The Milliner on March Street
Daylight eased past dust-covered blinds and drifted through a violet apartment. Its yellow rays danced across a worn carpet, kissing it, before leaping forward and shining over a fluffy bed, where a curled-up form slumbered. The light paused momentarily over the form, as if regarding it with a careful stare. Then it shifted its position to the left, and tiptoed across its topmost half. Soon it was all over the mound’s face, and the milliner on March Street awoke.
Eyes, usually blue, cracked open, bleary and bloodshot and filled with momentary confusion. They did not register that it was morning but that it was bright. Their owner grumbled something incomprehensible and attempted to roll over and re-submerge beneath the wave of blankets. But the daylight persisted. It pushed past the cloth and ground itself against the milliner’s face. The milliner squinted and grumbled some more, asking the light to leave.
It did not. The milliner sighed and begrudgingly rolled over onto her back.
Her eyes opened again, in slits. For a moment, she considered trying to remain in bed. It felt like a long moment. Too long to be comfortable. Her nerves fired blank jolts up and down her body, enough to make her hind legs twitch. With that piercing light, returning to sleep was impossible even if she covered her head. She sighed and began untangling herself out from under the mess of blankets.
Minutes later, she’d slipped out of her bed and into slippers and was downstairs brewing some coffee. She absentmindedly twirled a silver spoon in her magic while she waited. From the neighboring apartment, she heard somepony’s radio go off about some new front having opened up somewhere down south or whatever. It was always talking about the front nowadays it seemed. She hated that. She hated hearing about that accursed front. The window was partially open to wake her up, and from it came a familiar breeze. She breathed it in and out and continued waiting.
Mentally, she went over what her tasks for today would be. She would have to check inventory, make sure she had everything. She’d also have to clean up the shop, maybe get a new light bulb for some of the ceiling lights, but she doubted she’d get to that, mostly because she didn’t think it was necessary.
Her coffee machine let out a little ding. It was done. She took it and poured it gently in her cup. Then she added two sugars, cream, and stirred. She sat down at the table and took a sip. It was just bitter enough to light up her senses, albeit briefly, and her mouth quickly became accustomed to the taste.
She listened a little more to the neighbor’s radio. It had shifted from the news to a music station. They were playing an oldie, way before her time, by some mare with a giant cello. A Prose favorite, the radio said, whatever that meant. She took a sip of her coffee, feeling a sudden urge to dance to the little tune.
But she didn’t move.
There was a knock on the door. Then the slot opened. Something was sent through. The milliner put down her coffee and trotted over to the door, where she found today’s newspaper waiting for her. She picked it up in her magic and brought it over to the table.
She opened it and began to read. It was all boring stuff, stuff she’d heard before. The front was again mentioned. She didn’t care for that and turned the page. Her eyes trailed over an odd sight: a picture of a gunmetal-grey stallion and a burgundy-scaled dragon, settled down on the wide balcony of the Castle, the Princesses themselves out to greet them. She flipped to another page and skimmed.
She finished her coffee and put it in the sink. She ran the water and cleaned the cup, but decided against putting it away. She didn’t have the energy to do that.
She went back into her room and into the adjacent bathroom, where she took a quick shower. She came out and looked in the mirror. Her eyes weren’t as bloodshot, and her cobalt coat of fur was its usual sheen. She dried her long, royal-blue mane; a few, dark strands fell out. She left them on the floor and went back into her room.
She grabbed a few other belongings, the most notable being the key to her shop. She put it on a bag and looked herself in the mirror one last time. She didn’t smile.
She went back over to her bed. Beside it was a small desk, upon which was a smaller picture frame. It was of a familiar, white mare. Her heart momentarily twisted up, but she pushed the feeling away. The frame was facing the sun; it would be damaged. She stretched out a hoof, pressed far-too-lightly against the frame, kept it there for far-too-long, and turned it around so that it wasn’t looking at her bed anymore.
Then the milliner gathered herself, took a deep breath, and walked out.
***
March Street wasn’t the busiest of Manehattan’s avenues. Her till knew this well. While the walk here was certainly crowded, not many businesses or offices opened on this street. Her shop was only a few minutes away from her apartment, but by the time she’d crossed the walkway into March Street, the crowd had gone the other way. A noticeably smaller presence of ponies lingered.
She nodded to a few of them and said hello. They were all warm and friendly to her. One of them promised to stop by her shop later on; she doubted he would, but said that she looked forward to it anyway.
She reached her shop shortly after that.
The store itself was the same size as the other buildings around it, but she knew it was smaller than the bigger stores in eastern Manehattan. It was at a corner of an intersection, meaning any pony from either side of the street could see it. She had mannequins in the front windows modeling products. Above her head was a protruding, circular sign: MOODY MARIN’S HEADWEAR EMPORIUM.
Moody Marin. The milliner on March Street. That sign reminded her of that everytime she came here. She supposed she ought to be thankful of that; she wouldn’t want to forget that part of her.
She took out her key and stuck it in the door and unlocked it. It opened with a familiar jingle of the bell. Somehow, the air in here was different than the air outside and in the other stores on the street. It felt… heavier. Yes, she decided. That was the best word. Especially since there was a kind of fog—“heavy air,” she supposed—that drifted around shelves and around corners and refused to touch the ceiling.
Moody Marin walked past these shelves and over to the counter. She plopped her bags down and felt the cool, cream wood. A fine layer of dust covered it. Her horn lit; she brought over a feather-duster and quickly dispatched the dust. The particles flew into her mouth and she coughed, loudly, and there were stray tears in her eyes.
There was music, playing through the air like a whisper from a long-lost lover; it came and it went and was gone. She paid it little heed.
Moody went to work. She did so in silence, and the only sound was the light hum of her magic. She went up and down the shelves and aisles. There were plenty of hats, and they came in a variety of colors and styles. There were bowlers and fedoras and pork pies that came in blacks and greys and slates and navys. There were top hats and flat hats and short and wide hats, and these were on the top and middle shelves. She paused at these, lifted them up, dusted, checked the price tag, put them back down, and went on.
The hats that were the most dirty were the ones that nopony bought or really looked at. These were the cloches, and the buckets, and the fezes. The dustiest was a bright-red fascinator. When she went over to dust it, it coated the rest of the shelf with its excess.
She brought the hat down and inspected it. This was her favorite product in the shop, and she would be lying if she said she never tried it on every now and then. Mostly then. Not now. Not for a long time. She flipped the hat over, and her mind went, for some reason, to a picture of a meadow, filled with daisies and lilies, with a purple mountain towering overhead, a gentle wind caressing her cheek, and warm breath caressing her chin. The image faded just as soon as it came; she was back in her dusty old shop once more.
Her heart pumped empty blood through her body, and she left the fascinator by itself on the shelf.
Finished with cleaning and prepping, she trudged back over to the counter and sat herself down on the chair behind it. She let out a breath. More dust flew up and around her.
She took out a book—something by a Prose stallion—and skimmed the pages. She didn’t really read it; the words poured in and out of her mind. She flipped forward through the pages, then flipped back, and stopped somewhere in the middle. She sniffed. The air was a little dry. She read a few more pages and went back to the middle. She put a bookmark in and closed the book.
It was quiet, but she didn’t mind. She liked the silence. It was like a peaceful blanket, warm and cozy. Her eyes were drooping and she was breathing slower and slower…
One sale, she decided. One sale, and then I’ll go home.
Her eyelids fluttered and she sat up a little straighter. The door was closed. There wasn’t so much a breeze. The street was empty and no other shops looked at all busy. She wondered if she’d fallen asleep for a moment and woken up just now when the rush hour had ended.
One sale.
***
It was still quiet when that mare walked in, and at first, Moody didn’t notice her. Her muzzle was once again buried in her book, though at this point she was at least trying to absorb whatever information was being presented. The bell ring didn’t alert her to a customer’s presence; it was the soft clip-clop of her hooves as they slowly paced around the store that pulled her out of this imaginary world.
She was beautiful. There was no other word the milliner could think of to describe her. Her faded-pink mane cascaded down her neck and clung around her slender torso. Her coat was so perfectly and impossibly white and pure that she hurt to look at, let alone admire from afar. She moved with an aura of grace and prestige befitting a noble, her long horn alight with golden magic, yet she refrained from appearing haughty. She turned and met Moody’s gaze; her eyes were a brilliant ruby.
The air was no longer heavy.
“Hello,” Moody said.
“Hello.”
Moody’s breath caught. “See anything you like?” she asked.
“A few things,” the mare said, glancing back and smiling. Moody tried to give one in return.
“What would you recommend?” the mare asked a few minutes later. She was in the second aisle now, but she didn’t seem intent on looking at any of the hats there.
Moody came around the counter. With the mare’s horn, she would have to have any sort of hat lean way back, but she seemed to have the perfectly-shaped head for that. It was sharp and refined, with a semi-long muzzle that split into a tempting smile.
“Hmm. For your type, perhaps a simple fedora would suffice,” Moody said. She levitated over several kinds and held them before her. White mare; a contrasting color would do. She took the slate and navy ones and put away the cream and white ones. She looked to the mare. She gave her permission. Moody gently placed one of the fedoras—the slate one—on her, then levitated over a mirror.
“What do you think?”
“Mmm. I don’t know. Let’s try the other one.”
So Moody brought the second one, the navy one, over to the mare and put it on her head and stepped back and allowed her to view herself in the mirror. The mare tilted her head and flicked a few curls out of her face. She examined herself, and Moody examined her as an art enthusiast would examine a painting, following the lines and strokes and little nuances that gave the piece its beauty.
“I’m sorry,” the mare said, “I don’t think this will do for me.”
Moody nodded. “That’s all right. Let’s keep looking.”
They tried on the trilbies and the bowlers, but because they were like the fedoras, the mare decided they wouldn’t do. Moody readily agreed. She didn’t want her to leave just yet, and she didn’t want her to leave unsatisfied. She was sure there was something for this mare. They went down each aisle and Moody helped her try on the more extravagant hats, the kinds that all the noble mares wore in Canterlot for social gatherings, and these seemed to spark some sort of flame of interest in the mare.
“Have you ever been to one of those gatherings?” Moody asked as they tried a top hat.
The mare shook her head. “No. But somepony I knew has. Once.”
“How’d they like it?”
“Oh, they didn’t. They stayed for only a little while, tried to have fun, then got kicked out.”
“That’s a shame. But then again, Canterlot nobles are a snobby bunch.”
“Yes, indeed they are.”
Moody noticed there were no other customers in the store. She wondered why, but only for a moment, and decided that was a matter best left alone for now.
“So that’s a no?”
“Yes, that’s a no.”
“Very well. Let’s keep looking.” She saw the mare’s face scrunch up. “Don’t you worry. We will find you something. I guarantee it.”
There was that smile again and it tore at Moody’s heart for reasons she had yet to understand. So she put on a brave face and tried not to understand it, to simply feel it, see it, let it be.
Down the third aisle they went. Surely this would be the one, even as these were all the previously-most-dusty hats, the ones that nopony looked at or bought. Moody had the mare try on a cloche, a white one with a black ribbon. She placed it over her ears and just behind her horn.
The mare in the shop frowned and said, “This feels tight.”
“I’m sorry,” Moody said. She slipped it off. “I didn’t mean to bring you discomfort. You must have sensitive ears, then.”
Moody put the hats away and brought over the others. She had the mare try on the buckets and the fezes, but due to the designs being similar to the cloches, the mare’s discomfort returned, and each time this happened, Moody professed her sorrow.
“Not this aisle either,” she said, putting those hats away with a sigh. “Very well. I still have more hats. We will find you something yet.”
She started down the aisle, intent on leaving it, when the mare said, “Wait.”
Moody turned. The mare’s hoof was outstretched. “What about that one?” She followed her hoof and saw she was pointing at the fascinator. “What is that?”
“A bright-red fascinator,” Moody said, trotting over. Her stomach felt light, far too light. The mare waited for an explanation, and Moody was quick to supply one. “You wear it like this.” She levitated it over to the mare and slipped it down her right side. The curls of her mane stuck out from the bottom while the back tuffs rolled gracefully down the other side. “On the side, tucked over your ear. You see?”
“I see.”
“And then you can adjust it—hold on for a moment—there we go. You adjust it, here and there, so it’s not too tightly wrapped on your side. Like a small bird. Gently does it, you know? Gently does it, there we go.”
She paused, stepping back. “Oh, it needs something. Yes. Give me one second.”
She went into a back room and came out with a feather. It was a plume of crimson. The mare had not moved an inch. Moody trotted over and tucked the feather right against the flat end. She stepped back, then levitated over a mirror. “What do you think?”
She asked her that but did not give her own opinion, which was that the fascinator fit her easily and perfectly, like it was made for her, specifically for her. Moody could only think of one other pony who could have worn it as she wore it now, with the right form, the right attitude, the right gentleness, the right sophistication.
She smiled, waiting for the mare’s answer, hoping she liked it.
The mare did a twirl, cocked her head one way. She blinked, eyelashes like butterfly wings. A smile slinked across her face, revealing perfect teeth. “I think this will work. Yes, this will work nicely.”
She flicked her mane, and then turned to Moody. The smile grew. It was sharp-looking. “Yes,” she repeated. “This is perfect for me.”
Moody felt drawn to her eyes. Her breath hitched. “It’s perfect for you.”
They walked over to the register. She told the mare the price, which she paid in full. The register dinged dully. She put the bits in the drawer. “Do you need help with anything else?” Moody asked.
The mare smiled. “No, I don’t think so. Do you?”
The drawer closed. Moody felt her cheeks flush. Her lips parted and an answer was drawn out, an answer only the mare heard. She nodded in response, and trotted out, her mane and tail swaying. She glanced back, smiled, and winked.
Moody hadn’t moved so fast in her life.
***
It was hot in the apartment. Hot under the covers. But Moody felt comfortable even with the extra heat. Her companion had recovered before she had, and was now sitting upright.
Moody nuzzled her, and the mare turned. Moody knew she was smiling. “How do you feel?” the mare asked.
“Amazing,” Moody breathed. There was a wetness around her eyes. She’d never felt so free, so terribly free.
The mare drew back. She was still wearing the fascinator, which had miraculously not been dirtied or crinkled in the past few hours. This time, she took it off and placed it on the night table next to her. Her lips were pursed. “And this next part…?”
Moody nodded. “Yes. I’m ready.”
The mare nodded back. “Then allow me to help you.” Her form flickered. There was a special haze of slate then.
Moody closed her eyes, saw a brief flash through them, then there was a darkness. But then the darkness gave way to that meadow that was filled with daisies and lilies. She saw the purple mountain again, felt the two winds blow by her. She smiled and laughed and laughed and laughed until even her voice seemed to fade into the wind, into the sky, the clouds, the heavens.
***
Daylight broke past dust-covered blinds and burst through a violet apartment. Its yellow rays darted across a worn carpet, biting it, before leaping forward and enveloping a fluffy bed, where a curled-up form slumbered. The light paused momentarily over the form, as if regarding it with a predatory stare. Then it shifted its position to the left, and crept across its topmost half. Soon it was all over the mound’s face, and the milliner on March Street awoke.
Eyes, usually blue, cracked open; and flashed green. A mouth opened, revealing fangs at the corners. The lips twisted into a blinding smile. A bright-red hat was levitated over and placed on top of a babylonian-blue mane.
Her companion was gone. Gone, but not forgotten. With a sigh, the milliner on March Street got out of bed and prepared to go about her day.
