Positive/Negative Integers Ahead
There were too many things to do on the day after Hearth's Warming, and Rarity felt it best to begin with the few which she actually wished to deal with. Because the holiday was over, and it felt as if its departure had left a certain pulling vacuum in her heart. She could feel that as she huddled deep under the blankets on that morning, her body curled on itself in an attempt to keep from having to face the day for just a while longer. It was the sort of posture better suited to Opal, and the thought made Rarity shift just a little, trying to find the cat's warmth and pressure against her body.
It took a moment to locate the feline, it only happened when Rarity risked exposing any portion of her head, and it meant her first fresh sensations of the morning were hearing the yowl and, a split-second later, feeling outraged claws swipe against unscratchable, unbreakable horn.
"Well," Rarity crossly declared (and it was already a cross declaration, well before the first touch of too-late winter Sun), "we have had this discussion, have we not? They are my pillows and if you are going to insist upon sleeping on them, you will reasonably have to expect a poke now and again."
The cat countered this rather reasonable argument through jumping down to the floor, where she promptly began to yowl because Rarity had been awake for all of a minute and food had yet to be delivered, so clearly yowling was required.
"Your deliberate ignorance of logic," Rarity muttered, "can become annoying."
She had to force herself out into her bedroom's too-cold air, which meant the next thing to happen was a desperate dash for the upper level's temperature controls. Normally, she checked the weather schedule before going to sleep and adjusted accordingly, but -- Hearth's Warming. There had been too much to do on the holiday itself, and she'd simply chosen to collapse. She hadn't even thought about using her gift --
-- which meant the next thing to do was locating it, followed by a careful drape across the top layer.
Good color choice. A thick weave. Rarity nodded her silent approval. It should help tonight. Something to mention during the most necessary stage --
The contemplative moment was broken up by the announcement of a higher priority, because it had now been more than a minute, there was still no food, and that called for the sort of yowl which meant the world was ending.
"...of course," Rarity muttered. "Because Moon has forbidden that I enjoy a single moment of peace on this day." She began to trot towards the bedroom door. "I would wish you a happy Hoofticuffs Day, Opal, but that would rather defeat the purpose of what this day is about -- yes, I am perfectly aware that you are hungry, thank you, you may cease your racket because verbal spells do not exist and you are not capable of summoning me any faster! Unlike a cat who has undoubtedly fouled her litter box throughout the night and may use a corner to show how upset she is about the food delay, I have toiletries, and I will reach your bowl when I --"
-- stop.
It isn't her fault.
The day's barely started and I...
...just apologize.
"I am sorry, Opal," Rarity sighed. "It's just... this day."
She was never certain about just how much Opal understood: Rarity felt her pet was rather intelligent for a cat, but... well, she'd tried asking Fluttershy, and the usual response on such queries from the only pony who could know was '...just let her be Opal.'
Words? A few, and perhaps no more. But emotions -- now and again. And the cat stopped yowling.
Things she had to do. Feed her cat, followed by choking down a degree of breakfast: she needed the food, but she didn't feel hungry and her stomach was rather reluctant to uptake. Something else which happened every year.
She cleaned herself, groomed her fur as best she could, because she needed to start the day in an intact state: doing so allowed her to gauge the remaining portion of her sanity through a simple glance at any mirror. And after that... the best part.
Her personal clothing label was fieldwritten, because precise control and long practice had combined to give her a rather elegant calligraphy. With that skill applied elsewhere, words flowed across six sheets of desk-arranged paper, were checked for spelling, precision of terms, and flow of emotion. This quite naturally meant the fetching of six more sheets, and it took several drafts before she was satisfied enough to seal the results. As with her dresses, the act of creation required extra crafting in order to precisely fit the recipients.
They should go out today.
She immediately rethought that.
They should be delivered tonight. So they will know. They all put so much thought into it this year -- the piece on her bed was the nearest portion of proof -- and there should be no delay in responding to that. In... letting them know how I feel.
She went through the first part on the morning of Hoofticuffs Day every year (at least for the last few) -- and after that, she entrusted the results to another. But it had been an extraordinary year in so many ways...
I'll deliver them. After the Boutique closes for the night.
It would ensure they arrived quickly. It was proper, and it was arguably something she should have been doing years ago.
But it was also something to do after the Boutique closed, because it was Hoofticuffs Day and so she would have to open the doors: that was required by the nature of the anti-holiday. And once they finally, truly closed again...
It felt proper to deliver them herself.
It was etiquette.
But once it all ended, as much as it could... it would also get her away from the Boutique.
The Boutique preparations went quickly, because that was the best way. She'd been in business long enough to know how to best prepare for Hoofticuffs Day, and so had found it was much like getting ready to remove a splinter: the more time you spent thinking about it, the worse it became. It was best just to sterilize the area and let liquid flow --
-- a little too early to be thinking about flowing liquid --
-- as soon as possible. And after so many years of selling, she knew just how to lay out her supplies for pretending to treat the wounds. She just hadn't figured out how to keep them from being inflicted.
The first step was to take down the decorations. All of them. Hearth's Warming was over and that which followed (just the first stage of it) was unworthy of celebration. Enchanted false jewels were meant to cease their flashing on this day. The music which had incessantly played in every store needed to be put away before she began to once again think about just what a record traveling at high speed with a precisely-aimed edge might be able to do, and anypony who came in humming the overused tunes would be placed on the receiving end of an imaginary trajectory. Additionally, Rarity had what she felt was a perfectly natural loathing towards those who left their ornamentation in place for more than a week, and so felt the best thing she could do for them was to set a good example. Or rather, the best thing which wouldn't lead to a restraining order.
(She'd had a neighbor once, two shops away, who had felt the most expedient way of dealing with decorations was to leave them up at all times. The charge on the unevenly-flickering lights had run out just before Hearts And Hooves Day, Rarity had gotten her forelegs tangled in fine-drawn silver linking wires a week prior to the Wrap-Up, and the sensible response had clearly been to take everything down for him, followed by providing nearby storage: e.g. Field-Tossing All Of It Directly Into His Face. She was uncertain as to whether he was still incapable of reading a calendar, but his subsequent move to the other side of town meant it was no longer her problem.)
This included taking down the outside pieces under Moon's scant waning light, and so she rediscovered that the Weather Bureau had set up snow on the previous night. Also that snow was cold, miserable, and should be abolished by law, which was something she only rediscovered on Hoofticuffs Day and really needed to keep in mind for more than a week.
Seasonal merchandise was put away. She made sure one permanently-posted sign was clean, then rechecked its legibility. A second, slate-based temporary one was brought out of the storeroom, granted its opening (fully accurate) tally, and placed in a location where it could be readily viewed.
Several moons' worth of ledgers were carried out to the sales desk and arranged in precise temporal order. Experience meant the years prior were near the storeroom door, on standby.
(She could hear hooves outside. Milling about in the snow, crunching the fresh fall. There was also a certain mutter of aggravation, which seemed to be mostly about her insistence on keeping to the posted hours. Those ponies had started their own celebrations early.)
The ink supply was checked. A single assigned color was placed on the desk, in regrettable bulk. And then she searched both levels of the building until she found her cat, who had taken shelter under one of the rolling racks.
"As in previous years, I may need you today," Rarity quietly told the feline. "Please stay close."
Opal licked her right paw, then began to calmly wash her own ears.
Rarity checked the clock, found less than a minute of anticipation remaining. Looked through the nearest front window at the greyish light of risen winter Sun, then used it to count the ponies outside.
On any other day, to see so many waiting for her might have meant a welcome kind of celebration. But this was Hoofticuffs Day.
Her horn ignited. Light blue energy interacted with the locks, opened the doors, and the first mare stepped inside. This was a familiar Ponyville resident who was huffing from the cold or, given the day, just huffing from the burden imposed by saddlebags which were bulging at the seams from something other than bits.
The pegasus looked at the first sign, and Rarity watched as brown eyes carefully went over its contents. They then moved to the second sign, and confusion briefly reigned before the mare decided that she not only didn't get the joke, but had determined it wasn't funny. And then she got right to the point, because there were too many ponies coming in behind her and there might be only so much available before Rarity's well ran dry.
She nosed the right saddlebag open, and three exposed opals gleamed against deep blue fabric. It looked very much like a decoration of sorts, and the designer immediately decided the entire launching sketch had been a horrible mistake.
"I'd like to return this," the pegasus announced as she advanced across the floor. (Behind her, five other mares visibly reviewed the words for projection, tone, and perceived influence, then began to adjust their own future line readings accordingly.)
So let it flow.
"Do you have a receipt?" Rarity patiently asked through her smile, because it was the first of the day and so there was a little patience to be had.
"No."
In a rational world, the process would have been so much easier. However, Rarity lived in a world which had somehow decided that a fashion designer made up one-seventh of the equation required to keep the planet intact and on the darker days, that meant rationality wasn't necessarily assumed.
She should have had multiple advantages. Just for starters, virtually everything sold in the Boutique was her creation: the only current exceptions were a few hats which had been purchased to complement her dress designs. (Milliner work had never been her strength: she was competent, but -- the most talented pony she'd ever known existed years in Rarity's past, and no amount of searching through trade magazines had allowed her to find Coco again.) She recorded every sale in her ledgers. Discount the occasional counterfeiter whose work was easy to distinguish as fraudulent (at least for Rarity), the possibility that a palace-assigned mission temporary had failed to write something down, and the very few times she'd sold to other shops... typically, it meant there was but one place to purchase her goods. Well over ninety percent of all true sales could be tracked from the moment of first inspiration to the final transfer of bits. Receipts were, to a significant degree, redundant.
In a rational world, it would have been easy.
However, in Equestria...
Not every part of the day was torturous. Whenever possible, Rarity preferred to have the final recipients of her creations in the Boutique at the moment of sale, but -- Hearth's Warming, and it was unreasonable to expect that a gift-giver would 'coincidentally' bring somepony in for a few minutes of really-just-browsing, then take careful inner notes regarding just what their companion happened to longingly regard. Additionally, it was a Very Special Somepony Indeed who had every measurement of their loved one memorized, and the majority of that scant population tended to be mares purchasing for mares.
(Those couples generally listened carefully as they shopped together. The stallions generally had to be much more cautious about procuring the numbers, and direct queries of the mare involved could make for a poor (and verbally unanswered) set of last words.)
So in some cases, the pony entering on Hoofticuffs Day would simply need a dress adjusted to fit: extreme examples had the original purchaser somehow having overlooked a pair of wings. The flow of non-customer traffic meant Rarity typically had to book follow-up visits for the next moon, as there were just too many ponies to help all those within that category during a single day -- but most mares were content with that, and those few who had their public debut arriving sooner could be squeezed in.
Others had decided that the dress they'd been given wasn't to their taste -- but something else on the sales floor was: swaps were made, with minor price differentials sending bits flowing in one direction or the other.
Additionally, with those gift-givers who felt that including a receipt in the wrapped box was crass (and Rarity could see a touch of point to that, especially with clearance items where nopony wanted to tell their loved one how little they'd spent), she could usually find the purchase in her ledgers within minutes. She lacked Pinkie's near-perfect recollection for ponies, but she knew her own stock by heart. And for that which had been honestly paid for within the posted temporal limit for returns , where the mare was in the wrong color, the wrong size, occasionally the wrong species, and didn't want to listen to any of Rarity's recommendations due to a rather common adulthood disease which completely robbed the victim of anything resembling taste...
But it could be argued that those were the easy parts, although it would be the mares who were making that argument: after all, as far as they were concerned, the problems were being fixed. However, when it came to Rarity...
She maintained her smile, as best she could. She thought about the lessons of a summer not too far in the past, a hard-won education in dealing with those who made her teeth want to grind. And she waited for the inevitable.
The first absolute bucking moron arrived ninety minutes in.
"I have located your purchase," Rarity announced, vibrating slightly as she voiced the words: part of the movement came from annoyance, and the rest was an attempt to get the ledger's displaced dust out of her fur. "And I am sorry, but I cannot provide you with a refund."
"Why?" the puce earth pony demanded. (Because it was always going to turn into a demand at the first sign of denial. Liars demanded, and hoped that she would give them bits as a shield against their bluster.) "It's obviously yours!"
"Yes," Rarity agreed. "I am capable of recognizing my own stock. And as I keep sales ledgers, I am also capable of verifying my personal memory regarding how this dress came to be created. The trend which placed it in the shop window. And the time, because this dress was purchased at a point beyond my return period."
"Which is?" was the next demand.
Her corona ignited. Light blue indicated the first sign. "Posted there. My policies have always been posted there. I understand that some do not read them at the time of purchase in the shop, nor do they pay attention to the smaller version on their Boutique receipt. In your case, if you care to read it now --"
"-- I see a four," the mare declared, because it was rather hard to demand that.
"Yes. I recognize the need to purchase more than a full season in advance of the actual event, and grant lead time accordingly."
"So you're taking it back," resumed the previous pattern. "I'll take my bits --"
"Four moons," Rarity falsely smiled. "This dress was purchased four years ago. The return window has closed. As has that for exchange. Alteration would now be at an additional charge and, given your build, might incur some expenses for the extra fabric."
The mare, much to her rather dubious credit, didn't even slow down.
"A four," she stated, "is a four."
There was a moment when Rarity almost wished that was a new one.
Think about that summer. Think about not losing customers. Because there were others in the Boutique, waiting their turn, and it meant she had to be careful. She couldn't come across as being too aggressive. Kick a single deserving target and a dozen others might be wounded.
But still...
"I'm sorry, Rugula," Rarity apologized. "But I simply can't do that. After all the times you've been here, I would hope that you understood my policies --"
"-- Rugula?" And the mare had made the mistake of letting a little confusion leak in.
"Yes," the designer smiled. "You see, this dress was purchased by one of my dearest regulars. The first of them, actually. I always record her name with a purchase. So as I lack any other name to address you by --"
"Oh, right!" the mare quickly compensated. "Rugula! Of course she purchased her gift for me here. And you wouldn't want to offend a regular --"
"-- she purchased it here, yes," Rarity readily agreed. "I recall that now. Along with the fitting. Because she wanted to make sure the lines were precise, as it would do her little good to be at the party wearing something with a poor drape. So I took her measurements all over again, and she was happy." The smile became a little wider. "I do enjoy making my best customers happy. Especially those who occasionally clean out their many closets by donating a few old pieces to charity, as it shows that their hearts function as they should. But when a mare six sizes away from the true fit finds the dress for a fraction of the original cost at such a charity shop, and decides to gain profit in the form of a refund... I feel no obligation to make her happy at all."
"YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE --" wasn't exactly new either, and so it was as far as the mare got before Rarity's field clamped around her jaw.
"You might wish to go home now," Rarity suggested. "Based on your accent, that would be Canterlot. In the Tangle, probably within a block of the charity shop. And as you are clearly a newcomer in town, I can give you directions back to the train." She glanced at the crowd, found six faces full of rough amusement and one purple pegasus tail moving towards the door with indecent haste while trailing a faint odor of mothballs. "In fact, if the others don't mind waiting, I could even walk you there. We turn left by the police station -- oh. Well, if you feel you can find it yourself. Have a safe trip home! But you should really take your dress! You did pay for it --"
The door slammed.
"-- or not," Rarity shrugged. "May I help the next customer?"
But it didn't end there.
It never did.
"Brindle," Rarity patiently explained to the tawny-streaked, slim, and very entitled unicorn, "I don't understand how you expect me to take this back."
"It's a dress," the forever-aggravated mare declared, because she was the fourth-richest pony in town (with none of that having come from anything so crass as work) and so considered herself an expert on many things, presumably including whether something was or was not a dress.
Rarity looked the piece over for the third time, then very reluctantly gave it the benefit of a strictly temporary doubt.
"Yes."
Two mares immediately buried their faces in nearby clothing racks.
"You sell dresses," Brindle decided. The accompanying quick look around the Boutique was presumably being used to gather evidence against Rarity, and completely ignored everypony who was using said evidence to muffle their laughter.
"True."
"So give me a refund. You can see the price tag. It's right there. I'm not asking for anything more than what I paid."
Until I finish saying no and you use the endless hurt of denial as an excuse to sue for emotional damages. "I can see the price tag," Rarity agreed. "That also allows me to see the rest of what has been written."
It was nearly impossible to tell when Brindle was pretending not to understand something, largely because the sheer volume of experience tilted the other way. "So?"
"It is a dress," Rarity patiently explained, "with a price tag from Barneigh's. One of their exclusives, in fact. From their in-house product line." Not without pride, "I played no part in the creation of this dress, and can say that for all of the things they somehow continue to believe they should carry --"
"-- it's a dress," Brindle rudely interrupted.
"Yes," Rarity once again conceded, even though looking at what had been given the classification was currently pushing Generosity to the limit.
"A high-fashion dress."
Rarity's ears rotated towards the approximate direction of the library.
"...yes," just barely emerged, and mostly came into the world because the majority of her attention was focused on trying to hear if her Element had just exploded.
"You sell dresses," was the next step in the assemblage of the fallacy.
This time, Rarity was the one who looked around the Boutique.
"I can't really try to argue that."
"So," Brindle triumphantly concluded, "you'll give me the money for this dress. And then you'll have an exclusive piece, which you can sell here. Why should anypony refuse something in their sales category? Especially when it's so much better than their own designs?"
Rarity took a slow breath, felt the chill of winter air creep past the Boutique's heaters and work its way towards her soul.
The wrong thing to do was looking down at the stitched-together mass of bad ideas which had been strewn across the sales desk, mostly because regarding it for too long would risk identifying the involuntary donors and then she would need to notify their families. Instead, she allowed herself to very slowly turn her head to the left, drawing out the movement to the point where Brindle had to notice.
"What are you looking at? Are the bits over there or something? Because I'm not leaving without --"
It was possible to spot the exact moment when Brindle began to read. (The grinding of rusty mental gears was strictly imaginary, but Rarity wasn't sure the same thing could be said about the scent of smoke.) And then they were both looking at the second sign, with its declaration of slate and chalk.
PONIES KILLED TODAY
1
The mutual regard was followed by a moment when Rarity was no longer looking at the sign, and it took Brindle a moment to realize that the sight line had shifted. Two more were required before she recognized where the too-calm blue gaze was resting, and the next four were presumably being used to gear the imagination (which spent most of its time collecting more bits) up to speed.
You are what Diamond Tiara might have been when she grew up.
"Oh, good," Rarity neutrally observed as she looked directly at Brindle's face. "I did remember to put out the eraser. And fresh chalk. Now: regarding the status of your refund..."
Brindle was stupid, because she'd let money substitute for intelligence, taste, self-control, and any ability to distinguish a dark joke from shadowed reality. Brindle was, in some ways, easy, because she was merely stupid.
But then there were the ones who were stupid and desperate.
She looked the stallion over. He was a rather remarkable presence on Hoofticuffs Day, and his gender was no small part of that. Most of the rest came from the sweat. It was rare to have a pony enter sweating in the winter, and she was currently trying to keep him in the center of the shop because any major movements would do horrible things to her cleaning bills.
Rarity had already figured him out, of course. He was remarkable -- but in numbers tallied across the years, he wasn't unique. There had been stallions before him, in much the same situation: the mare wasn't going to make the return (didn't want the confrontation, couldn't be bothered, was busy taking back other items) and had left him in the rather tricky situation of having to bluff his way through somepony else's purchase, without a receipt, bearing an item which was well past its return date, in a dress shop. It was a situation which could make a stallion think of Tartarus, mostly as a longed-for lifestyle improvement.
This one, however, had become... creative. Exceptionally so, to the point where the sheer accumulation of mirth in the fabric-muffled audience (excepting those who were helplessly rolling about in the dressing rooms) had granted Rarity the freedom to dispose of him however she wished. Because the unseen mare was either remarkably attractive or in possession of certain vital parts -- the conditions were not necessarily mutually exclusive -- and he was willing to do anything, anything to win her favor...
...even this.
"-- and that's why I couldn't bring it back until now," the stallion finished, frantic words rowing their way across Lake Hewannabegone. "You -- understand, don't you? You can give me the bits?"
She must be the most beautiful mare in the world.
Or he's being blackmailed.
(Still not mutually exclusive.)
Rarity carefully trotted out from behind her sales desk, skirted the far shores until she saw a fluffy tail poking out from under a satin-rendered hock line.
"Opal?"
The cat turned, poked its head out.
"I need you," Rarity instructed, "to go to the tree. And fetch Twilight. Immediately, as this is a matter she must investigate. Please stress that to her, to come at once. And that she needs to bring most of the contents from the basement. Including that thing which... which..." Vocabulary met Twilight's research equipment, and lost. "...it's the turning shiny piece with the spindly vapors coming off it, all right? Tell her all that for me?"
The cat stared at her.
Rarity bent her foreknees, leaned in, and very carefully mouthed the word Bath. Opal ran.
"There!" Rarity announced as she straightened up again. "Help is on the way!"
"Help?" the sweating stallion asked. "...what -- 'help'?"
"For your condition!" Rarity smiled. "I recognize that you are new in town -- not that I could recognize you in any other way, given your unique situation -- but you are aware of Ponyville's rather -- singular population? That we host the Element-Bearers?"
"...yes," he tried.
Although as per usual, not that I happen to be one of them. "Then rejoice! For I have just summoned the direct attention of Magic to your cause!"
He began to go pale, which struck Rarity as being rather impressive because blaze-red ponies generally weren't capable of that.
"M-m-magic? The Element?"
"Yes!" Rarity declared as two mares fell over on the spot, with the earth pony's spasms of laughter placing her a little too close to the tide line. "I assure you, there is nopony better qualified to help you, even when the event is unprecedented! And as I understand it, really should have killed you." (She didn't look at the sign.) "Just from what would need to happen internally. To certain organs, and their current absence -- well, she will sort that out in short order. But imagine the opportunity found in gaining her assistance! Along with providing the chance for her to advance in previously-unknown magical studies! Because truly, sir -- oh, I am sorry! -- truly, miss, for a magical accident to turn a mare into a stallion, who of course can no longer wear her dress -- well, that is unprecedented. But I am certain that our Magic can find a way to change you back!"
She watched as all four knees threatened to drop him to drowning level, and then provided one extra push.
"Oh, and regarding those internal changes?" Rarity added. "She will require a direct view."
There were the ones where she had to laugh, even if she usually needed to hold that back until privacy was reached.
There were also the times when she wanted to cry.
It wasn't just her. The first year had seen her go through it alone: she'd taken it personally, found an isolated place for hating herself and -- Mr. Rich had been out for a walk, decompressing from his own agonies at the moment he'd heard the muffled weeping from hers. He'd sat with her for a time (in the snow, because there was always snow on the schedule) and explained about the other day. That which followed Hearth's Warming, something which inflicted itself on just about every retail shop on the continent, at least when it came to the non-consumables.
Hoofticuffs Day. They all went through it together, and every last one of them went through it alone.
He'd told Rarity... that it was harder for her. Not just because of their relative levels of income: she'd seen that, and he'd politely skimmed across it. But because he sold things which other ponies had made, and with Rarity -- just about everything in the Boutique had been created by her. It was her merchandise. Her designs. And so when items came back, something within insisted the fault must have been hers.
(It had taken years to fully understand what he'd said to her that night.)
(She would forever appreciate that he had done his best to help.)
Inadequate.
Unwanted.
On a cold night in Ponyville, as an assigned breeze blew chill air through her fur.
Every year.
There were errors and frauds and trotting jokes among the parade. One of the Boutique's year-round problems simply used the occasion to become a little more intense: the mare who'd decided she could purchase a dress, wear it once, and then get her money back. That was... hard to get past, unless the wearer had managed to do visible damage or washed it in such a way as to create color errors. But there were always some who managed to bring in near-perfect items and no matter what Rarity's suspicions were -- there was nothing she could do.
And with others? Her dresses would be given as gifts, the receipts would be present to go with a properly-recorded sale and -- the mare just wouldn't like the dress. Rarity's mark gave her a talent for creation: not for anticipating and matching the tastes of unseen others. Those returns had to be accepted and refunded, because they were fully legitimate. They just... hurt. Because the dresses were hers, somepony rejecting them could make it feel like she had been rejected, and even when she managed to look beyond that for a moment... it was bits flowing out of the Boutique, never to be seen again.
The ledgers could claim a strong holiday, and nothing was ever truly final until some time after Hoofticuffs Day. And for those years which had seen her creations not quite match the herd's fickle taste -- a weak season could always become worse.
They came for hours, because they always did. They always would. And here and there, she found laughter.
But it was mirth unearthed in the midst of agony, and the wounds flowed across her ledgers as red ink.
Finally, it ended, at least for that day.
She locked the doors. A few minutes were used for math and after the subtraction of bits ended, she added two more minutes for sitting quietly until she could pretend the pain was going away.
Opal rubbed up against her, and she allowed that to last as long as it could.
I barely ate.
I'm not hungry.
She checked the slate tally, found it accurate. And she wanted to simply end the day right there, give up until tomorrow and then give up again, but... she had made a decision. Better yet: a decision which would take her away from the Boutique. A physical distance placed between herself and failure, if not a spiritual one.
Rarity bundled herself against the chill: jacket, scarf, boots which could take a certain amount of passage through snow, and that quantity never turned out to be all of it. Then she gathered those six things which still felt important, placed them in saddlebags, and went out.
It was the very last stop before she could head for home. Back to the Boutique and Opal (fed before her departure, of course) and a bed which might need warming pans shoved between the sheets (although perhaps not, with the newest addition to the room), because the day had been too long, winter meant night had fallen long ago, and she'd been trudging through snow for...
...it didn't matter. It was what had to be done. It was the proper thing to do, and so Rarity would do it.
I should eat before I go to bed.
Not that she had much left in the kitchen's raw drawers, and when it came to cooking... no, not tonight, and a restaurant was out of the question: she'd given too much money back to pay any out. She could find something to heat.
Her hooves moved along the last part of the path. It had been cleared at some point: pushing the weight of snow was no issue for the home's residents. (Rarity could become exhausted from attempting to shift a double hoof-height of six body lengths in radius from the full diameter of the Boutique, and didn't currently want to think about paying anypony to do that either.) But the wind had shifted a fresh coating into the space, and that meant she was breaking a trail through a shallow ravine. Every hoofstep registered in her ears as a crunch, and through her boots as penetrating cold.
Just drop it off. She was approaching on an angle which gave her some view of a corner: it let her see curtains, some of the light which was mostly stopped in place by their fall, and -- the shadows of pony forms moving behind them. They're eating. It would be rude to interrupt. Place it in the mail slot and go back to Ponyville.
She moved closer still, horn already beginning to ignite, corona ready to fish in her saddlebags for the final delivery. Snow crunched under her hooves --
-- and the sound set off the dog.
Rarity froze (and coming to a full stop in winter air doubled the meaning). It cost her crucial seconds, a loss compounded by those used for indulging in dark thoughts regarding those who insisted canines were superior, and then the sheer din from all the barking seemed to be making it harder to concentrate, the rummage was taking too long and --
-- the door opened. Light shone across the snow, illumination which carried a touch of rapidly dissipating warmth: enough to recognize, strain towards, perhaps briefly feel -- but she could never bask within. And that light created a pair of silhouettes, placing shadows in both rays and white.
Winona, with her rather dubious duty performed, stopped barking, wagged her tail and looked slavishly proud of herself. The canine's accompanying pony was rather more tense.
Green eyes met blue. Noticed the saddlebags and lit horn before narrowing slightly, and then the blonde mane shifted as the freckled features turned back towards the light.
"Ain't a problem!" that mare called into the house -- then, because she was exactly herself, added "Ah think," before turning back to Rarity. "Ain't one, right? 'cause there ain't been no scrolls, an' Ah usually don't expect a mission alert t' arrive on hoof."
"No mission," Rarity sighed. (The very last delivery, and this was where she would be stalled...)
"No mission!" the earth pony shouted towards the general direction of the dining room. "Ah'll come back in soon!"
Distant voices merged into a current of general acknowledgement, and the home's owner looked forward again. (The dog ran back inside, because the table scraps were that way.)
"Can't really blame me for figurin' that."
Rarity shook her head.
"Ain't like y'jus' come out here," Applejack added. "Not at this hour. Not by yourself. An' in the snow, no less."
No further head shaking seemed to be required.
The awkward silence settled in while the mares looked at each other, its weight shifting a few of the smaller flakes.
Finally "So whatcha doin' on the Acres tonight?"
"I simply meant to drop this off," Rarity sighed again, her field belatedly fetching the last piece. "But it was a rather long day, and... well, quite frankly, while I can see the benefit in having an alarm of sorts go off every time somepony not of the immediate family approaches, I imagine it becomes tiresome during the reunions. This was for you, Applejack. My apologies for disturbing your dinner."
The light blue bubble of energy floated forward, stopped within teeth-nipping distance of Applejack's face. The orange jaw didn't move.
"It's an envelope," the farmer described the obvious.
"It is," Rarity countered, "a thank-you note. For the Hearth's Warming gift."
"...an'," Applejack continued after the disbelief had settled across the snow, "y'came out here t' give it t' me. A note."
"Had I written it considerably later in the day," Rarity retorted, "it would have been more of a full letter. I currently find myself rather more appreciative of the opportunity to burrow beneath a thick comforter, especially after receiving the chill of --"
-- no.
She wasn't part of today.
Take a breath. Shake the snow out of my tail. And say I'm sorry.
"-- I apologize," she quickly added. "I truly do. It was just -- a long day, Applejack. And I wanted to make sure I delivered these to the group on this day, at the first chance I had. You are my final stop." Because it was easier to cut across the Acres on the way back from the cottage. And with the others...
I heard the twins crying, and did not intrude on the bakery. Spike needs more rest when it's cold, and I didn't want to disturb Twilight. Reaching Rainbow's home is impossible for me, there's too much going on at the cottage at night, and...
...I'm not good company.
Not today.
The farmer was looking at her. Just -- looking.
"I do appreciate your gift," Rarity finished. "And -- somewhat more. Again, I am sorry: both for snapping and breaking into your meal. Good night."
She began to turn.
"Long day?"
"Rather. Good evening to --"
"Why?"
The honest curiosity acted as a magnet against her ears, and Rarity turned back.
"Returns," she sighed. "Or attempts at same. Exchanges here and there. Stupidity trying to justify too much of it. Bits going out: that is what the day after Hearth's Warming means for me, and so many others who refer to this as Hoofticuffs Day. The season for welcoming has ended, and so begins the season for resisting the urge to murder."
It was an odd combination of tones: a morbid tease. "Anypony die?"
"Yes."
Applejack blinked. "Who?"
"Me. They killed me, as they do every year." Rarity shrugged, and a few flakes drifted free from the shifted scarf. "I made sure to preemptively tally it for the public total."
Uncertain now, "Rares --"
"-- of course," she added, "it is but the first death. There are more to come."
"An' how do y'figure that?"
"Today was, for the most part, comprised of locals. The majority of my customers who are Canterlot residents tend to spend Hoofticuffs Day returning items to Canterlot stores." With what she felt was an odd reasonableness, "I am not expecting them to take the train here until tomorrow. And I imagine there will be a few packages in the mail over the next moon, eventually added to that one party who always feels the best time to return a winter garment is in the heart of summer. Well-worn, of course, even when they insist the visible signs were produced by the pressure of the air within their closet..."
She sighed. And because she was tired, because the day had been so long and there was at least one more to come -- the next words simply slipped free.
"There are times when I envy you."
It was a sentence which acted as a physical force, pushing that tired gaze away from Applejack and placing the majority of Rarity's focus onto the door's hinges. (They could take a polish.) For the farmer's part, Rarity's soft admission had levered orange forehooves from the floor, sending Applejack into a very partial, extremely brief rearing-back.
"Y'do," was jarred loose upon landing, and a far-too-typical amount of doubt saturated Rarity's ears. It wasn't uncommon to hear that when she was speaking with Applejack. It was the verbal undertone from their exemplar of Honesty trying to figure out just how much to believe from the most frequent liar.
"For being in a trade which tends to remain stable from year to year, where your creations can be fully relied upon," Rarity quietly said as her own forehooves shuffled against the snow, because the slipped words had been the first crack in the dam and there was nothing for it but to let the sluice flow. "For having a mane and tail which need little more than rope loops to reach their best. For a level of strength which I can never hope to know. But on a day such as this..."
She sighed, and her hooves shifted again. A few stray flakes drifted into the gap between fur and fabric, sent a tiny trickle of cold meltwater down her right foreleg.
"...for having a product which, after having been used, is decidedly more difficult to return."
The farmer tilted her head slightly to the right. The corners of her mouth tilted up.
"Ain't kept a few from tryin'."
Rarity blinked.
Really? could only be the first thought: as a question expressed to a pony who never lied, it would come across as rude. Instead, she went with "How is that even possible --"
Her imagination kicked in. Then it kicked her in the stomach and, feeling that was somehow insufficient, began a four-legged tap dance on the stage of her small intestine.
"Ah'll spare you the details."
Starkly, "Too late."
The suppressed fit of laughter still created enough vibration to shift the hat. "Yeah. Sorry. But most of it's jus' tryin' t' give me back stuff that's been partially eaten. An' with pies, that usually means tellin' me it took 'em until that last little crumb at the bottom of the tin t' figure out it wasn't worth the money. So..." The powerful rib cage pulled in a breath, held it for a few seconds. "...y'had your usual for the day, same as y'do every year. An' after all that, after everythin' you went through... y'went out for the full rounds, in the cold an' dark. Visitin' all of us personally, jus' t' drop off our thank-you cards. When the postponies could have done it for you, jus' for the price of a few stamps, like y'did the last few years." Which was followed by a moment of visible thought. "Or two gems an' batting those fakes at Spike for a few seconds. If'fin you're low on stamps."
She felt oddly as if she was being mocked. "Yes."
Solidly, "Why?"
"Because it's more personal that way. And because in the end, a thank-you card is not about the gift."
The doubt audibly doubled. "Oh?"
"It is gratitude," Rarity stated, "for having been so fortunate as to know the giver. Especially on a day such as today, when one finds themselves in need of something truly positive to be grateful for. Good night, Applejack."
She turned then, and the direction kept her from seeing the farmer's expression. Began to trudge back through the snow, head down so as to give her a better chance at seeing her own hoofprints. Breaking a new trail just meant extra work, not to mention additional wear for the boots.
It had been a long day, just as it was every year. Another to come tomorrow, with only a night of inadequate rest dividing them.
"Rares?"
She didn't glance back. Her tail flicked some snow away from her left hind leg.
The next words were utterly without malice. "You're crazy. Y'know that."
"It has," Rarity addressed the path, "been called to my attention before. Repeatedly. Good ni --"
"-- come in."
She stopped. Turned her head without moving her body, just enough to look back at the intrusion of light, and the glow of warm orange fur.
"Known you for a while," the farmer softly said. "Long enough that Ah shouldn't be surprised by how deep the crazy goes. But that's also long enough t' know that y'fed Opal before y'went out, jus' in case it all took a while. Didn't necessarily feed yourself. An' you're jus' gonna heat up some broth, sip it for a minute, decide five swallows was enough an' fall into bed feelin' worse than ever, 'cause some kinds of tired go deeper than the bone. An' me... we've got lots of food. Homemade, that'll get you through tomorrow. So come in. Eat here." She paused. "Sleep here, for that matter, since Ah was the last. Ah'll get y'up early enough t' take care of Opal's morning needs. But right now, Ah'd jus' appreciate it if you'd have dinner with us."
The earth pony waited. Continued to do so, until her lips finally curled a little more.
"Ah must've said somethin' interestin'," she decided. "Ain't often Ah can make you go that quiet."
"...we've had parties at the Acres," Rarity managed. "Card games, and the celebration after the brothers were driven off. But that's always been all of us together. Even the sleepover was with Twilight, and..."
Her gaze, which had already been so low in the attempt to find her own trail, dipped still more.
"...I was trying to remember if you'd ever invited me in for a meal before. Just me." It was almost making her feel hungry.
"It's a fair question," Applejack quietly allowed. "Personally, Ah don't want t' think too much 'bout the answer. 'cause we've talked 'bout it, how you an' me, we've got the most trouble connecting. Ah'm me, an' -- you're crazy."
Too long a day.
Too much.
There was no need to spend a night being insulted at short range. She began to look away --
-- and it meant she only heard the farmer's breath shudder. Knew of the hat slipping forward to shade half-closed eyes as a whisper of fabric and sigh of regret.
"Because dreamin' the way you do," Applejack half-whispered, "takes a special kind of crazy. Found that out during the mark switch, didn't Ah? It's crazy Ah ain't got, strength Ah don't have. T' dream day after day, an' try t' make 'em real. An'..."
She looked back then, and saw the green eyes finish closing with shame.
"...maybe a thank-you note really is jus' being grateful t' know the giver. But Ah ain't great with writin'. So it's easier t' give you food, an' a bed for the night. 'cause strength should respect strength, an' more than it has. So... come in? Before the rest of the heat gets out?"
Rarity looked at her for a moment, the silhouette of power shrunken in on itself within the light. And the green eyes only opened again when they heard the next crunch of snow.
The unicorn had made sure to step on a fresh patch, on her way towards the house and light and warmth. It would be that much more to follow tomorrow, when she went back to face the unending ache of the familiar.
But for now, it was simply easier for everypony to pick up on the breaking of new ground.
