A family friend had once said, “The first place the dead go is the heart of someone else.” Of course, in order for him to say this, some measure of tragedy would have had to befall him. Knowledge is not born from nothing, after all; it is derived from experience, and life has a habit of saying that the more unfortunate and tumultuous that experience is, the richer is the knowledge gained.

Dahlia Quill Apple had that quote stuck in her mind ever since her mother's funeral. Uncle Artifex, as he was often called by the other children of that entire group of Canterlot and Crystal Prep students who had, for better or for worse, banded together throughout the years as one cohesive pseudo-family, most certainly had a way with words, something that he and her mother had shared. This quote, among many others, long had cemented him, within that little group, as the "Wordsmith", though his wife, the former Siren, Adagio Dazzle, made it clear that her preferred term of endearment was far less kid-friendly. It amazed Dahlia that even at her age, Adagio retained her youthful habit of seductive teasing. It had waned with the years, of course, and with a daughter of their own it had further lessened. It seemed that being a parent came natural to Adagio, as she wanted her daughter to be "good and proper," as Rarity had succinctly described it, without the bad habits that the former villain had practiced before she and Artifex had met.

Former villain.

It also amazed Dahlia that that description existed, and not only that, but it was applicable to a surprisingly large number of people that her parents and friends knew. There were, of course, the ex-Siren sisters, Aria and Sonata, and there was also Soul Writer's wife, Sunset Shimmer, by far the most prominent of the group according to many. How strange it was, too, that those girls all shared the trait of being from another world, literally. If Dahlia hadn't seen the portal for herself, she would have been convinced that everyone was trying to fool her.

And with that world came magic. There again was that amazement, that several people were capable of channeling this strange, mystical energy from another realm entirely. And the fact that one of their number—Sunset Shimmer, of course—kept a close eye on it, and was in constant communication with a princess from that same other realm who, apparently, was the avatar of that magic, was by no means anything short of a phenomenon.

That word could describe more than a fair share of Dahlia’s life. But then again, she figured it could be used to describe the life that was not hers, but that had been her mother’s, and her father’s, and everyone else who had known them and who were close to them. Phenomenons of the human sort, like miracles in the mortal form.

I should use that line…

But would she remember it, without writing it down?

She considered this, thinking that line over and over, adjusting it so that it rhymed better, and matching it with an experimental set of notes that only she could hear, all as she stirred her morning cup of coffee. She had poured almost half of the creamer into it, or at least as much as she could without spilling over the cup, because the kind of coffee her father, Big Macintosh Apple, bought and used was, in her opinion, far too bitter for normal consumption without at least drowning it for two hours in a sweeter supplement. She brought the cup to her lips and blew, the cold breath brushing over the brown liquid, and she could smell on her intake of breath the scent of hazelnut and cinnamon. The latter ingredient was a family preference, introduced first by Big Mac’s former girlfriend to him, then to Dahlia’s mother, and now to her. A touch of it here, a pinch of it there, and for some reason you could make damn good coffee that most other people could not match.

Dahlia took a sip, swirling the coffee in her mouth before swallowing. It was sweet and warm—just the right combination of both to satisfy her. She nodded to herself, then turned and left the kitchen to sit down at the dining room table.

Big Mac, her father, sat opposite of her, reading the newspaper. His reading glasses glinted in the morning sunshine, making his green eyes—which Dahlia had inherited, along with his freckles—pop and glow almost with an ethereal glow. He looked over at her as she sat down. He had been eating an egg-and-cheese sandwich on a bagel, and it now sat on his plate half-eaten. He had also taken his own cup of coffee, though, for the life of her, he had added nothing but cinnamon to it.

He noted her scrunched up face, and offered a chuckle. “Yer still bothered by that, ain’t ya?” he asked. He had not lost his traditionally southern drawl even after living years away from the countryside. Once an Apple, always an Apple, he was fond of saying, as was Dahlia’s aunt Apple Bloom.

Dahlia smiled at her father. “Yeah. I just can’t get how you can like it. Doesn’t it, I don’t know, burn your tastebuds?”

“If it did,” he replied easily, ruffling the paper and turning the page, “then Ah’d need to make it even darker than ever.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Sure is, if y’consider adding cough syrup a small sacrifice to pay.”

Dahlia gagged, and Big Mac laughed. His was a deep baritone laugh, quiet and subdued like a soft roll of thunder. “You never kissed Mom with that in your mouth, did you?”

“Ah tried a few times,” he said, looking back at her. There was an amused glint in his grin. “But each time, she’d threaten to throw the cup at me.”

Mom.

The first month after the funeral, it had proven impossible for either Dahlia or Big Mac to discuss her. It was not for lack of trying; there were always instances where her name came up. But back then it was simply too soon to do some serious reflecting without incurring some incredible pain for the two of them. This was most often brought on by their friends and family—they meant their best, and never wanted to hurt them, but it was clear to everyone that there would be no discussion of the late Ink Quill—at least, no discussion that would position her as being “late.” The pain was fresh, after all; you cannot rush through it or peel it off as though it was a Band-Aid.

That had been a painful month. But then, as the saying goes, time began to heal them, and within the next several weeks little moments like this began to crop up. Ink Quill seemed to show up at random, whether in a piece of paper that was flying through the air as a result of an open door, or a soft lullaby playing on the radio which reminded the two of them of her latent talent, though untrained, for singing. And there was, of course, the constant reminder of her success as an author. Between raising a family with Big Mac and writing stories for a living, Ink Quill had managed to accrue a substantial presence in the literary world, and she was lauded for her romance novels as much as she was for her recent endeavors into the children's books’ world. Between the radio, television, and even the occasional newspaper headline (when newspapers were still being read—which Big Mac insisted would be forever in the long run), Ink Quill would not be forgotten.

And with that knowledge, both Dahlia and Big Mac felt the pain begin to recede, and they could talk freely of her. Their mistake was thinking that, with her death, Ink Quill was no more; in reality, she was something much more. Dahlia was by no means a spiritual person, but she knew that, in many ways, her mother wasn’t truly gone. She was there in the mornings, in the chair, usually going over a bit of a manuscript with a blue fountain pen; or she was out and about when Dahlia was going for a walk, humming something that only she heard, and inspiring her daughter with a sense of musicality which had become her own.

Which was why, perhaps, Uncle Artifex’s words had emerged to the forefront of her mind. In them, there was truth; and with them, she knew her mother was still around, watching her, loving her, and never about to leave her side. Her final gift, a song which she would never forget, was a testament to that fact.

“Really?” Dahlia said. “She’d throw the cup at you?”

“Well, she’d threaten. Came close a few times, then Ah got smart and stopped.”

“Are we sure we’re talking about the same person? I always thought Mom was a bit on the reserved side.”

“She was,” he said, putting the newspaper down and stopping to take a bite out of his breakfast. “But, there were some times where she became even fiercer than Gaige.”

“Really? That’s hard to believe. From what I’ve heard, no one’s got a fierce streak like Auntie Gaige.” She smiled to herself, remembering that the pig-tailed girl hated being called “Auntie,” which was why Hazel and Ink had both insisted she be called that. Punishment for being late for Ink’s baby shower, as it turned out.

Big Mac laughed. “All right, maybe Ah’m exaggerating. But trus’ me. When she got goin’, yer mother could make even the most staunch of men run fer the hills. Didn’t even need to shout, fer the most part.”

He paused, thinking. A smile lit across his face, much brighter and youthful than before. “I remember this one time, in our senior year in high school … Well, maybe Ah shouldn’t say. It’s mighty embarrassing, not fer me, nor Ink, but fer the other guy.”

“No way, Dad.” Dahlia put her cup down and leaned forward. “You started this, you gotta finish this.”

“Fine, fine! Your mother would say the same thing.” He took a sip of his coffee, then looked down at it. “You know, funnily enough, it began with a cup of coffee…”

***

But it wasn’t Mac’s coffee, or Ink’s, but rather a local Starbucks who had supplied her with it. She hadn’t even meant to go into Starbucks—in fact, she’d never been up until that point—but a sudden call from her benefactor made a quick coffee break a necessity. Luckily she never went anywhere without her laptop, and, after setting up and letting her benefactor know that she’d call him back soon, she went to the counter to order.

It was a cold Saturday in early January. Snow had come all throughout the week in various spurts, and while the city of Canterlot had managed to clear the roads, ice had made for more than a fair share of delayed openings and closings for CHS. Spring Break had days taken away, much to the student body’s disappointment. That Saturday, however, Ink was not thinking about how disappointing her two-day Spring Break would be, but rather, why her benefactor had chosen to call her at that exact time.

She thought about this as she went back to her seat, and also why she referred to him as her benefactor. Certainly, Mr. Opacare Prose was by no means a close friend, but “benefactor” seemed also a strangely unfamiliar and aloof title. But she could not think of anything else, as he had really been her benefactor of more than one thing: between her foot-in-the-door for the publishing world, as well as helping to pay off her mother’s medical bills, Mr. Prose had done more than enough to earn that title. And now, with constant advisement about her writing, or at least the excerpt she had given him for that Wordsmith Contest—God, that seemed so long ago!—it made sense to her that she should hold him in such a high regard.

But even then, she knew he would have preferred nothing so lofty. During one call, when she had thanked him again for everything he’d done, he stopped her. “Ink,” he said, “really, there’s no need to be excessive about it. You’ve thanked me more than enough.” And that had gotten her to blush, and then to apologize, which had annoyed him, but in the way that someone who means well but then fumbles their own words may mildly annoy others.

She was so caught up in this thinking, though, that she failed to notice the patch of ice that had yet to melt right in front of her. She only noticed when the world suddenly spun back. “Agh!” she cried out.

A pair of strong hands caught her and her coffee. “Whoa, there, girlie! Almost took a nasty spill!”

She gasped for breath, thinking at first that it had been Big Mac who had caught her. Then, almost immediately, she realized it wasn’t him, but some other boy. “Oh! Um, thanks, mister. Gosh, that was rather clumsy of me.”

“Nah, you’re good,” he said.

She noted that his hands were locked firmly around her waist, having somehow traveled from her arms to there. She frowned. “Um, could I—”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t fall again.”

She wiggled out of his grip and turned to get a better look at her catcher. He was a tan-skinned young man, with milk-chocolate covered hair that was cropped over to one side. He winked at Ink with his green eyes, a smile on his face that, for some reason, she knew she did not like. “Name’s Feather Bangs, sweetheart,” he said, flicking his hair over to the other side.

Ink nodded, frowning. “It’s not sweetheart,” she said.

“I meant no offense,” Feather Bangs said, “but, well, you see, I didn’t know your name, so I wasn’t sure what else to call you.” And again he flashed her that smile which unsettled her.

“Okay. Well. Thanks for catching me, Feather Bangs.”

“Not a problem…”

He trailed, looking at her expectantly. I suppose it can’t hurt, she thought. She motioned to herself with her coffee. “I’m Ink Quill.”

“Ink Quill! A lovely name, for a lovely dame!” He paused, humming out the last syllable. “Hmm. What rhymes with ‘dame?’”

She gazed at him for a moment longer, before gesturing with her cup to her table. “Um, may I—” Yet without so much as a returning glance, Feather Bangs moved out of the way, allowing her to sit down.

No sooner had she, and no sooner had she opened up her laptop to find the document that Opacare Prose had referred to his in quick call, that she felt the table move. She looked around the laptop, and saw Feather Bangs sitting in the other seat. Her eyes momentarily widened. “Um…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, again flicking his hair. “You can look. Most people do, anyway, and I can’t say I blame them.”

“Okay…” She looked back at her laptop and entered her login information. Her hand brushed over to her phone and she flicked over to find Mr. Prose’s phone number. She looked up again, and saw that Feather Bangs was still sitting across from her, watching her with a smile.

“Okay, I give up,” she said. “Is something wrong, Feather Bangs?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Well…” He placed a finger on the table, and traced a vaguely curvy shape. “I visited a fortune-teller the other day,” he said, seemingly throwing out the previous topic. Do you know what she said?”

“No?” And frankly Ink didn’t care, but she also didn’t care to tell him that, either. He seemed nice enough, if a bit weird.

“She said, ‘Someone will come into your life who will warm the house you call home.’ Do you believe in destiny, Ink Quill?”

Again with the foregoing of the topic. She was quiet, re-adjusting to the sudden transition. Feather Bangs was looking at her expectantly. “Do you?” he asked.

“Er, I mean, maybe?”

Her laptop finished booting up, and she scrolled over to the documents folder to find her manuscript. Her other hand remained hovering over her phone.

“I believe in destiny,” Feather Bangs said quietly. Then he leaned over, eyes shimmering. “And I believe it is destiny that you and I met today, here and now, during one heck of a cold spell.”

She only really heard the end part, for she mumbled, “It’s not that cold,” but he didn’t hear her, or maybe he ignored her, so caught up in his own zeal.

“So you agree! Then that old hag was right—someone has come to warm where I call home!”

He was leaning so much over that the table was beginning to topple. Politely, she asked him to sit back down before the coffee spilled. He seemed taken aback by this, but only momentarily.

As the manuscript finally opened, Feather Bangs offered a laugh. “Ah, I see the old fortune-teller neglected to say you would be hard to get! But that’s okay. I like it when a woman’s a bit tough.”

She heard the last part and raised her eyebrow at him. He seemed to take that as invitation to continue. “Perhaps you need to be serenaded, before we can warm our homes.”

She only had a moment to begin saying, “Wha—” before the young man before her broke out in song:

“This one's for you Lady Quill!

My love for you is like the most Warm Eggplant,
Your face reminds me of Beautiful Goat,
Together, we are like Curry and Mayo.

Oh darling Ink,
My Warm Eggplant,
My Beautiful Carrot,
The perfect companion to my Curry soul.

Blood is red,
Water is blue,
I like Ink Quill,
But not as much as I love Hugging with you!

Oh darling Ink,
Your Hips are like Warm Scarf on a Winter day,
You're like the most Attractive Queen to ever walk Coffee Shop.

Your Beautiful Goat face,
Your Mayo soul,
Your Strong Hips,
Your Inattentive Queen being...

How could I look at another when our Warm Eggplant love is so strong?

I love you Lady Quill!”

All heads in the Starbucks had turned to see the commotion. So had Ink. She gazed, open-mouthed, as Feather Bangs finished the “song” with a bit of a head-roll. Technically speaking, he wasn’t a bad singer. But as for the song itself…

Does bleach work on ears, too?

At the very least, she finally understood what he was talking, or, well, “singing,” about, and upon realizing this, she felt a deep wad of pity grow inside of her. Oh, this poor boy. Oh, poor him, poor him.

He had not noticed the stares from the other customers, only Ink’s. He smiled brilliantly at her. “I see you are entranced by my singing skills!” he exclaimed. “Clearly, you are smitten beyond belief. At your word, we shall leave, and make haste for my home, where we can warm our bodies as it was foretold—”

“No.”

He stumbled over his words, but, to his credit, managed to retain a smile. “I… I’m sorry?”

She offered him her own smile, one that was filled with sorrowful compassion and pittance. “I said, no, Feather Bangs.”

He chuckled. “What? What do you mean, no? There’s no need to be indecisive, Ink Quill! It’s our destiny to be one!”

“You might think it is,” she said carefully, tapping her phone a few times in an effort to call Mr. Prose—I might as well multi-task—“but, well, I’m afraid I’m, um…”

And then she paused, thinking. “Well, how do I put this? I guess the best way is to say I’m taken.”

“Howdy, Ink.”

That one voice carried over the silence that the coffee shop held with bated breath. She looked over to the doorway, and saw, standing there in his thick down jacket and his hair just a little bit ruffled, Big Mac. She beamed at him. “Mac! What a surprise!”

“Sorry to come in unannounced,” he said, nodding to the nearby barista. She graciously let him in. “But Ah saw you inside and realized I wanted to let you know in person that dinner plans have changed.”

She frowned. “You mean, they’re cancelled?”

“Naw. They just got moved an hour back. They have a party going on fer some older folk, and needed to open up a slot. So I said they can have ours.” He rubbed the back of his head as he walked over. “Um, hopefully that ain’t a problem?”

“No, of course not.” She got up and stopped him halfway, giving him a quick peck on the lips. But he was taller than her, so she had to stand on her tippy-toes to give him one. She could feel Feather Bangs’ eyes on her, but at that moment she didn’t care. “That kind of kindness is what got me to fall for you, remember?”

“Aw, shucks. Here Ah was, thinking it was my wit.”

“Wit alone?”

“Eeyup.”

Ink giggled. Mac looked past her at the table. “Oh? And who’s this?”

Feather Bangs had gotten out of his seat, but he seemed uncertain as to what to do next. Ink decided to be helpful. “Oh. That’s Feather Bangs. I almost fell over there, but he managed to catch me before I did. Feather Bangs, this is my boyfriend, Macintosh Apple.”

“Howdy,” Mac said, extending a hand.

Feather Bangs furiously smacked his hand away. His face was a mix of shock and anger. “What the—you teasing, lying fiend!” he yelled at Ink.

Mac frowned. “Now hold on, that ain’t a way t’ speak to Ink.”

“I didn’t lie about anything,” Ink said, smiling pleasantly. “You just didn’t let me finish.”

“Wha—but, the fortune-teller, and—and you, coming here, and the cold, and the warming—”

“Maybe someone else will come,” she offered. She looked back at Mac. “Thanks for coming by to let me know about tonight, though. I could use the extra hour.”

“To yourself?”

“Of course not! With you!” She kissed him again. There were a few “awws” from the Starbucks’ customers. In the past, she would have been embarrassed to be showing off such obvious displays of affection, but something about the present moment made her throw aside such hesitancy.

“No!” she heard Feather Bangs say. He slammed his hand on the table, nearly upsetting it. Ink moved quickly to catch her coffee before it spilled. “No, my fortune—it said—it wouldn’t be wrong! It wouldn’t be!”

“I’m sorry, Feather Bangs,” she said.

“You’re not supposed to be sorry!” he wailed. “You’re supposed to come home with me and warm my sheets!”

She felt Mac tense up. He was a gentle soul, so she doubted he would resort to throttling the young man, but she would rather he not throw down in a coffee shop. The other patrons appeared just as ready to fight Feather Bangs, though. And the poor boy was fuming, practically foaming at the mouth. Maybe the fortune-teller had slipped him something. Ink felt sorry for him.

“You want warmth?” she said. “Okay, here.”

And she threw the contents of her cup onto him.

She had, conveniently, forgotten what exactly she’d gotten, so when she threw it onto Feather Bangs, she was more than a little surprised at his resulting appearance. Whatever she’d gotten was not coffee, but rather a colorful parody of it, and it coated his skin in multi-colored hues and long strokes of sugary supplement. Apparently she had also gotten whipped cream with her drink, as now Feather Bangs had a glob of it in place of his nose.

For several tense seconds, no one moved. No one said anything.

Then Feather Bangs screamed and ran out of the Starbucks, coffee deluge trailing behind him, and loud jeers soon followed after. Meanwhile the shop, which had for that moment been tensely watching the events unfold, let loose a series of thunderous applause.

All of this brought Ink down from whatever cloud she’d been riding, and she realized with a fierce blush what she’d done. “Oh, geez. I’m gonna be in so much trouble.” Then she turned to Mac. “Mac, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me!”

He laughed. “What’re ya apologizing for? I was gonna beat him up myself, until you took the shine.” He shook his head. “Whoowee, remind me not to get on yer bad side unless I want Rainbow-Unicorn Special dumped on me.” And Ink’s blush grew even fiercer.

The barista who had let Mac in came over. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “We know that guy’s type, and no one here’s gonna let you get punished for dealing with him the way we all were thinking of doing. Here.” She took Ink’s now-emptied cup from her, offering a wink. “Let me make you another. On the house.”

As she was walking away, Ink heard someone clear their throat. She looked around, bewildered, then realized it was coming from her phone. A feeling of dread overtook her. She took the phone and brought it close. “Um, hi, Mr. Prose.”

Mr. Prose coughed. “Uh… I take it this is a bad time to call, Ms. Quill?”

“Maybe a little bit…”

And Mac howled with laughter.

***

“Mom did that? Seriously?”

“As seriously as Ah can be,” her father said with a nod. “Never happened again, and we never saw that boy ever, at least in Canterlot. That particular Starbucks never forgot, though, and Ink became quite the little celebrity ‘round those parts.”

“You don’t say. And his name was Feather Bangs?”

“Yeah? Why? Aw, don’t tell me yer friends with his son or sumthin’ like that.”

Dahlia smiled. “Not quite. He was set to be my music teacher back in school.”

“Really? What happened to him?”

“He was let go after attempting to woo the principal’s wife when she came to visit. Apparently he even tried to break out in song before getting hauled out.”

Mac whistled. “Phew. Small world, many wonders, there, as Ink used to say.”

And that was another way to describe her mother, Dahlia realized. A person, a small world, but filled, no doubt, with many untold wonders.

Author's Note

Feather Bangs's song was created using a song lyric generator, by the way. So of course it sounds bad. Then again, so was he :P