superb musical quartet. She made it a point to reserve the table located directly in front and right off-center from the stage, which was the best seat in the house to hear Dulcet Duet and her string quartet play. Every time around the holiday season their music became extra festive, a real treat that one would be sorry to miss—like hot apple cider or silly Hearth’s Warming fables. It was only a fleeting consolation, thought Rarity glumly, but certainly not the worst consolation. She’d been too busy to make a table reservation tonight.

On this occasion, the quartet was not playing. A single grey mare sat behind a large oak-hearted cello onstage. Her obsidian mane caught a sheen under the stage lighting, and the pink of her bowtie matched the rosiness of her cheeks. It took Rarity a moment to realize who the pony was.

“I know her!” she whispered excitedly. “Octavia, a friend of mine from Ponyville! Such a gorgeous young thing, and her musicianship is absolutely divine!”

The old mare nodded and smiled. She seemed not to take notice of Rarity, and her nodding was more or less conducted entirely by the tempo of the music. Her eyelids drooped in half-lidded bliss.

The song Octavia played was not one Rarity recognized. It had a brisk one-two-three rhythm, arpeggios traipsing in and out of soulful cantabiles that washed like broad waves upon sand. The sound was—oh, how to put it?—seductive; she imagined she could very well hide an ulterior motive inside such a tune. She felt her hoof tip-tapping to the upbeats and quite unexpectedly began nodding along with the old mare. A few minutes into the tune, Rarity woke from her trance to the mare’s voice.

“Ah, did you hear that?”

“Hmm?”

“She’s rushing the adagio.” She chuckled. “I never could quite get that part right, either.”

“Hmm,” hummed Rarity again. She was a seamstress, not a musician. “Do you play?”

“I did. A long time ago.”

For the next few minutes Rarity lost herself inside the enchanting tapestries of sound that came from Octavia’s cello. She watched, mesmerized as the musician carved her bow across the strings, weaving art out of thin air before her eyes. When the tune was finished, she had a satisfied smile on her face. She felt light-headed, like waking from a pleasant dream, though the wine was probably at least partly to blame. She was curious to know what the waltz was called. It certainly didn’t sound like a Hearth’s Warming song.

She turned back to the mare, and halted. The mare was gone. Left, probably, while Rarity was still in lost the music. She shrugged.

Octavia stepped to the front of the stage and bowed to the patrons of the Lys, leaning her cello against her outstretched hoof. Rarity stood up and applauded loudly, then looked around the Lys in shock. Where was the applause? A few other patrons clopped delicately, but not too much. Some smiled for what seemed like a carefully calculated duration before returning to their meals or discussions about Canterlot high society. The atmosphere felt uncomfortably sedated, and Octavia seemed to feel this, thus returning to her seat without a word.

Rarity stared in disbelief at this crowd of ungrateful ponies. The music was fabulous! It deserved a standing ovation! As she watched the fleeting grins on the ponies’ faces, she remembered a haunting observation Pinkie Pie had once made regarding the restaurants in Canterlot: “Smiles look way too expensive in these places.” Sadly, Rarity sunk back into her chair. What a shame to reduce smiles to such a commodity, she thought.

Octavia stepped off to the side of the stage. She put away her cello in a large beat-up black case. It rolled along on wheels, one of which wobbled a lot. Rarity thought she deserved to get herself a new one. It made her look like a vagabond.

“Hi! Octavia!” She stood up and waved as Octavia came down the stage stairs. “Over here!” She kind of had to yell it to be heard above the general restaurant murmur, and several of the patrons glared at her, disgusted that somepony would raise their voice in such a civilized place.

Her voice caught Octavia’s attention, which was all it needed to do. Octavia scanned the restaurant for a second. She spied Rarity waving and came to join her a moment later.

A short, stuff-coated waiter swooped over in Octavia’s wake.

“Excuse me,” he said, masking his annoyance with a steady voice. He tapped Octavia’s shoulder. “Do you know this disruptive mare, Miss Octavia?”

Octavia nodded, directing her own suppressed annoyance back at him.

“Yes, Pierre. This is a friend from my hometown. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

The waiter huffed. The over-curled tips of his moustache bristled.

“Never seen her before in my life.”

“Does the name ‘Rarity’ ring any bells for you?”

The waiter went silent as recognition of the famous fashionista sunk in.

“Sorry to disturb you, madame,” he replied a moment later. “We do have a policy and a reputation to uphold, so I humbly request that you please keep your voice down so as not to upset our other patrons.” Then he left, his napkin fluttering like a banner from his forehoof.

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Goodness.”

Rarity pushed out a chair. “Have a seat, dear!”

Octavia graciously accepted. She leaned her grubby case against the table, then sunk down into the chair, sighing profoundly. She made a kind of exuberant shrug which was aimed more or less at the entire restaurant, but otherwise said nothing. At this point she was more content to aim general feelings at her immediate surroundings, which is generally what happens when you’ve gone through half a bottle of Chateau D’Rose.

“Polished off a bottle backstage,” she said, grinning slyly and leaning in to Rarity like she was sharing a cheeky secret. “I’m not supposed to be drinking while I’m working, but I find it puts me in the best mood to perform that song. A little ‘inspirational fluid’, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” said Rarity, looking wistfully to her own unfinished bottle of wine, then back down to her paper, all splattered with incoherent notes. “Would you like me to top you off?”

She pulled an empty glass from across the table—the spot where the old mare had been sitting, obviously not drinking.

Octavia nodded. Rarity topped it off—about half full.

Another nod from Octavia.

Rarity raised her eyebrow. She emptied the bottle.

“Enough?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

She sipped from the glass. Just testing the flavor. Then, when she was sure she was ready, plunged in with a two hearty gulps.

Rarity smiled in a kindly manner. She thought about telling Octavia to pace herself, but somehow didn’t think antagonizing her was going to help. “It’s so good to see you here!” she said cheerfully. “Though to be honest, I’m a little surprised. Don’t you want to spend Hearth’s Warming back home? In Ponyville?”

Octavia pondered in silence for a span of seconds, her eyebrows raised like she was surprised with the question.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Hearth’s Warming Eve! Spend Hearth’s Warming Eve back in Ponyville? Ah, no. I’ve got no family in Ponyville.”

“Well then you must have family here in Canterlot,” said Rarity.

Octavia shook her head. “Mmm, sadly no, not anymore. True, I’ve got brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins, but they’re scattered all over Equestria, from Trottingham all the way— *hic*, excuse me—to Whinnypeg. We used to gather here in Canterlot every holiday, where my mother and father retired together.”

“I had no idea that your parents lived in Canterlot! Goodness, we’ve a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?”

Octavia glanced idly around the Lys. The blush on her cheeks blazed through her grey fur. “I suppose we do. Did we ever have a reason to catch up in the first place? I don’t recall us ever getting together for more than a little warm rosehip tea every now and again, and I’d talk about my music and you’d talk about your….your—” She trailed off fuzzily. Rarity filled her in.

“Dresses?”

“Yes! Excuse me, yes. Word’s gotten around that you’re quite the fashion-forward mare. I heard you even set up a shop down in Manehatten, is that true?”

Rarity tossed her hoof casually. “Well, you know what they say: to have a name in fashion, you’ve got to have a name everywhere. Canterlot Carousel was more than the shop of my dreams; it told me my business could survive outside Ponyville.”

“Business going well, then?”

“Indeed. One might say a little too well.” She gestured to her notes on the table. “Holiday rush has got me in hot water until after next week, so I’m taking a little respite to collect my wits.”

Octavia appraised the notes, nodding with a smirk on her face. “Interesting notion you have of what constitutes a break.”

Rarity shrugged in reply. “It’s a working break.” She shoved the notes aside. “Enough about that. We haven’t spoken in ages, and I would love to hear how your music career is going! Did you make it into the Canterlot Philharmonic? I seem to recall you mentioning such an aspiration when last we spoke.”

Octavia leaned back in her chair, tilted the now-empty wine bottle between the table and her hoof, and sighed, saying nothing. Rarity immediately picked up on Octavia’s negative vibe.

“Oh dear, it seems I've struck a nerve. What happened, darling?”

Octavia snorted. “Ever been around fashion designers who were insufferable prima-donnas?”

“Huh! Are you kidding? You might say we invented the term.”

“Well, imagine the most entitled, stuck-up, just plain rude fashionista you could imagine. Multiply that insufferable attitude by ten, change fashion to music, and you’ve got Fermata Grandeur: the philharmonic’s conductor. Between you and me, she flaps the baton like a feather duster when she’s conducting, and sticks it up between her tailcoats everywhere else.”

Rarity chuffed through her snout, drawing several disdainful glares from surrounding tables.

“It sounds dreadful, but a small price to follow your passion. When Fermata heard you play, I’m sure that put her in her place.”

Octavia shook her head. “Wish it were so. She regards herself so highly, she hardly notices anypony she doesn’t see on her level.”

Rarity sighed sympathetically. She had no experience with musical prima-donnas, but if they were anything like the ones in fashion, she felt deeply for Octavia.

“That doesn’t matter, dear. With your talent, you could find your way into any symphony without so much as a whinny. Don’t let one sour apple spoil the bunch. That’s what my friend, Applejack, would probably say in this situation.” She thought it adorable how Applejack could turn an apple-flavored idiom at the drop of a hat (though she’d never admitted that to her).

“Other symphonies haven’t fit me, either,” said Octavia, slumping her chin into her hoof. “It’s gotten incredibly tedious at this point.”

“So you’re jobless right now.”

“No!” Octavia answered quickly, then withdrew her reply, rubbing the back of her neck. “Erm, not exactly. There are some seasonal jobs. Weddings, galas, things like that. Nothing consistent. Tonight I played for…” she chewed her lip, “...more personal reasons. I’d call it a tradition.”

Rarity frowned. It occurred to her that Octavia was one of the few mares in Ponyville with whom she could discuss high society topics on a common level of understanding. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to guess Octavia might have been commissioned to perform at the very wedding for which Rarity was designing gowns next Spring. She regretted not taking the time to chat with Octavia more often when she was back home.

She suddenly remembered. “Now, I must commend you for that lovely tune you played earlier. I’d like to know what it’s called.”

“It’s called Sandpiper Waltz. My mother, Melody, wrote it.”

Rarity sat in shock for a moment. “Really? Your own mother wrote that? How have I never heard it before?”

“She liked to keep her music quiet,” said Octavia. “Her Sandpiper Waltz, like most of her other compositions, is shy and skittish. It’s part of why I love her music so much.”

Rarity nodded. “Well, the title works. From the music, I can easily picture the all the little birds skittering along the beach. She’s a truly masterful composer!”

Octavia coughed. “Was. She died three years ago.” She deflated into a moody silence.

“Oh….I-I’m sorry to hear that, darling.”

Octavia shrugged.

“What about the rest of your family? Your father?” asked Rarity.

“They took it pretty hard, I guess. My father died years ago, years before my mother. They left me their old house on Stirrup Street. It’s only a few blocks away.”

“That’s terrible, dear. Are you doing alright?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. The house isn’t too drafty.” She chuckled, helping Rarity relax a little. “Though, it was very hard losing my mother, for sure. After all, she taught me to play the cello when I was just a little filly. Her technique was magical to me. Mystical. Like, when she played, it was more than just music, know what I mean? You didn’t just hear what she played; you could see it, too.”

She lifted the empty wine bottle and attempted to fill her glass. “Three years ago tonight. That’s when she died. Carriage accident. They didn’t get her to the hospital in time.”

Confounded by the lack of wine, she slammed the bottle on the table. Rarity’s eyelash twitched.

“She was here tonight, though,” said Octavia. “I saw her sitting at this table.”

More silence. It hung in the space within Rarity’s open mouth.

“Is...that right? Hmm...” Rarity hummed in a luke-warmly annoyed sort of tone that buzzed around, wondering what it should be annoyed with. She propped her chin on her hoof and looked at the crystal chandelier dangling above their heads, and decided she’d be annoyed with how gaudy it was.

“That old mare with the clashing hat and muffler—from a distance she must look like Octavia’s mother. Poor dear. Must have been quite the potent wine she enjoyed backstage.”

A heavy mood had settled over their table, something silently encouraged by the overall atmosphere of the Lys and the overshadowing reality of an empty wine bottle. To break it, Rarity shifted her thoughts and spoke them aloud.

“I haven’t seen much of my parents lately. Too busy. Between all my boutiques, it seems that I never have time for friends or family anymore.” She stared at the ceiling, compiling a mental list of her responsibilities. “Let’s see….fashion week in Manehatten—that’s a big one. Seasonal surges. Certainly the Gala. Costume designs for Bridleway shows. This is also the first year I’ve made costumes for the Dance of the Sugar Plum Breezies—”

Rarity stopped suddenly, for she remembered at that moment that, in addition to her seasonal orders to complete by the following week, she had the costume designs to finish for the ballet that very weekend.

As a more clear picture of her obligations formed in her head, she watched helplessly as her few remaining holiday plans began to unravel. Glumly she spun the empty wine bottle in the center of the table, but felt the novelty of that would be exhausted within a few spins. Instead, she tried to think about all the nice things she would have liked to do with her friends for the holidays if her work had not already decided for her.

She felt light-headed for a moment. The sparkling lights of the chandelier above her head blurred, and she heard Octavia’s voice—sounding much more distant than she remembered—asking why she suddenly looked like she was about to faint.

“Artist life eating you whole?” said Octavia. She smirked, though not maliciously.

“Eh?” Rarity shook herself. She mixed a nod with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“Another bottle of Chateau D’Rose,” said Octavia to the passing waiter. She turned back to Rarity, a sort of drooping smile on her face. “If you want my advice, doing what you love shouldn’t separate you from whom you love. So, did you get a chance to speak with her?”

“With who?”

“My mother.”

Again, Rarity thought Octavia may have put something into her system besides wine. Her eyes wandered to the front stage, brow steeped in skepticism. The group of ponies at the table in front of them had stood up to leave, but were still setting down napkins and politely arguing over who was going to cover the bill, with everypony simultaneously insisting that they should be the ones to pay for everypony else. Rarity found it annoying. She didn’t know why.

“You don’t believe me, do you.” Octavia had leaned closer to Rarity, her tone flat, eyes sharp and dark as polished amethyst. Her smile had vanished. “You don’t believe my mother was here.”

She dug into her saddlebag for a moment and fished out a silver locket, so tarnished it appeared to be burnt. She set it on the table for Rarity to see.

Inside was a picture that must have been several years old, edges white and chipped, the colors blurring into a uniform reddish-brown. Rarity’s blood tingled. Though the mare in the photograph looked younger, she still had a familiar grandmotherly smile framed by the barest hint of wrinkles.

“Is this your mother? Is this Melody?”

Octavia nodded. “That’s the pony you saw sitting here earlier, isn’t it.”

“Well, I can’t be certain, darling…” said Rarity. She lifted the locket between her hooves, squinting at the picture. “She looks awfully similar, but the picture is old, and I didn’t get the best look at her, either.”

She offered the locket back to Octavia. The cellist was frowning, looking somewhere down to her side. The departing party had now finally come to a consensus on who was to cover the bill, but were now entrenched in a calm debate over who was to front the tip. Nopony stepped forward this time.

Octavia stepped back from the table and breathed. Rarity knew it was her imagination, but she felt like every eye in the restaurant was watching their table, eager to see what breed of oddity would manifest itself.

“You know what made her such a great musician? She could create life with her music, like a beam of sunlight on a flowerbud. It was her belief that musicians never died, that their souls simply passed into their music. And by playing it just right, it would be like bringing a telescope into focus. As you listen, their soul becomes clearer to see, until it’s sitting there in front of you, plain as day.”

“She was an...interesting person,” remarked Rarity. Part of her mind had drifted off in the conversation, back to how she would manage her work the following day. “In a good way, I mean. Very unique ideas.”

Octavia chuckled, shaking her head. She took the locket and placed it back into her saddlebag. “It’s okay if you still don’t believe me. I don’t have any way to prove it, as I’ve never been able to actually speak to her while she’s here. She usually vanishes by the time I finish playing the waltz.”

“I spoke with her.”

That got Octavia’s attention. She peered at Rarity, her hoof pressed against her chin. Her expression bore a professional, scientific sort of excitement.

“Tell me what she said.”

Rarity inhaled through her teeth, wondering how safe it was to humor Octavia’s fantasy. “We didn’t talk much. She spoke a little of how nice the music was….”

“And?”

“She mentioned how she used to play and make the same mistakes as you.”

Octavia nodded eagerly, waiting for Rarity to add more details about their conversation, but there simply wasn’t anything left to add. In the back of her mind, Rarity mulled over any details she had passively absorbed, any physical similarities between the mare she’d spoken with and Octavia. Had her voice possessed the same elegant accent? Did she have the same eyes?

“That’s all there was,” concluded Rarity with a final shrug, determining that she could just as easily have imagined an accent. “After that, I got so entranced by your lovely music, I didn’t even notice her leave. She didn’t give me her name.”

It was not the answer Octavia was hoping to hear. She retreated back to her seat, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

Pierre appeared with a fresh bottle of Chateau D’Rose. He took the empty bottle with him when he left. Rarity wondered if an alcohol limit was imposed somewhere among the oh-so-revered policies of the Lys, or whether Octavia, being the guest musician for the evening, had some special privileges. At any rate, she’d already firmly settled in her mind that she wasn’t having any more wine tonight.

She rose from her seat. Octavia’s eyes followed her, but the musician remained plaintively silent.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” said Rarity. Her notes were sprawled on the table, branding a searing reminder of her responsibilities into her head. She swept them into her saddlebag, disgusted to look at them.

“So sorry to be leaving you like this, Octavia, but I have so much to do.” She reached into her saddlebag, dug out a few bits, and placed them on the table. “Here,” she said, “for the wine. A Happy Hearth’s Warming to you and yours.”

Octavia held up her hoof. “Wait…”

She looked around, blinking as though she suddenly realized where she was. Then a troubled crease settled on her brow. “I think I’m ready to leave, too,” she said after a brief pause. “Mind if I join you?”

Rarity smiled. “Not at all.” She recovered her bits.

They abandoned the unopened bottle on the table.

Chapter 2: Dolce

*****

Both Rarity and Octavia swept up their coats and bundled their scarves around their necks. They joined the crowd of ponies who had finally figured out how the tip was going to work out as they pressed their way out the front door. Thick, lazy snowflakes were falling outside, blanketing the bedded world with crystalline purity. The night air was frisky and brimming with light and soft crunching hoofsteps. Octavia struggled to get her lumbering cello case to travel properly through the snow. Rarity offered some magical assistance, and the pair walked side by side with the odious black thing levitating behind them.

“They make Hearth’s Warming carols especially for nights like these.” Rarity smiled to herself, drifting dreamlike down the lamplit street. She leaned closer to Octavia, letting the bristles of their mufflers touch. “Something right out of ‘Snowlight, Snowbright,” or ‘Hearth’s Warming on Memory Lane,’ or any of those other cheesy songs they overplay on the radio.”

Octavia chortled and nodded. “You don’t need to tell me about overplayed carols, in fact, I think I hear some right now.”

A group of carolers was singing on the street corner. They weren’t bad. They sounded like they had come directly off the radio.

“Yes,” Rarity asserted with a nod. “Overplayed indeed,” and she began humming along with them.

Canterlot Central Train Station gradually came into view at the end of Mane Street, materializing out of the swirling flakes and warm glowing fog. It was a pleasant little station with gas lamps lighting the red brick walls, lined here and there with tall arched windows. A lovely array of glistening icicles hung down from the roof, just to complete the genuine holiday feeling of the whole affair. Rarity’s breath hung comfortingly in front of her face. She smiled, considering how wonderful it had been to find a friend in the midst of all the Hearth’s Warming hustle and bustle. She wished now more than ever that Ponyville was nearer.

Rarity was staying in a little hotel at the corner of Mane Street called the Mane’s End Inn—right across from the train station. The glaring neon “No Vacancy” sign swam to greet them out of the fog. It wasn’t the nicest hotel in town. Practically every hotel was booked this time of year.

Before departing, Rarity leaned in to give Octavia a hug. The floating cello case lightly bumped the back of her head, reminding her that she was still holding it for Octavia. She then made some unnecessary apologies which ended in her offering to see Octavia back to her parent’s house. Octavia said the case was really not an issue, but she’d be glad of the company anyway.

The two continued down lamplit street blocks toward Stirrup Street, catching the occasional “Good evening” from passing ponies, and swarming the air with their cloudy breaths. They kept to the few paths which had been dug out of the snow by late-night shopkeepers who wanted to make their jobs easier the next morning. Muffled sounds crept out of the city: a dog’s bark, more carolers, unoiled wheels of carts. Their hooves crunched the snow.

“I need to be perfectly honest with you, Rarity.”

Rarity perked up at Octavia’s partially choked voice. “What is it?”

“Well...I-I don’t live in Ponyville anymore. With such small jobs I’ve been getting lately, I simply can’t afford to live there anymore. Right now my parent’s house is all I have.”

This revelation stung Rarity like an icicle to the chest. “You poor thing! If you were having financial troubles, you could have come to me, and we’d have you right as rain in no time at all.”

“Thank you, but I know you’d be too generous to turn me down, and I’m uncomfortable taking advantage of ponies like that.”

Rarity scoffed. “Oh, pssh! Perish the thought at once! Of all the ponies in Canterlot, it was fortunate you ran into me. I certainly understand how difficult the creative’s life can be. You have made it my personal mission to find you some steady work, even if I have to pull every string and cajole every virtuoso in Equestria!”

Rarity beamed. Octavia smiled back with an undertone of melancholy and hesitance. It suddenly occurred to Rarity that this is how she may look to her friends when she was in need of help. She too hated taking advantage of her friends, and she too refused their assistance for fear that she might cross the line.

She saw much of herself in this beautiful young cellist. For that reason, she knew Octavia needed help.

Stirrup Street was lined on either side by tight little houses. Each one was trapped within their own little iron fence, and a little snowdrift sat on every front stairway, ensuring the ponies who lived there would not leave their house the next morning without a shovel. Most of the houses either had a warm light coming from within or a lamp lit besides the door, or both. Octavia led them to the one house on the row without either.

She and Rarity made a parting hug on the stairs.

When she’d gotten the door halfway open, Rarity’s voice caught her ear from somewhere down in the street.

“What do you say to breakfast tomorrow, darling? My treat, of course.”

Octavia thought a moment, then nodded and said, “I certainly can’t pass up a free breakfast when it’s offered. There’s a diner a few blocks away I think you’d like: their oat pancakes and marmalade are to die for.”

“Good. How does nine o’clock sound?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll meet you in front of your hotel.”

“No, I’ll meet you here.”

Octavia sighed. “If you insist.”

“I always do,” said Rarity.

It was getting quite late by the time Rarity returned to the Mane’s End Inn. There were no more carolers to be heard and very few ponies haunting the streets. Mostly silence rolled up within fog-shrouded snowbanks. It had stopped snowing when she left Octavia at her parent’s house.

She went up to her room, undressed from all her snow things, and passed out on top of her sheets without even brushing her teeth. In the night she woke up to the sound of a train screeching into the station across the street. She was freezing—there was a small radiator heater against the wall she’d forgotten to turn on, so she got up to turn it on. She crawled back into bed, smothered herself in quilts, and fell asleep thinking about how she would balance her projects tomorrow. She didn’t hear the train leave.

It was just before eight A.M. when she awoke next. Snow was falling in slow, bottle cap-sized flakes outside her window.

The clock above the check-in desk down in the lobby said eight thirty when she got downstairs. She bundled her muffler tighter around her neck before plunging out into the frosty morning. It had gotten windier since she’d been up in her room. The snowflakes came whirling out of the sky in haphazard flurries and vortices. In her mind, plans for the rest of her day billowed like the snow.

Outside, she gave the frozen bellhop a brisk “Good day.”

The poor stallion’s knees knocked. His red cap bobbled on his head.

“Breakfast with Octavia. Eight minute trot from her house to the shop—five at a moderate gallop. Sassy won’t mind if I’m a tad late. Wedding gowns—no, the ballet is the top priority.”

“N-need me to f-fetch you a c-cab, miss?”

She heard him, but she was already half a block away with no sign of letting up. In retrospect, a cab was a good idea.

Upon arriving at Octavia’s street, her hooves had gone numb and her nose felt about to fall off her face. The snow had gotten deeper. Ponies were still struggling to carve convenient pathways into the sidewalk. Rarity tried to match up her hoofsteps with the prints of somepony who had trod there earlier—somepony with petite hooves and an impossibly massive stride. By the time she’d reached Octavia’s house, she didn’t know if her dead legs could manage a further trek to the diner, much less Canterlot Carousel.

There was music coming from the house. Despite her chattering teeth, Rarity paused to listen. It was the Sandpiper Waltz Octavia had played at the Creme de Lys last night.

It held her transfixed in the cold for several seconds, even to the point where she wasn’t surprised at all when the old mare appeared on the bench in front of the house. Rarity hadn’t noticed her until that point in the song.

She’d been sitting there the whole time. Of course she hadn’t appeared out of thin air.

Of course not.

“Hello again.”

She sounded wearier than last night. Not a frigid chill-bitten weariness, but a deep sadness, as though the music was breaking her down on an emotional level. She still wore the same hat and muffler. Same wrinkles.

She offered Rarity a seat beside her on the bench. Rarity obliged. It felt warmer sitting beside the mare.

“We weren’t properly introduced last night, I’m afraid I left in something of a hurry,” she said with a smile, and she held out her hoof. “I’m Melody. Your name, dear?”

“Uh, Rarity.”

Rarity held Melody’s hoof in her own for what felt like a lifetime. From the house, she heard the waltz fearlessly moving onward with a somehow more haunting tone than before. Snowflakes melted on her blank face, making her cheeks grow numb.

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you say your name was Melody?”

Melody smiled pleasantly. The hum she made implied she found Rarity’s name charming. She shifted in her seat to better address Rarity. The snowflakes clinging to her hat looked like powdered sugar over a steel blue dumpling.

She glanced back to the house.

“One of my favorite pieces, but I think I’ve heard it enough. You tend to get tired of a song after awhile, you know?”

She paused to let a muffled string cadenza play out in the background. Her eyelids drooped.

“She needs you, dear. You know I can’t stay here much longer. I shouldn’t even be here right now, you see. It’s not wholly natural, if you understand my meaning. But more than that,” another glance back to the house, “I don’t think she wants me to leave, even though it’s been three years already. Another reason why I must go.”

“I...I don’t think I understand…well, anything really,” answered Rarity. Her voice quivered. She laughed uncomfortably, her hooves wrapped around her chest. “It’s awfully chilly. How long have you been sitting here?”

“Too long.” Melody stood up from the bench. When she sighed, no cloud appeared in front of her face.

Rarity stared at her hooves, growing cold and unsettled by all the mysteries in life. Dresses, pageants, deadlines—all the trivial things she had known seemed so distant at that singular moment. She didn’t want to ask the most pressing questions in her mind, or that would solidify the uncertainty.

Melody pointed toward the house. When she spoke, it was like other sounds became less important, less present. Her voice was the most real thing Rarity could remember hearing, even above the waltz in the background. Above the swish of wind.

“Listen… she’s doing it again. Rushing the adagio, a bad habit she probably picked up from me. She needs to work at it a little more. Could you tell her that for me?”

By the time Rarity looked up, the old mare was already gone. The music, too, had gone, leaving her alone on the bench, the icy air slowly draining her of feeling.

She got up. Made her way up the stairs slowly. Each hoofstep echoed through her bones.

Before she reached the front door, Octavia was there to open it. She quickly ushered her inside, closing the door in her wake so as not to let the cold in.

A tea kettle was whistling somewhere from within the house. Octavia dashed to retrieve it once Rarity was inside. Rarity shook her hooves on the front mat, but said nothing. Words were chalky and bitter right now.

Octavia’s parents had left her a homely old-ponies’ house. There were framed pictures on the wall and above the fireplace, which was currently stoked with crackling flames and belching warmth into the room. The lacquered wooden floor seemed to be cedar or some other bright wood, with a single round throw rug in the center beneath the coffee table. There were faded semaphore flags and model ships and a brass telescope on the bookshelf—all collecting an impressive layer of dust. A globe of the world sat forlorn in the corner, gradually shifting from blue to white beneath the patina of years.

For a little while Rarity sat in a plush blue couch and quietly absorbed the contents of the old house. She caught a whiff of pitch and dusty fabric and other smells that seem staple among old houses. Her own grandparent’s place smelled a lot like this. It was pleasant.

“My father liked ocean adventures,” explained Octavia, returning from the kitchen with a tray of scones and a piping teapot. “Not that he ever went on any to speak of. He worked most of his life as a carpenter, but always maintained a romanticized image of high-flying adventures at sea. Jules Spur was his favorite science fiction author, as one might expect.”

She set the tray on the coffee table before Rarity.

“Careful with the tea,” she said. “It didn’t have long to sit after you arrived, even started singing before I finished the waltz. I made the executive decision to have breakfast here in lieu of the current weather situation. Hope you don’t mind.”

Rarity didn’t mind. She didn’t say so.

She poured herself a cup of tea from the steaming pot.

There was a deep ocean-green armchair between the bookshelf and the fireplace. Octavia sat on the edge of it. She tapped her hooves irritably against the floorboards.

Rarity sighed heavily, hoping to dispel her odd mood by emptying her lungs. The teacup grew hot in her hooves. She set it down on the table.

“So… your mother… ”

Octavia jolted with a nod. A grin flashed on her face. Rarity knew there was no getting around this conversation.

“I’ve never gotten her to come twice in a row before! In the past, it’s only happened every year on the same night. I’d thought it was some magic of that particular night that brought her back. I thought maybe, since I’m her daughter, her magic was only partially effective for me, or maybe I had just been playing her song incorrectly… ”

“You’ll have to be more plain with me, darling. What I saw outside… ” Rarity drew a long breath, “...I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

Octavia rose from her seat. She crossed the room and embraced Rarity’s shoulders between her hooves.

“It’s the music, Rarity! My mother’s soul lives on in her music! Don’t you see it now? You actually met her twice, for pony’s sake! I can bring my mother back by playing her song just as she did! It took a few years of practice, but I think now I’ve really got—”

She faltered. The excitement on her face fell.

“Rarity, why are you looking at me like that? How can you still think I’m insane after what you just witnessed?”

“Yes, I know that was Melody I spoke with.” Rarity held her hoof against her forehead. “She was really here.”

“Then explain to me why you look so upset.”

She retreated backwards to her seat. Rarity looked up and smiled. There was no way she’d be only a tad late for Sassy anymore.

“When did you stop playing for large audiences?” she said in a very light tone. “I remember listening to you play in Ponyville community concerts, then your name was getting recognized in music magazines, and even the big symphony orchestras were talking about you.”

Rarity took a pause and Octavia blushed. She picked up her lukewarm teacup. Took a sip. The fire blazed and crackled in the empty space between her words.

“You are such a talented young mare, Octavia. Listening to you play always brightens my day, as I know it does for anypony who hears you. That’s your gift. You spread joy with music.

“From what I know of your mother, she was also as gorgeous and talented as you, and she loved you very much. She had her own, quietly beautiful ideas about the sanctity of her music, which is why you cherish it so. But she saw in you a different passion—that desire to spread the joy of music to the whole world.”

She leaned toward Octavia, her expression written in sorrowful lines.

“That all has changed ever since she died, hasn’t it? Your passion seemed to die with her. She doesn’t want you to be like this.”

Octavia breathed shakily.

“Like… what?”

“Stagnant. Grieving. Cloistered in sorrow, unable to let your inner light shine.”

“But… do you know how it feels? To have your lifelong friend, your mentor—your mother taken from you? It feels like a piece of your soul has been ripped out. One day she’s there, and the next…

“... she’s just gone. I should never have let my music carry me so far away. If I had been here with her, things might have been different.”

Octavia was on the brink of tears at this point. Rarity, too, found it difficult to keep herself composed. Slowly, Rarity stood up and went across the room. She gently laid a hoof on Octavia’s shoulder. The room was perfectly warm, in spite of the numbness that had once again set into her limbs.

“If it meant saving her,” sniffed Octavia. “I wouldn’t have played for anypony else.”

Rarity shook her head. “No, that’s not what she would want.”

Octavia buried her face in her hooves. Rarity knelt beside her.

“Doing what you love shouldn’t take you away from whom you love, just as you said last night. Your music didn’t take you away from your mother. In a physical sense, maybe, but she wanted to see you grow. She was proud of you. By doing what brought you joy—sharing your music with ponies—you made her happy. She never wanted to see you retreat into solitude, not when you had come so far.”

She hesitated, waiting for Octavia to say something. The cellist made no noise. Her body rose and fell with each steady breath.

“Octavia?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure. I need a moment.”

“Take all the time you need, dear.”

Her cello lay on the floor beside the chair. She picked it up. It was very old, scratched and worn just like its case. The was the first time Rarity had gotten to see Octavia’s instrument up close.

“This was hers,” said Octavia, staring vacantly at the floor. “My mother’s cello. I sold mine right after she died.”

She rose from her chair. The bowstring lay on the floor. She picked it up as well.

The first notes she played began with a bright elemental saunter, a progression that could easily get lodged in one’s head if repeated over multiple verses. Rarity soon realized the song was a popular Hearth’s Warming carol. She didn’t sing while Octavia played, but she knew the words well.

On this wint-ery night, so cold,

May our songs melt hearts of ice

Dawn, bring tidings of laughter and joy,

Greet us tomorrow with bright rays of gold!

It was one of many carols Rarity sang with her friends at their Hearth’s Warming party each year, gathered around the tree, opening gifts. Their first party together, Rainbow Dash had gotten her a new hat. It was a Wonderbolts sports cap with a bright, winged lightning bolt on the front. Though it clashed with everything in Rarity’s wardrobe, it melted her heart to see that Rainbow had at least tried. She had sent Rainbow’s gift by mail last week, which meant she wouldn’t get to see the look on her face when she opened it. Rarity didn’t know if she’d be okay with that.

But, no matter. Her friends would have a splendid day nonetheless. They would probably sing this carol tomorrow. Without her.

Octavia took a deep breath after finishing the first few verses. “Mother loved to hear this song even after the holidays were over. She thought carols could bring joy all the time.”

She set her mother’s cello aside.

Rarity wiped tears from her eyes. “What’s to stop them from doing that?”

“Boring and repetitive verses, that’s what,” murmured Octavia.

Rarity laughed. “It’s true! They get so worn out during the holiday that they go out of style in a month. Honestly, I’d have thought she’d get sick of them.”

“Her music isn’t like this at all. It deserves to be heard, at least that’s what I thought,” said Octavia. “Do you think that’s why she came back? Was she upset with me?”

“What do you mean, darling?”

“Playing it for crowds—Sandpiper Waltz, I mean. Growing up, that song meant so much to me. I only wanted to share it.”

Rarity patted Octavia gently on the shoulder. “Your mother wants you to be happy. If it means sharing her most timid pieces with the world, she won’t mind at all. You’re honoring her memory by playing it for ponies, and you’ll be able to cherish that memory of her for your entire life. You have friends and family alive right now with whom you can share those memories. That’s something ghosts can’t help you do.”

She moved to the window and stared outside. The snow was starting to let up.

“Spending time with loved ones is what the holiday is all about. Enjoy them while you can...” She trailed off into silence. “It’s been so good reconnecting with you after all this time.”

Octavia rubbed her foreleg. “I’m glad we bumped into each other, too.”

Rarity turned to Octavia, an excited gleam in her eye.

“We should spend the holiday together tomorrow, here in your family’s home! I’m sure we could find some last-minute tree vendors in town, or at least one of those plastic trees they sell at the hardware store. We could trim it together and tell each other holiday stories, and I think I remember how to brew Applejack’s famous spiced cider—it would be so wonderful! Our very own Happy Hearth’s Warming!”

“I wouldn’t mind getting together for some cider,” Octavia chuckled, “when you have time, of course. Wouldn’t want to tear you away from your boutique.”

“By all means, tear away,” scoffed Rarity. “Sassy already knows I’ve pushed myself too far this season.”

“I couldn’t ask you to drop everything just for me. Wouldn’t Sassy be swamped?”

“I shouldn’t have trouble pulling a few favors,” said Rarity with a casual wave of her hoof. “So many young mares are looking for an ‘In’ in fashion right now, Hearth’s Warming being as busy as it is. A few of these temporary assistants would be more than grateful to have the work. Sassy will be fine. I’ll settle everything at the boutique, then we can enjoy ourselves. ”

Octavia blushed, then cast a crestfallen glance at the floor.

“Since we met up last night, you’ve been nothing but kind to me. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such generosity.”

Rarity grinned. “I’d say it was in the spirit of the holiday, but that would only be an excuse. Just believe me when I say you deserve it. Every bit of it.”

“You’d really go through all that trouble to spend Hearth’s Warming with me? What about your friends in Ponyville?”

At this, Rarity let her smile slip slightly. It was only a momentary lapse.

“There’s always next year. They’ll be fine without me. I don’t need to go anywhere when I have a friend right here.”

It was the right thing. She knew it was.

Octavia nodded silently. Her head moved slow, and her expression somber. She rose to retrieve the teatray—the scones were completely untouched. She frowned and made a cursory scan of the living room.

“Not enough room for a tree,” she grumbled.

Rarity snorted. “Nonsense! We can put it over there in the corner.”

Octavia sighed, bobbing her head as though checking the vertical space needed for a tree. Rarity noticed she was smirking for some reason.

“No, this won’t do at all. We’ll simply have to have our party elsewhere. Somewhere with much more space. I’ve heard rumors your friend has a castle back in Ponyville now. Is that true?”

“Uh...yes, she does, but—”

“That should be perfect. Plenty of room in a castle.” Octavia made a satisfied nod, then went to the closet to retrieve her coat and hat. She gestured to Rarity. “Let’s get your boutique manager squared away first. Ooh, and maybe some real breakfast. I think we can make the twelve o’clock express to Ponyville if we leave now.”

It took a moment for Rarity to register what Octavia was doing. A warmth spread inside her body when she understood. Thinking back on it later, Rarity would concede it was the second most wonderful gift she’d received that Hearth’s Warming; right behind watching all her friends open their gifts.

She grabbed her coat and headed for the door beside Octavia.

The snow had stopped altogether. No wind, either. It was utterly quiet outside, as though the city had just been born.

Octavia began descending the stairs. She waited. Rarity stood in the doorway a moment longer, breathing in the biting air. It felt like the first real breath she’d taken in weeks. She looked to Octavia, smiling.

“What do you call those moments in a song where there is no sound?”

Octavia had her head inclined, eyes closed, taking slow breaths through her nose.

“Rests. They’re called rests.”

“Ah, of course. Rests are beautiful, aren’t they? They remind me how important and wonderful the notes are. I suppose the music wouldn’t sound as good without them.”

“Hmm, I see now,” said Octavia, and she smiled. She was a musician, and that made sense.

The snow-laden streets were enchanting, all adorned in festive lights, bright bows, and garlands. The two ponies thought of the joy of spending time with friends, huddled around the warm fire, swapping stories and jokes. Though they didn’t say it out loud, they each thought of their own cheesy Hearth’s Warming carol to go along with it all.

They crunched their way into the street together, punching hoof-shaped holes into the silence all the way to the boutique.