Two suits floated on each side of Jet Set as he looked at his reflected image in the mirror with a critical eye.
He squinted. There seemed to be a slight imperfection on his right cheek. Was it… No, just a speck of dust on the mirror. For an instant he had feared something as plebeian as dirt had marred his visage.
He harrumphed and brought the left suit forward, a burgundy jacket with a lighter toned waistcoat, the hate of the tailor who made them still radiating out like a toxic aura, manifesting in aggressive–some would say restraining-order worthy–modernity and a pernicious seam ready to chafe on his neck.
He frowned, then floated it aside. The other suit, a black tailcoat with a classic cut bobbed up and down in front of him.
"Upper Crust, sweetheart, give me a suggestion for Day Court. Should I go with the classic"–the tailcoat floated up–"or do you think it would be better to make a statement with…with that?" He pointed a hoof at the other set of clothes.
From outside the room came his wife's voice. "Usual day court or do you have to present a petition?"
"Petition day, dear. I will ask Celestia for a ten-year tax moratorium for the Macintosh Hills quarries, a diversion of funds from education to incentives for the buying of luxury sky-chariots, and for the reintroduction of indentured servitude."
"Oh, then the tailcoat. Trampling on the rights of lower class ponies requires something traditional. A more flamboyant attire would be in bad taste."
"You are right, my love." He put the coat on a ponequin standing beside the mirror before returning his attention to his reflection. He raised his muzzle, glared indignantly, harrumphed again, and was shocked and scandalized.
"Jet Set, do you want me to come?"
In the right side of the mirror, he saw Upper Crust standing in the door frame. Her silvery mane combed up and woven around a daring wire structure ready to give architects everywhere either a stroke or inspirational material for decades to come. The results of said inspiration would then give other architects conniptions, perpetrating an ever growing cycle of horror and bad engineering decisions. He was so proud of her.
"No need, snugglepuss, this will be a pretty stiff affair. We are in a traditional round, so it won't be anything you hadn't already seen a dozen times over." A procession of virtually identical bow ties floated up to him. "And Lord Tea Time will open the dances, so I expect some long-winded, boring petition devoid of any kind of inspiration." He glared at one of the bow ties, nodded and brought it over to the tailcoat.
"Lord Tea Time? He swore he would retire. What's he doing there?"
"His successor wasn't ready yet." Jet Set turned to the oppressive dresser table on the side. "Still put some verve and emotion in his delivery, and we can't have that. No, poor Tea Time will have to haunt the court for another while."
"At least that means we can organize a proper farewell tea party. I think I should be able to get the Western Park closed for the occasion, maybe I can even time it in such a way as to block some school-trips from visiting, the season is right for that."
Jet Set looked up at his wife and smiled. There she sat, her perfectly polished hoof tapping on her chin. A simple gesture, and yet capable of expressing disdain for anypony whose ancestors didn't come from a small, self-selected cadre of arrogant fools. And she was doing all that just for him.
"That would be wonderful, honeybun. I'm sure Tea Time would love such a show of devotion." He thought about all the little foals sitting outside the barriers, longing for the pond with the ducks, the exotic flower-beds, the perfectly cured meadows.
And his mask cracked.
Jet Set bit his lip and turned away. He took a deep breath, then another one then felt a hoof on his shoulder.
"You don't have to go, you know." There was concern in Upper Crust's voice. "We have done enough, we can do like Sapphire Shores."
He snorted. "We shall certainly not do like her. Leaving her place like that, that's not something any self-respecting noble shall do!" His voice became stronger, his inflection changed and somewhere an orphan felt despised. Jet Set stood straighter and stomped with his hoof. "She squandered a legacy, and I shall not do the same to six centuries of trying to weasel through unequine legislation and carefully cultivated obnoxiousness. We can't abandon Princess Celestia and leave her without our counsel."
"But dear, Princess Luna is back, she doesn't need us anymore."
"Hah, that new Princess is just a fad, exactly like the gold-digger Cadance and that upstart Twilight. They won't endure, not as nobility."
Upper Crust sat on her haunches and clopped her hooves together. "Wonderful recovery, my love. I knew you could come back from that." She leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. "I'm sure you will be promoted to Night Court pretty soon."
A smile crept on his muzzle. "One can hope. Think of the prestige of finding completely new ways to challenge her and keep her engaged." A deep breath, then he said, "But you may have been on something. Maybe there is something more important. Maybe… Maybe, in a couple of decades, we could retire. I was thinking of taking somepony as secretary, then we can introduce him into the family in a while and then he could take my place."
"Really?" Upper Crust asked, her ears perking up.
"Indeed, I thought–" He didn't manage to finish the sentence as Upper Crust's forelegs closed around him.
"Thank you, my love." She crushed him some more, his bones creaked, then she let him go. "We will finally able to open the petting zoo-orphanage-charity we always dreamed of."
"We will, but for now, I have to be ready to entertain the Princess, give her something to fight. She gave us a thousand years of prosperity and peace, giving her another twenty years of skirmishes is just a small price. We are responsible for her happiness, after all." He looked to a small icon hanging on the wall depicting a reddish earth pony wearing an antiquated straw hat and a giant apple in the background. "Just a bit longer, my little mousie. And remember the words of our prophet."
They spoke simultaneously, their voices united in well-trained rhythm. "Ya're all a bunch of good-fer-nothin' varminth dumber than a bag of rocks. I bet Celestia keeps ya'round just for a laugh."
Jet Set smiled and hugged his wife. He glanced at the dresser table. "I think I should wear something completely and utterly useless for the occasion. Want to help me choose some cuffs?"
A serene smile graced Celestia's features. It always did. She had trained long and hard to be able to show a calm and caring facade. Colonoscopy or removing a shard of glass from the frog of her hoof made no difference, she would never waver.
And yet she felt she was on the brink of giving up. Lord Tea Time, the fifty sixth of his line and forty ninth carrying the name, was talking. And like every one of his namesakes before, he was long-winded, unimaginative and, every now and then, offensively bland. She glanced up, to the back of the room, where a little mob of nobles was waiting, clothed in a style that promised a long day of horrendous petitions, futile attempts to destroy the rights of the common pony, and proposals written by what she assumed was an illiterate and clinically insane cockatrice.
Her attention returned to the old pony talking. She saw his lips move, she heard sounds come out, and she still had no idea what he wanted. She never did.
This was it. This was the last drop.
Tonight she would talk to Luna. They would prepare, it would take some time, but in a decade or two she could finally go Daybreaker, get some stress out with topically applied arson, and then she would get a couple of centuries, maybe even a millennium, of peace on the sun.
Luna owed her that much.
The pony continued, his voice a monotonous metronome, each tack another overblown verbal pustule seeping banality.
It was time to take names and start making lists.
Author's Note
I actually have nothing against cuffs.
