Rules of Etiquette

The sounds of a poorly played cello reverberated shrilly through the afternoon air. A young girl with long, dark hair, a grey complexion, and a look of furious childlike concentration on her face stood in the center of a large study, her thin arms bracing a cello despite it being abundantly clear that the instrument was too large for her.

The child was nine years old, almost precisely nine in fact as yesterday had been her ninth birthday and the cello had been one of her gifts. Specifically, the cello had been the gift that the child had been most happy with.

She had begged her father for one ever since they had gone to see an orchestral performance several weeks ago.

The cellist had performed a beautiful solo that had captured the girl’s heart and since then she had asked her father for a cello of her own almost nonstop.

She drew the bow of the cello against the strings, trying to imitate how she remembered seeing the cellist at the orchestra play. Every sound the instrument made, however, came out almost painfully off-key.

Such had been the case for the past hour and a half.

Sagging in place, she let the bow drop from her hands as tears built up on the edges of her eyes. No matter what she tried she couldn’t play like the woman in the orchestra. She wanted it to sound beautiful, not at all like a dying cat.

“Octavia!”

Her father’s voice called out from the foyer, and Octavia glanced up, sniffled, then wiped at her eyes and set the cello back on the stand it had come with and settling the bow alongside it.

“Octavia come here for a moment, please.” Her father called again.

“Coming papa!” Octavia called out, her voice was a high child’s chirp.

Resisting the urge to sprint, Octavia moved quickly out of the study, down the hall, and out into the front hall of their mansion.

Her father, Legato Melody, was a tall and severe looking man whose appearances belied a soft and kind personality that led to he and his wife Soprana being well known in the city of Canterlot for their philanthropic works. Legato had the same grey complexion as his daughter and the same ink-dark hair, although his had veins of early silver running through it that gave him a look of attractive maturity. He had warm, brown eyes set into a weathered face that was lined with the echoes of old smiles.

“Welcome home, papa!” Octavia said brightly, her frustrations with her new cello were significantly lessened in her father’s presence.

Legato smiled broadly at his daughter before kneeling to scoop her into his arms.

“Ah, hello my little musician, how was your day?” Legato ask cheerily, though his face fell a little at the look of sadness on Octavia’s features.

Octavia sniffled a little. “I’m trying to practice papa… but…”

“My darling, your fervor for the musical arts is admirable,” Legato said with a small laugh, “but you ought not to expect perfection immediately, isn’t that right, Miss?”

“Most certainly not,” a high, mellifluous voice replied. “Perfection cannot be rushed.”

Octavia became abruptly aware that they weren’t alone. Turning her head in her father’s embrace, Octavia’s eyes widened at the sight of a young woman in a modest, knee-length skirt the color of dark wine, simple but stylish pumps, and a white blouse that was tied off at the neck with a lovely pink bow tie.

The woman was young, maybe high school age or a bit more although it was a bit hard for Octavia to tell since, past a certain age, everyone just looked like grownups to her. The young lady had a faintly yellow complexion, wonderfully bright raspberry eyes that glittered with humor and intellect, and the most brilliant poof of meticulously cared-for orange hair.

“Octavia, meet Miss Dazzle,” Legato said in a cheerful voice. “She will be your cello instructor for the next several months.”

“I look forward to teaching you everything I know, Miss Melody,” she said with a feline grin. “I hope you will prove to be an able student.”

Octavia nodded emphatically before clambering down from her father’s arms and stepped up to her new instructor and held out her hand.

“My name is Octavia Melody, I’m very pleased to meet you,” Octavia said in a stiffly formal manner.

Her instructor chuckled a little before extending her own hand to take Octavia’s small fingers in her grasp.

“A pleasure,” she said, smiling. “My name is Serenata Dazzle.”

“Again,” Serenata said in a strict voice. “And hold your posture firmly, but not stiffly,” she poked and prodded Octavia with a thin rod, adjusting her stance manually, “you must control how you stand but remain supple enough to flow with the music or you’ll lose the tune.”

“Yes, Miss Dazzle,” Octavia chirped as she struggled to stand as Serenata told her.

A month into their instruction and even Octavia could tell she had improved by leaps and bounds. Miss Dazzle was an exceptional teacher, and her expertise made her seem far older than her appearance would suggest. According to her father, Serenata was only eighteen but was something of a musical wunderkind.

Octavia wasn’t so sure.

“Miss Dazzle?” Octavia asked as she started in on her third rendition of an adapted etude by Chopin that Serenata had provided. “Are you really only eighteen?”

Serenata smiled faintly at the question.

“It’s rude to inquire over a lady's age,” Serenata admonished playfully, “why do you ask?”

“You’re so smart,” Octavia replied, and Serenata preened a little under the compliment. “Will I be as smart and pretty as you when I’m eighteen?”

Serenata laughed, a beautiful chiming sound that made Octavia smile.

“I should think you would be both brilliant and stunning, my little Melody,” Serenata replied before leaning in conspiratorially. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

Octavia nodded excitedly, but Serenata held up a finger to stall her.

“You must tell no one,” Serenata said in a serious tone, “it’s a secret, remember? Do you promise?”

“I promise!” Octavia said with childish solemnity, her face scrunched into an adorably serious scowl.

Serenata examined her student critically for a moment before nodding, leaning in, and whispering in Octavia’s ear.

“The truth is: I’m well over a thousand years old,” Serenata said with a smile, and Octavia’s eyes widened. “I’ve lived many lives and learned many things, so no, I am not eighteen, I’m immortal.”

Octavia’s eyes widened, and Serenata put a finger to the small girl’s lips.

“Remember,” Serenata said softly. “It’s our secret, okay?”

Nodding, Octavia continued to play, her mind abuzz with Serenata’s words.

“Are you really immortal?” Octavia asked a moment later, her hand stilling on the bow. “Really?”

Serenata nodded, then raised a finger to her lips. Octavia sucked in a breath, realizing she’d said the word ‘immortal’ out loud, then nodded apologetically.

“Now… where were we?” Serenata began again.

“Stance and posture,” Octavia said dutifully.

“Ah, yes,” Serenata walked a short circuit around Octavia once more.

Octavia could feel her teacher’s critical, appraising gaze on her, and she did her best to school her form to the shape that Serenata had taught her. After several moments of tension, Serenata smiled and nodded, tapping Octavia’s shoulder.

“Very good,” Serenata said quietly. “An admirable if novice attempt, and one that we will refine as the weeks pass.”

“Thank you, Miss Dazzle,” Octavia said brightly.

“Now, before we continue with the cello,” Serenata said with a delighted smile, “someone must teach you how to walk.”

Octavia screwed up her face in confusion.

“But I already know how to walk!”

Serenata scoffed. “You know how to stumble forward and eventually reach your destination,” she said haughtily. “But a lady moves with refinement, not merely purpose, here… watch.”

Without another word, Serenata took a step, and then another and, with her attention drawn to it, Octavia realized what it was that her teacher meant. Serenata fairly glided across the room, and it made other people seem like buffoons who could barely move properly.

“You see the difference?” Serenata asked, her full lips curving to a playful smirk as Octavia rapidly nodded her head. “Motion, stance, form, music… it’s all the same, so I cannot teach you one and neglect another.”

“What does that mean?” Octavia asked, one eyebrow raised.

“It means, my little Melody,” Serenata said with a grin as she strode over to Octavia and set a hand on her head, “that we have a lot of work ahead of us.”

The Melody household was filled with the dulcet strains of a cello, as it had been for just over five months with ever increasing degrees of skill. Today was especially good, and Legato relaxed in his favorite chair as the sun set across the city and his daughter played a solemn, haunting tune he had never heard before.

Legato had his eyes closed as he let the presence of the music wash over him. He had, briefly, wondered if it had been a mistake to indulge his daughter in her sudden and seemingly ill-considered desire to play the cello, but had relented since she was just a child.

Who knew what she would find an interest in? The cello seemed as likely as anything else at her age, after all.

Now he was far more glad of it than he could put to words. Gladder was he, though, that he had thought to pay for lessons. The cost for Miss Dazzle had been princely and if it hadn’t come with a guarantee he would never have paid such a sum to so young an instructor, no matter how excellent her references.

Miss Serenata had more than lived up to her promises though and, in five short months, she had transformed his daughter into something like a virtuoso. Octavia played with quiet conviction, her stance steady and her hands as calm as a surgeon’s as she drew the bow gently along the strings of the instrument.

Octavia had never been a rambunctious child, precisely, but this was a kind of calm devotion to a craft that Legato would have liked to see in the junior associates of his own recording company. Seeing it in his daughter made him nearly ecstatic with pride.

The final chord trailed off to a delicate, trembling end, and Octavia let out a slow breath before taking a short bow.

Three pairs of hands clapped, Legato’s being the most excited.

“That was lovely, darling,” Octavia’s mother, Soprana, said brightly.

Soprana was the kind of classical beauty found less in men’s magazines and more in old Roaman statuary. High cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and dusky skin framed eyes like warm honey. Her hair was a long, dark waterfall of black that fell to her mid-back, and Legato marveled at just how much like her mother Octavia looked.

“A perfect rendition, my little Melody,” Serenata said with a calm smile and, not for the first time, Legato was struck by a sense of age in it. “You have learned my lessons well.”

“Thank you, Miss Dazzle,” Octavia curtsied perfectly, and Legato blinked.

“Did you teach her that?” He asked his wife, who shook her head.

They both looked up at Serenata who favored them with that same, oddly ageless, smile.

“I did, of course,” Serenata said primly as she stood and walked over to Octavia. “Should she ever perform on stage a cellist ought to have the proper poise to thank her audience, don’t you agree?”

“I… suppose so, yes,” Legato replied.

“May I ask what the name of that piece was?” Soprana ventured. “It was lovely, but I’m unfamiliar with its composer. I would very much like to add it to my collection.”

“The composition?” Serenata asked with a raised eyebrow as she critically examined Octavia’s posture. “I’m afraid it doesn’t have a name, nor was it ever recorded in any studio to my knowledge.”

During the conversation Octavia remained still and calm. She was used to Serenata’s teaching methods by now. Her instructor was harsh and exacting, but not merciless, though she constantly demanded excellence which Octavia was always proud to achieve.

“Then… then how did you teach it?” Soprana asked in confusion.

Serenata laughed, a faintly superior ring to it that put a slight chill down both parents’ spines, then she tapped Octavia’s shoulder, which had become her usual signal for informing Octavia that she had passed muster.

“Because I wrote it, obviously,” Serenata replied with another easy laugh as Octavia straightened. “With a bit of grudging help from my sisters, of course. Your daughter was the first to perform it out loud in its entirety, however… just now.”

“Really?” Legato asked, flabbergasted. “You wrote that piece?”

Serenata raised her eyebrow again. “I did… it wasn’t my best work, about par really, but a fine enough exercise for a journeyman cellist.”

“About par?” Soprana whispered softly. “How many compositions have you written?”

The two elder Melody’s stared at Serenata as she circled Octavia again, tapping her lip curiously. Instead of answering them, though, she spoke to Octavia.

“Little Melody, where on earth is your bow tie?” Serenata asked sternly. “I knew something was off.”

Octavia flinched, and her eyes began to tear up. “It… it got stained in the wash… I’m sorry.”

Serenata sighed and knelt down to Octavia’s level. “You are a lady, Little Melody, not a child.”

Serenata spoke in an admonishing voice and as she did Legato stood to defend his daughter, but Soprana held him back, watching carefully as Serenata set a hand on Octavia’s head.

“Remember our lessons,” Serenata said calmly. “A lady is not her tears nor her errors, she is power and poise… she is grace and excellence in all things and most importantly,” Serenata lifted her hands to undo the pink tie of her blouse, “she is never without her bow tie.”

Carefully, Serenata coiled the bow tie around the neckline of Octavia’s own little blouse and wrapped it, tying it into a perfect pink bow.

“Do not lose that one,” Serenata said sternly, but her lips quirked up in a small smile.

Octavia stared down at the bow tie in awe, touching it gently with her fingers. It was soft and made from silk, but it didn’t feel like any other piece of silk she had ever owned and it shimmered slightly in the low evening light.

“It’s beautiful,” Octavia whispered reverently.

“I have owned that bit of ribbon for a long time,” Serenata said with a smile as she stood up, then gave Octavia a conspiratorial wink. “Much longer than some might suspect, actually. So take care of it.”

“Won’t you want it back tomorrow?” Octavia asked, her eyes wide.

Serenata sighed softly. “I’m afraid our lessons have come to an end, my Melody… my sisters and I are moving away you see.”

Octavia’s eyes widened in horror, and tears began filling them again.

“That’s why you denied my last payment of your fee,” Legato said suddenly. “Why are you moving, may I ask?”

“Family business, I’m afraid,” Serenata replied cryptically. “We will likely be gone for a very long while.”

“Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to remain?” Legato asked, a note of pleading entering his voice. “For Octavia’s sake if nothing else? If money is a factor-”

“It’s unworthy of you to use your daughter, and my beloved pupil, as leverage, Mister Melody,” Serenata admonished him in a sharp tone that set him back on his heels. “And no, I have plenty of money, this is about family.”

“If I might ask then,” Soprana inquires, standing up from her seat. “May we purchase that composition of yours?”

Serenata’s features blackened viciously, and Soprana staggered back from the near-physical force of her anger.

“I realise that you do not understand what you just asked,” Serenata said stiffly, “so know this: the one thing I will never sell, besides my sisters, is my music.” She let out a calming breath, then set a hand on Octavia’s head. “A copy of that composition is currently resting on Octavia’s music stand. It will remain there on the condition that she be the only one who plays it and that it is never recorded nor profited from, are we clear?”

“We are,” Soprana said a little weakly.

Legato sighed heavily but nodded. “If you’re certain, then I am deeply sorry to see you go, Miss Dazzle.”

Serenata’s features softened considerably, and she nodded back to him.

“I would have liked to spend much more time with your family,” she said, her voice seeming far more melancholy than should belong to someone so young. “However, I must go where I must go and I’m sure you, of all people, understand the pressing value of family.”

“I do, of course,” Legato agreed. “I wish you the very best, and please know that you always have a place in our home, should you desire it.”

“You are very generous,” Serenata replied, bowing slightly.

“P-please don’t go.”

Serenata blinked at the tiny voice, then looked down to see Octavia desperately clinging to her leg.

“I love you! Please don’t go!” Octavia cried.

“Oh…” the word came out as a soft, hollow sound, and Serenata raised her hand to her lips.

A look of something between pain and shock painted Serenata’s features as she stared down at Octavia’s small, trembling form. Her arms hovered awkwardly above the child as she stared down at Octavia who was slowly dampening her skirt with tears.

“Please…”

Serenata’s features took on an infinitely softer cast as she slowly lowered herself back down to Octavia’s level and settled her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

“If I could stay, I would,” Serenata said gently. “For you, my little Melody, I would stay, but my sisters need me and I can’t leave them any more than your parents could leave you.”

“B-but-!”

“I’m sorry,” Serenata whispered, then she pulled Octavia into a warm embrace. “We will see one another again, though, I promise.”

“How do you know?” Octavia sniffled quietly.

Serenata hummed thoughtfully, then gave the pink bow tie a gentle tug.

“This bow is magic, did you know?” Serenata said, her smile enigmatic, and Octavia’s eyes widened. “It is enchanted to always find its way back to my hand.”

Octavia looked down her nose at the silk bow tie, then back up at Serenata.

“Then… then I’ll wear it every day!” Octavia declared. “Then… you’ll come back. Right?”

“For you, my Melody?” Serenata said warmly. “I will always come back.”

~Fifteen Years Later~

Airports are a cacophony of noise and only mildly ordered chaos even on the best of days, and that was assuming that any day in which an airport was involved could constitute the word ‘best’. Canterlot’s O’Mare International Airport is one of the busiest in the world, and today it seemed to be in particularly fine, read: obnoxious, form as I disembarked from my flight.

The Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra is one of the finest in the world, and we only just recently completed a tour of several major cities across the continent. I don’t particularly enjoy air travel, the jet-set lifestyle is not to my liking even in first class, but being the youngest woman, at twenty-four, to ever hold the second chair of the Orchestra necessitates a certain amount of travel time whether I like it or not.

In my opinion, of course, I should be first chair but that wouldn’t be politic considering the current first chair has a decade of seniority over me.

His age notwithstanding, I suppose Boléro is a perfectly capable cellist.

Capable.

I am Octavia Melody and in my very expert opinion the word ‘capable’ is merely a synonym for forgettable.

No first chair should ever be content with the descriptor: ‘capable’. That would be like a painter being happy to be called ‘color coordinated’.

It might be true but it’s hardly praiseworthy.

My teacher hadn't been satisfied with ‘capable’ when I was a child, and there’s not a single reason I can think of that I ought to be satisfied with it as an adult. Certainly, there is no reason a man two decades my senior and a decade more practiced ought to be as unexceptional as he is, why he has absolutely no-

I grit my teeth and breathed out slowly, stopping in place as I mastered my temper.

With deliberate care, I went over my routine: straightening my black slacks and smoothing out any creases in them, then my blouse, white and newly starched, I adjusted my black jacket, and ended with giving the two ends of my bow tie a firm but gentle tug to ensure it was properly tied.

It was, of course. After all, a lady is never without her bow tie.

Drawing my phone from my jacket pocket I sent a message to my driver. My cello would be delivered directly to my home via the service maintained by the Orchestra but my personal effects would be at the baggage check.

I swear that I only looked down for a moment as I was walking, just enough to type out and send the message, but when I looked up there was a veritable wall clad in a tailored suit standing in front of me.

Before I could humiliate myself by colliding with them, a hand shot out to catch my shoulder in a gentle but iron-hard grip.

“Careful, senorita.”

I glanced up and felt my breath catch in my throat.

She was tall, impressively tall, and although her suit was exceptionally well-tailored the cut only served to highlight her broad shoulders and what must be an intimidating physique.

Her words were colored with a rich Marexican accent and she had sharp, ice blue eyes, her right eye had a brutal-looking scar over it, and her knuckles had the shadows of old scar tissue as well. Her complexion was a shade of dark wine and her hair was a riotously dark red. Everything about this woman screamed that she was dangerous, and I had the distinct impression she was someone’s bodyguard.

I’d seen the like more than once among my father’s associates.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, as I straightened back from her. “I swear I only looked away for a moment.”

“It was nothing,” She replied, waving her hand. “I am easy to miss.”

I blinked in disbelief, looking her up and down. She was Amazonian in stature and remarkably tall; in other words not someone I would consider ‘easy to miss’ in the slightest.

“I… see,” I replied after a moment.

“Pardon, but I must see to my employers,” she said suddenly, moving around me with startling speed and silence.

How could a woman that large move that quietly? The concept of it was mildly terrifying.

I turned to track her movement as she left my side and my eyes widened as I saw her flag down a pair of damnably familiar women.

“-could have finished packing the rest of her bags is all I’m saying, ‘Nata,” the woman in the lead said in a tone of annoyance. “Bad enough she left the convention practically two days early, but she only took her carry-on and left everything else for us!”

Adagio Dazzle: the leader of the Sirens who had threatened Canterlot High School some seven years ago, was walking right through O’Mare like nothing at all.

If I’m being honest, I recalled very little of the events of the Battle of the Bands. According to Sunset and the others, the Sirens had used some kind of mental magic on the majority of the school. It had left only the fuzziest overall impressions of them but, all the same, the name had nagged at me for years.

Dazzle.

No one I knew had been able to recall precisely what any of the Sirens had looked like, which I supposed was part of their magic. Not being capable of remembering who had mentally enthralled you or what they looked like probably went a long way towards explaining how those three had gotten away with their antics. It must have been some kind of residual effect of their song, though, because the moment I saw her walking through the airport I suddenly recalled her appearance in sharp relief, and my eyes went wide.

“She needed to get back, ‘Dagi,” the young woman behind her said placatingly. “Ari’ was falling apart without her, you and I both saw it. If she had gone the other two days I think she might’ve popped.”

“I’m aware,” Adagio said wearily. “And I do believe that girl is good for her, but I still hold that she could have at least packed her bags first.”

“It’s not possible,” I muttered, standing stock still as I stared at Adagio. “Not possible at all.”

The orange hair, the perfect posture… admittedly I didn’t have any pictures of my old teacher, nor did I precisely remember her appearance since I had been only nine years old at the time and it has been better than a decade and a half, but I would swear up and down that…

What was it that Serenata had said? Something about not being able to leave her sisters. Could she have been a Siren?

I backed up and away from the pair, Adagio and the other who could only have been Sonata Dusk, and stumbled towards the exit.

My driver was waiting there for me, my bags already loaded, naturally, and the door held open. I all but flew past him and crammed myself into the back seat in a most unladylike fashion, and he raised an eyebrow as I passed, but closed the door and took his own seat behind the wheel without a word.

Good Form was my butler and had been for over ten years. He had been hired by my father and when I had left the family home after making my own name, Form had offered to come with me.

He was a tall, spare man who was bald and good at it, with a thick, black handlebar mustache that was neatly kept, enough lean muscle to give any ruffian second thoughts, and sharp green eyes that I strongly suspected saw more than he ever admitted. As ever, he wore a black vest over a clean white button-down, dark slacks, and polished bespoke shoes.

He and my best friend, Vinyl Scratch, constituted almost the entirety of my social circle.

“Miss Melody?” Form spoke my name as a question, glancing into the rearview mirror at me as he did, and I grimaced.

“Do not leave yet,” I said stiffly. “Wait.”

He gave me a wry look for a moment, then nodded and waited patiently.

Several moments later Adagio and Sonata emerged, followed by their mountainous bodyguard who was hefting what looked like a metric ton of baggage as easily as I carried my cello. They had a long-bodied, classic silver Cadillac that looked like to have been driven out of a noir film, and the bodyguard quickly packed away their things and got into the driver's seat.

“Follow them,” I said in a voice that bordered on angry.

Good Form lifted an eyebrow again but didn’t question me. He put the car in gear and pulled out behind the Cadillac, keeping a few cars between us as we kept on their tail down the freeway into downtown Canterlot.

Several streets later the Cadillac pulled into the backlot of the Last Note Lounge. Of course I had heard of it, being the premier gentleman’s club in the city and a place that I would not be caught dead in on my worst night.

“Shall I park the car, Miss Melody?” Form asked in his low, gentle rumble.

“You most certainly shall not,” I replied tersely. “Take us home, Mister Form.”

“As you say, Miss Melody,” he said formally. “Home it is.”

On the drive home I settled back into my seat and considered what I had seen. Never before had I wished that I had a picture of my old instructor more than I did now. I knew that the Sirens were magical, but little else, and now I was regretting not pursuing that line of questioning years ago.

“Immortal,” I whispered softly to myself. “She'd said she was immortal, could that have been true? I suppose her sisters are probably the same if so.”

Adagio, Aria, and Sonata. So was Serenata a fourth sister? The naming scheme certainly held. But if so, where was she? Had she and the others had a falling out?

Or was it possible that Serenata was actually-

No, no I refused to accept that line of thought. I refused to even pursue it in my own mind. I wouldn’t give it a moment of credence.

We reached my home, a large high-end apartment complex in the heart of downtown. Expensive, yes, but I made more than enough money and it was well situated, and unlike many of my peers I rarely spent any of my money. Many of them preferred to live the high life, parties and the like, but such things had never appealed to me.

A quiet night in with a book and a glass of good whiskey suited me just fine.

I swept into the foyer of the building, entered my security code, and stepped into the elevator. I was fuming, I knew… my temper often got the better of me if I let it, which was why I didn’t.

Perhaps it was better to not know the answer to my questions. Perhaps I should just forget I saw those two at all, forget where they lived, and…

“Serenata…” I said quietly, my hand trailing up to touch my bow tie as I clenched my eyes shut. “I… I miss you so much.”

I should not be here.

Two straight weeks of mulling it over had not left me in any better humor than I had been at the start of all of this, though, so here I am now standing outside the Last Note seriously considering if I really wanted to know so badly that I’d actually step foot in such a place.

“I will, of course,” I practically spat. “A lady does not back down, after all.”

It was chilly, and I pulled my dark grey winter coat around myself and pulled my hood up. The Last Note was open, but barely, and I walked up to the large, imposing man at the entrance whose name tag read: Backstage.

“Welcome to the Last Note, Miss... do you have an invitation?” He asked in a deep, pleasant basso tone.

“I do not,” I replied thinly, “I assume there’s a cover charge?”

“Fifty,” he said by way of response.

I grimaced, but produced a few bills and pressed them into his hand before sweeping past him. I had nearly made it to the door when I stopped and turned.

“If I wanted to speak to Adagio Dazzle, how would I do that?” I asked pointedly.

He raised an eyebrow. “The owner? You’d have t’know somebody or get really lucky,” he replied. “That or catch her eye when she sings on lounge night.”

The owner. So the Dazzlings owned the Last Note. Good to know.

I nodded, then stepped into the lounge and my ears were immediately assaulted by the musical equivalent of an AMF. Vinyl both enjoyed and created this kind of electronic music but I couldn’t find it to my liking no matter how hard I tried.

There were few patrons this early but the dancers were already taking their place. I kept my eyes down but that didn’t help my blush.

I was forcibly reminded in that moment that, in all my time spent pursuing my passion, I had rather neglected my, well, passions. Personally my preference ran towards the feminine persuasion; men were just too thick-minded and improper.

Women had poise, grace, beauty, and style that men simply lacked.

And yes, I was perhaps slightly inspired towards that due to my old teacher being something of an ideal.

The point, I suppose, is that I was essentially a vestal virgin stepping into a den of iniquity, so I kept my eyes low and made my way toward the bar, taking a stool, tapping the bar, and saying:

“Whiskey, neat.”

“Top shelf?” A bright voice chirped.

“The very top, please,” I replied.

As she poured my drink I doffed my coat and set it to the side. I had chosen a button down pinstripe shirt with suspenders, more casual dark slacks, and functional black boots that were buckled up to the top of my shin.

My pink bow tie was in its rightful place as usual.

I all but sighed in relief as a glass was slid under my nose bearing a generous measure of golden-brown liquid that smelled deliciously smoky.

Lifting it to my lips, I let the bouquet filter through my senses, then took a slow sip and savored the oaken smoothness of it.

“That’s magnificent,” I said quietly.

A beautiful old bottle, half-filled, thumped onto the wooden bar in front of me. My eyes scanned over it and I nearly choked.

“Glenfiddich Twenty-Five?!” I blurted out.

I looked up at the bartender and felt my heart lodge in my throat.

Sonata Dusk was smiling happily at me from the other side of the bar. She lifted the bottle with great care and settled it back into its spot on the upper shelf.

“Well, you did say the very top shelf,” Sonata said with a smirk.

“So I did,” I replied, staring down at the glass with new appreciation.

I didn’t go out to drink very often but, in fairness, I had an exceptionally refined palate. There were hundreds of bars in Canterlot but very few that I judged to be worth my time. I was finding myself grudgingly adding the bar of the Last Note to that list, which was only slightly frustrating since it was located in what amounted to a high class strip club.

“How many bottles of that do you have?” I asked as I took another sip, this one more appreciative and slower than the last.

“A few hundred.”

I nearly choked again, this time on my drink which, as far as deaths go, would at least have been an elegant and dashing way to go given how expensive this whiskey was.

“Where on earth did you get a ‘few hundred’ bottles of this?” I asked in astonishment.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Sonata said with a laugh, waving her hand as she leaned on the bar. “We’ve been around awhile, we own shares in like, a few dozen different major distilleries.”

I stared, my mouth hanging slightly open as I worked my jaw. Finally I just asked:

“Why?”

Sonata shrugged.

“We all like different stuff,” Sonata said nonchalantly. “I prefer gin, Aria has a soft spot for mead and wine, and ‘Dagi drinks scotch like a monster.”

“So you… what? Just decided to buy shares so you could always get your booze?” I asked with an incredulous laugh.

“Nah,” Sonata said, chuckling and waving a hand, “we sold most of the shares, we mostly started the distilleries ourselves.”

I glanced down at my mostly empty glass of Glenfiddich. “Did… did you-”

“That would be my work, actually,” a high, cultured voice said from behind me. “I’m glad someone here has good taste.”

Turning slowly, I felt my breath catch as Adagio Dazzle came into view and I realized very suddenly that seeing her from a distance at O’Mare had not done the woman justice.

Adagio Dazzle was beautiful.

Long, luscious hair was pulled back into a ponytail, leaving her bangs to fall and frame a lovely face whose features were regal, patrician, and sharp enough to cut a man to the quick. She wore a shoulderless evening gown that glittered faintly, almost like fish scales, and was the color of the morning sunrise on the waters of Canterlot bay.

The dress hugged Adagio’s more than generous curves, from her wide hips to the swell of her bust, and the collar trailed up to accentuate the graceful curve of her neck, to her full, pink lips.

In short, Adagio was breathtaking, and I licked my lips a little as the stray, treacherous thought flickered through my mind, wondering what those lips might taste like.

“Good evening, Miss,” Adagio said with a faintly haughty smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced though I admit… you seem awfully familiar.”

“She was a student at Canterlot High,” Sonata said brightly, and Adagio sighed as I stiffened.

“Is that why my sister was blatantly outing her true age?” Adagio said dryly. “I suppose there’s little to hide from someone who saw that mess. Is that true then?”

“Y-Yes… I suppose it is,” I replied in a wary voice.

“Ah,” Adagio said, giving her hand a slight wave in my direction. “Well go ahead then, get the whole ‘monster’ schtick out of your system, I do have a lounge to see to.”

I frowned. “I’m not here to satisfy a grudge,” I said evenly, “I’m just here to ask a question.”

“What a delightful change of pace,” Adagio said disinterestedly as she stopped to critically examine her nails. “And why should I answer you?”

“I just want to know what happened to Serenata,” I said simply.

I’m not certain I could have surprised Adagio more if I had cold-cocked her with a bar stool. She froze, her eyes still on her fingers for a moment before they rose with deadly slowness to fix onto me.

“What did you say?” She hissed.

Now it was my turn to freeze. Her eyes, once glittering orbs of warm raspberry light, were almost red with a kind of lambent hunger. Sonata swallowed thickly and quickly scooted away from us to go pour drinks elsewhere.

Shotgunning the rest of my whiskey, which was a damned shame given the age and quality of it, I took a deep breath and met those subtly ancient eyes.

“I… I want to know if you know a woman named Serenata Dazzle,” I said, proud that my voice only shook a little bit.

“And if I said I did?” Adagio asked in a low and deadly voice. “What would you do about it?”

“I want to know how to find her!” I said sharply. “I… I’ve been looking for ages and never found a trace!”

“And what would a mere mortal girl want with Serenata?” Adagio pressed, stepping closer until she was looming over me.

It was at that point that I realized Adagio was a good deal more, as they say, yoked, than I had expected. Her whole body was tense, her arms were flexed, and I could see the defined muscle across her body.

It was, shamefully, both terrifying and a little arousing.

“S-She taught me to play cello when I was just a little girl,” I stammered, backing up as I tried and failed to contain my trembling, “p-please, I just wanted to see her again! To show her how far I’ve come! I… I…”

Damn it all. Now I was crying. But a woman is not her tears.

“I want her to be proud of me!” I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly.

Adagio blinked in shock, then stepped back and cocked her head curiously to the side, examining me as if seeing me for the first time.

“No…” Adagio whispered, and it was so quiet it could only have been to herself. “No, it can’t be…”

“What?” I snapped, wiping at my cheeks. “What can’t be?”

“Melody?” Adagio breathed my name like a prayer, and I felt my heart freeze in my chest. “Octavia Melody? My little Melody?”

No… no, that’s… that’s not-

“What did you call me?” I murmured, my breath coming in sharply.

Adagio closed the distance between us in a moment and her hands swept over me. One hand came to rest on my cheek and I was poleaxed at the expression on her face.

Pure, almost delirious happiness.

“Nodens’ Oath…” she whispered, her smile broad as tears started at the edges of her eyes. “It is you… you’ve gotten so tall, and you’re so beautiful. It seems you certainly did become as pretty as me.”

I swallowed and shook my head. “N-No… no… you’re… her name was Serenata, not-”

“I’ve worn many names, my little Melody,” Adagio said with a soft smile. “Serenata was one of them, and one I used a few times here and there throughout history.” She stroked my cheek fondly. “One that I wore while teaching a beloved little girl how to find the music in her heart.”

Tears streamed from my eyes. My teacher… my hero… my ideal… was a monster. A wicked Siren who had enslaved my friends, my entire school…

“You’re lying,” I hissed, and Adagio jerked back as if I’d slapped her. “Serenata was beautiful! She was kind and gentle and graceful and she was not a monster!”

Adagio staggered back, her lower lip trembling, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear she was about to cry.

“Don’t you dare pretend to be her!” My voice came out raw and savage, so much so that I barely recognized it. “Don’t you dare!”

“I’m not… I’m not pretending,” Adagio said in a voice that was convincingly thick with tears. “I swear to you on my song I’m not… it’s me, little Melody, it’s-”

“Don’t call me that!” I snarled viciously, as I jabbed a finger into her chest, “only she gets to call me that! And you are not my… you are not her!”

“Please,” Adagio cried, tears falling down her cheeks like errant stars. “Please… I’ll swear on whatever you want… tell me what I have to do to convince you and I’ll do it!” she reached out a hand to me, “please… my Melody, please!”

I slapped her hand away from me, and the stricken look on her face became haunted.

“Don’t touch me, liar!” I snapped.

I turned on my heel and stalked away and, behind me, I heard a dull, hollow, thump. I glanced over my shoulder and felt a chill go up my spine.

Adagio had dropped to her knees, her arms wrapped around herself, and she was shaking. I saw tiny, glittering tears falling from her face to the floor as Sonata rushed to her side.

She was lying, I told myself. She had to be lying. She had to be.