A Charmed Lifeby BlazzingInfernoChaptersExtra FriesScenic RouteSpare BedroomHigh SocietyCharmedTo Thine Own SelfExtra FriesFor a moment nothing could tear Ditzy’s gaze from the clock, not the hay sizzling on the grill, the grease bubbling in the frier, or the repeated shouts of her manager. “Hey, new girl! You gonna stand there or you gonna make hay fries?” “Sorry, Mr. Done!” Ditzy lifted the wire basket out of the frier, dumped boiling hot hay fries into the cooling tray, and attempted to give Mr. Done an apologetic smile. The smile ended up being directed at the back of his head, and then at the burger cook who only ever glared at her. Maybe he’d stop that when the hay fry-shaped grease burns on his flank healed. The rest of her coworkers barely glared at her at all anymore, which was a great sign. They were really warming up to her, now that she’d been on the job for a couple weeks with barely any accidents. The last ten minutes of her shift dragged by, interrupted only by the jarring ding of the fry timer. She hoisted out a final batch of hay fries, nodded to the pony taking over the fry station, and headed for the door with all the speed she dared use in the crowded kitchen. She’d learned not to run at work, that’d been Major Accident Number One. Major Accident Number Two taught her not to fly at work either. The only safe method of movement in the cramped, crowded kitchen was to walk carefully and slowly, no matter how tight her schedule was. Her locker swung open on its squeaky hinges, still vaguely smelling like the marker used to spell out “D. Hooves” on its name plate. That would fade eventually, or so said her manager and the owner of the locker next to hers, Mr. “W. Done.” He’d also said a thing or two about if she ever came in late, got too close to the cash registers, or spilled hot grease again, but it was best not to dwell on that. She wouldn’t have to work here much longer anyway, so long as she hurried. It was the second Wednesday of the month, which meant she had a secret appointment to keep across town. She dropped a grease-stained Hay Burger uniform into her saddlebag and flexed her wings. “Okay, Ditzy, you’ve got exactly five minutes to get to the second-hoof store before—” “Hey, new girl!” Well Done’s grating baritone, as greasy as his black mane, made her shiver. Please not now. I’ve have to hurry! “Y-yes, sir?” Well Done stepped closer, his heavy hoofsteps thumping on the cement floor. “You can take the night shift all next week, right?” Ditzy frowned at him. “Night shift?” He nodded. “Somepony’s gotta take it, and you said you wanted all the extra hours you could get.” She nodded automatically. “Extra hours, right!” And before she could dwell on how horrible spending six mornings and evenings in a row staring at bubbling grease would be, she added “I’ll take it!” Extra paying hours were extra paying hours, after all. Every bit mattered, especially where she was headed. Ditzy touched down just as the Ponyville clocktower’s final hourly chime died on the afternoon breeze, its regularity matched only by that of the elderly stallion who ran the second-hoof store. He restocked the shelves once a day, precisely at three in the afternoon. Within twenty minutes every shelf would be lined with gently used merchandise, and within forty minutes the very best deals would be gone. Such was the dance between the store owner and his cash-strapped patrons. Something different happened on every second Wednesday of the month. Something subtle and, in Ditzy’s mind, unexplainable. She’d made the discovery while nosing through the used horseshoes, by way of biting down on what she’d thought was a foal’s toy thrown in the bin by mistake. Second-hoof horseshoes didn’t sparkle and shine unless they were glitter-covered plastic. Except this horseshoe didn’t taste like plastic; it tasted of cool, expensive metal plated in an even more expensive metal. She’d dropped the horseshoe back into the bin, listened to the solid clang it made against its rust-stained neighbors, and nearly spoiled everything by wondering aloud what crazy pony donated a gold-plated horseshoe, never mind what senile second-hoof store owner priced it the same as all the other shoes in the bin. Then she’d seen the designer hat and the diamond earrings. She’d counted her bits three times, crestfallen that she’d hit the mother lode a week before payday, and sullenly chose the hat over the earrings. Her disappointment turned to elation one month later, when more fancy jewelry and several stunning, unworn dresses appeared. A month later she’d found more horseshoes, and a month after that a full set of antique silverware. Some of her finds, like the golden horseshoes, were pointless luxuries. Others, like the dresses and the hat, were staples of a nicer life than her hay fry bits could ever provide. Ditzy took a deep breath and started toward the shop. In the front window’s reflection she could see the vacant building across the street. If she stared at that place long enough, her imagination would take over, mending the broken windows, refinishing the faded paint, and installing a bright blue sign over the door emblazoned with “Ditzy’s Delivery Service” in shiny gold letters. She stepped around an imaginary customer joining the line out the door. “Whoa, sorry friend. The delivery service? It’s the best! Way faster than the regular old mail, and cheaper and more reliable too!” A couple more imaginary customers smiled at her, clearly eager to hear more while they waited. “And the mare that runs the place is awesome! She’s dependable, and smart, and pretty, and—” she cocked an eyebrow at the nearest pretend stallion “—totally available, by the way.” “Huh?” the not-pretend stallion she’d stopped in the street replied. Ditzy turned red and broke into a run. “N-nevermind! Sorry!” She slipped into the second-hoof store, caught her breath, gave the pony behind the counter what she hoped was a nonchalant smile, and hurried to the clothing racks in the back. Speed was essential; she couldn’t let another pony find the special items first, not if she wanted to turn that wonderful daydream into a reality. Her hooves swept through the meagre selection, pausing when she found a professional-looking jacket but moving along once she noticed its threadbare elbows and pungent mothball aroma. “Nope, definitely not this one.” The bank manager would laugh at her again if she walked in wearing this old thing. Loans were for ponies that looked as good as their business plan. Loans weren’t for ponies that looked as bad as their savings account balance. All too quickly Ditzy reached the end of the rack. A checkered shirt at least two sizes too small slid by and she sighed in defeat. Someday she’d find it. Someday she’d turn the modest bag of bits under her wing into the final pieces of her business ensemble, something to show the bank manager that she was a pony worth investing in. Shaking her head, she trotted through the shop in search of other, less important bargains. That perfect someday couldn’t come soon enough. Scenic RouteCharm pressed her foreleg into her designer saddlebag, relishing the gentle rush of escaping air as the bag went totally flat against the train’s cushioned seat. Another second Wednesday lay behind her, and another bag full of worldly weight and substance had been scattered to the winds. Perhaps she’d try the fifth bedroom on the mansion’s third floor next. There were some lovely candelabras over its fireplace that hadn’t been put to use in over a century. Into her bag they’d go, along with whatever old or opulent things caught her eye over the next month of deathly boring tea parties, galas, trustee luncheons, and whatever other silly things her lofty social rank demanded. And then it would be another glorious second Wednesday, watching the scenery go by through the train window and foisting her family’s centuries-old possessions on the working class, putting her polished yet unskilled hooves to a task beyond gesturing to the nearest servant. Bag by bag, second Wednesday by second Wednesday, she was doing it: taking her inheritance-riddled life apart piece by piece, so slowly that nopony could take notice. This wasn’t out of spite for her dearly departed ancestors, of course. Money had brought them happiness, or so she’d been told time and again. Every one of her ‘proper young lady’ lessons growing up seemed to come back to that idea, that a mare of her station existed to carry on the family legacy, to safeguard their ancestral home and add to its already full-to-bursting coffers until the next generation could take up that mantle. Except there wouldn’t be a next generation. Not this time. The boring, boorish stallions she was made to consort with all but guaranteed that. And so it came down to her, the last in a family line of noble ponies who’d done many great things in their time, or at least accumulated a great many things. Was she supposed to turn into a lonesome spinster, wasting away until a many-times-removed cousin, genuine or otherwise, swooped in to take over? She wouldn’t let that happen; the legacy would end with her. She leaned against the window as another of the villages surrounding Canterlot drifted by in the distance. Sometimes she caught glimpses of the ponies living there, walking their fair city streets in the company of friends, on their way to the market, to their jobs, or perhaps just to the nearest picnic spot. What wondrous lives they must lead! What would it be like for every day to have a real, self-appointed purpose? Charm smiled at the thought. She’d find out eventually. One day there wouldn’t be any antiques left in the parlors and closets. One day the family fortune would be fully squandered on fancy excesses bought only to be given away to those whose lives were already complete. One day, when she’d systematically dismantled her birthright and demolished everything that could remind her of it, she’d find out what being her own pony meant. Perhaps she’d serve coffee, or work in a bookstore. She’d do whatever she pleased far away from Canterlot, somewhere she’d never be recognized, never be introduced as ‘the great great granddaughter of such-and-such’ or ‘the last surviving remember of the so-and-so line.’ She’d just be Charm, and that would be plenty. All too quickly her monthly pilgrimage ended just as it started, with a mighty blast from the train’s whistle and one of the Canterlot station’s street lamps glaring at her through the window. The family estate came into view as soon as she stepped outside, crouching atop a nearby hill, casting a long shadow on the smaller neighboring properties. The estate would make a lovely park one day, or perhaps an outdoor amphitheater. Nearly anything would be an improvement over the stodgy, four story affair she currently called home, but that would come later. The mansion needed to be properly emptied before being given over to the wrecking balls, partly to keep the historical preservationist ponies from having too much say in the mater, and partly to keep her fellow socialites from snapping up the family possessions; she intended to squander her inheritance properly, not to move it to the next mansion on the block. “Oh, pardon me, Miss!” A porter sidestepped just in time to miss her, a luggage tag from the heavy trunk on his back glancing off the hem of her coat. Charm snapped back to the present just in time to tip her hat to him. “Quite all right, quite all right. My fault entirely.” He tipped his hat in kind, a genuine feat considering how much he was carrying. “Have a good evening!” She smiled, lingering in the moment, and in the street, far longer than he. How nice it must be to be a pony like him, helping others with their bags, seeing them off on their outings, and welcoming them home again. It must be hard work, yes, but rewarding too. If only she’d been born into a different life. If only her cutie mark had turned out to be a symbol of workmanship and utility like a wrench or a textbook instead of an overflowing cornucopia, a symbol of wealth and idleness just like her late mother’s wine glass and father’s monocle. “Do you think,” she asked the now distant porter, “that a pony can escape their own cutie mark? I for one intend to find out.” Spare BedroomDitzy reached for her blanket only to discover she’d fallen out of bed again. Groaning, she wiped a line of drool off her cheek with the dirty sweater that’d become her pillow and tried to remember what came next: night shift or day shift. Sunlight was leaking through the curtains on the window, along with a pretty birdsong. Day shift, then. She pushed herself upright and stumbled toward the dresser, past the half-empty suitcases, the pile of dirty clothes, the stack of clean ones, and the taped-up cardboard box of childhood momentos. She slumped into the chair in front of the dresser, blinked a couple times at the mirror, and yawned. “Two more weeks,” she told herself. Two more weeks and she wouldn’t be on night shift anymore. Unless Well Done changed his mind again. She could still smell the hay fries. The sweater she’d been drooling on tasted like them, and she didn’t even wear it to work. “Need a shower. Need a million showers.” Hoofsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the door and Thunderlane, her second cousin, tapped it lightly. “Ditzy? Are you awake? I was going to make some breakfast, but—” The previous night slowly came into focus, including her blundering attempt to make grilled cheese. She leaned her forehead against the mirror and sighed. “I’m sorry about the mess, Thunderlane. I’ll clean it up. And I’ll buy you a new pan.” “It’s okay. I… kind of didn’t like that pan… or those towels.” She thought of the beige suit jacket, light blue hat, and pearl necklace hanging in the closet, the three parts of her business ensemble she’d acquired so far. It wasn’t that she was lacking for bits, not after working double shifts for months and finding nothing worthwhile to spend them on. In two days it’d be the second Wednesday again, and if she could stay awake long enough she’d go to town on the second-hoof store’s kitchen section. “I’ll replace everything, I swear.” “Don’t worry about that now. I, uh… Are you decent? Can I come in?” Ditzy lifted her forehead just far enough off the mirror to take in her unkempt mane and grease-speckled coat. That wasn’t what really mattered, of course. She reached out a hoof and pulled a large wooden box off the dresser and into her lap, out of sight. “About as decent as I ever get. Come on in.” The door opened a crack at first, as if he was steeling his nerves. A sliver of light from one of the hallway lamps and the fresh scent of mint pierced the midmorning gloom. Finally the door swung wide and Thunderlane trotted in, smiling good-naturedly, Ditzy thought, considering the wreck she’d made of his spare bedroom and now his kitchen. “So… what’d you have planned for today?” She didn’t turn toward him, for his comfort more than hers. Instead she shrugged. “Gotta go to work soon. Gotta take a million showers first. Eat something that’s not deep-fried.” “Isn’t Sunday your day off?” “Huh?” she forgot herself for a moment and looked right at him, thankfully with a squint. “Isn’t today… It’s Sunday?” Thunderlane nodded, his smile as immaculate as the rest of his house, save for the tiny room he’d given to her. And now the kitchen, which he hadn’t. “I get that your sleep schedule is wonky, considering the hours they’ve got you on. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about: the weather team is doing tryouts this afternoon, and I thought maybe if we practice bucking clouds this morning to get your confidence up—” Ditzy turned back to the mirror. “Nope, no weather for me. I’ll just make hay fries. Nice, safe hay fries. And take a million showers after.” Thunderlane stepped closer, and then she felt his foreleg on her shoulder. “Okay, if that’s what you want. I just thought I’d offer. Do you want some breakfast? How about some eggs?” “Eggs are great, thanks. I swear I’ll clean up the kitchen, and this room. Don’t let me borrow your vacuum though… looks expensive. No wonder your house is super clean.” He laughed. “I’ll vacuum for you if you get your stuff off the ground. Besides, my folks are threatening to send my little brother Rumble to live with me, so I might as well get used to having somepony else in the house.” She had to grin at that idea. “And you think this room is messy now, just you wait. You should’ve seen my bedroom when I was a filly.” Thunderlane’s laughter petered out; he probably had the same mental image she did. “I’m gonna get started on those eggs.” “ ’kay. I’ll be out just as soon as I… I’ll be out soon.” Her hooves clutched the box in her lap, not daring to move it until the door clicked shut. Finally she set it on the dresser and lifted the lid. Her glass eye stared back at her: vibrant, lifelike, and covered in a thin film of grease just like the rest of her. She rubbed its smooth surface with a cleaning cloth, pausing occasionally to spritz it with a little spray bottle. She rubbed, she spritzed, and she thought. She thought about her old home back in Cloudsdale. She thought about earning her cutie mark on the school field trip to the weather factory when they chose her to turn on the fog machine. She thought about her first day on the job there, the way her crisp new uniform felt and how everypony beamed with pride and respect when she wore it. She thought about the accident, the sirens, and the screaming. She thought about the hospital’s funny smell, and being so relieved to see her new eye, no matter the tremendous expense. But most of all she thought about how her new eye never seemed to point the right way, and how all that pride and respect evaporated like fog in the sun. Ditzy almost wrecked the whole weather factory. Dummy shouldn’t have been using that machine unsupervised. Dopey’s always been a klutz. Derpy doesn’t deserve to wear that uniform. The box’s lid slammed shut. Ditzy took a long, deep breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, forced herself to look at her own reflection. “Cloudsdale’s over. Ponyville’s a fresh start, and down here you’re gonna be your own mare!” She pounded the dresser for emphasis and immediately heard something fall off the opposite wall and crash to the ground. Wincing, she added a new picture frame to her shopping list and called out “sorry, Thunderlane!” High SocietyMonday’s afternoon tea dragged by as it always did, with a half-dozen of Charm’s social ilk seated around one of her parlors, steaming tea cups floating in magic auras, half-eaten miniature sandwiches resting on saucers, and the all-important exchange of uninteresting chitchat. Uninteresting to Charm, at least. “That’s exactly my point,” Royal Ribbon, the mare nearest to her said, “exactly. Truly appreciating Lime Garden’s latest piece requires more time and abstract thought than that art critic could possibly manage. The nerve of him, pronouncing his judgement after barely a glance!” Life wouldn’t be nearly as dull if she could get behind some of these ‘causes’ the others held so dear. Today it was appreciating the art world’s newest darling, in a month it might be collecting antiques or attending a new theater production. The only thing these causes held in common, besides the momentary attention of the well-to-do, was their exorbitant cost. Squandering the family fortune would be so much easier if she could get passionate about this artist fellow everypony was prattling on about. “And I hear,” Sweet Dreams whispered in her most gossip-mongering tone, “that the two of them actually live in a Manehattan penthouse! So much for his ‘starving artist’ mystique!” Swan Song frowned and sniffed in socially appropriate disgust. “I knew it. I knew the moment I laid eyes on that pony—” So much for supporting the arts, then. The rich and famous were rich and famous enough. Charm took another sip of her tea, which had been tepid for at least a half hour, and dared to look at the clock on the mantle and its slow progression towards three. That miserable polo game they were all headed to then couldn’t start soon enough. At least there she’d have something in motion to watch besides the clock hands. Why was she going, anyway? Why did she even host this weekly afternoon tea? Was the idea of pulling the rug out from her peers reason enough to keep up this pretense? Why not become a laughingstock and a scandal now instead of later? Why not simply burn the whole mansion to the ground? Her late mother glared at her from a small portrait by the clock, smiling with her mouth but scorching the very air with her eyes as her oft repeated words echoed through Charm’s mind: if you cannot leave things better than when you are given them, you have failed. That advice was chiefly aimed at Charm’s then-small share of the family stock portfolio, but it rang true in the general sense too, one of the few bits of her motherly advice that did. Charm wouldn’t set fire to her inherited possessions, but she would, in a way, make them better. Getting them out of Canterlot’s upper echelons would make them better, where they could be owned and perhaps even enjoyed by those with no prior emotional attachment to them or preoccupation with which of Equestria’s founders had bequeathed them to history. The family possessions would be free then, and freedom sounded like a tremendous improvement over captivity. Fleur de Lis rapped the side of her teacup with a spoon. “Come now, ladies. While the rumors are indeed troublesome, I for one choose to treat the artwork and artist as separate entities to be judged on their own merits. Wouldn’t you agree, Charm?” Charm silently groaned. Fleur was at it again, attempting to draw her into the conversation. What was her game? Did she hope to curry favor, or secure money for a pet project? She had plenty of both already thanks to her well-connected husband, but for some reason she kept at it, complimenting Charm’s reorganization of the parlor one day—she’d donated one of the more garnish china sets and its mahogany cabinet—and regaling her with stories about her own nervous first steps onto the social stage the next. Why did she insist on talking to her? Wasn’t being invited to tea on a regular basis enough? “I… well—” Charm took a long sip of tea “—I can’t claim to be an expert on the arts.” Fleur’s smile didn’t waver, nor did her gaze. “All the better, I say. Whom can better say if the critic or the artist is more in the right than those who haven’t gotten too close to the subject for full objectivity, those who can offer a fresh perspective on the whole affair.” “I… suppose.” “Splendid. Charm darling, you simply must join the private art function happening at my humble home the day after next. All here are invited of course, but I for one would love to hear your personal take on Lime Garden and a few of the other artistes du jour we’ll have in attendance.” The day after next. Two days after Monday. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.” Such was her usual excuse for anything that dared encroach on her one day of freedom. Fleur batted her hoof. “Oh, surely you can find a moment to drop by at some hour or other. We’ll carry on as late as we need to to accomodate you. Won’t we, ladies?” The others raised their tea cups and nodded. Charm did not. “While I appreciate your invitation, I just can’t attend.” “Would you change your mind if—” “No.” Such much for decorum. Fleur’s smile faded as slowly and steadily as an evening sunset, until she seemed devoid of any emotion at all. “Well, let it never be said that I didn’t try, Charm. Let it never be said that I haven’t done my best to be gracious and accommodating to your busy schedule and clear disinterest in anything any of us has to offer, friendship included.” Fleur’s cup settled itself on the nearest saucer, and her hat took its place in her magic aura. “I believe I’ll meet the rest of you at our usual box at the polo game. Good day.” Charm knew she should feel something as Fluer and then the rest of her guests silently filed out, something other than relief. For some reason she felt as empty inside as her parlor. CharmedThese little towns were surprisingly crowded. Charm’s business in them usually consisted of a quick trot to the nearest donation bin and back, often returning to her same seat on the train with time to spare and no more than a passing glance at the town proper or its inhabitants. Not today. Her meandering walk through town after town, without saddlebag or destination, had started out quietly enough in the early morning with no one but a few early-rising shopkeepers for company. By midmorning the townsponies were out in force, buying groceries and heading to work, and now with the sun at its apex a multicolored sea of bodies seemed to be block most of the main street. Sighing, Charm took a right down what in Canterlot would’ve been a side street but turned out to be more of an alley: empty, narrow, shopless, and smelling of something worse than its unpaved, dirt road. It was as if she’d stumbled into her own mother’s description of what the life of common ponies was like, right down to the odor. She turned to a nearby rain barrel and gazed at its still surface. Her reflection stared up at her: a lightly brushed magenta coat, violet mane done up in tight curls, average length unicorn horn, and brilliant rose eyes with tears forming at their corners. “What makes me so different from them… from mother and father, from the aristocrats I’m supposed to like, from the commoners I’m supposed to ignore… Why can’t I belong? Why can’t I be happy?” The burn-down-the-mansion idea was looking better and better. Offloading a saddlebag of woes at a time wasn’t working anymore. She needed a complete and total change, and she needed it now. Anything at all would be an improvement on this lonely moment. And then a saddlebag fell on her head. Charm found herself sprawled in the mud next to the overturned rain barrel, watching papers swirl in a breeze overhead and hearing a high pitched “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh!” ring in her ear. That part alone stung more than the lump forming on her head. “Oooh, what in Equestria…” And then a grey pegasus was hovering over her, a pegasus dressed in the oddest assortment of clothes, including an ill-fitting jacket, wide-brimmed blue hat with a horn hole, and a pearl necklace that, if Charm wasn’t mistaken, had belonged to her very own grandmare. She might have said so too, if her head were clearer. The pegasus was moving and talking so fast she might simply be a hallucination; that would also explain why her eyes weren’t pointing the same direction. “I’m so so sorry! I-I was just flying home and d-dropped my dumb bag and… I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.” The mud was so thick Charm felt like she’d been glued to the street. Extracting a single foreleg took considerable effort, nevertheless she wasn’t about to turn down an offer of assistance. “Thank you, dear, but be careful, the mud is awfully—” The pegasus grabbed Charm’s offered hoof, gave a mighty heave, and a moment later landed in the mud next to her, screaming more than ever. “Aah! Oh no, m-my clothes! My clothes!” After a few tries, Charm managed to roll her way out of the mud pit and stand, still reeling from the blow to the head and total chaos that hadn’t ceased since. “I don’t suppose I’ll have any better luck, but let me help you up this time.” Magic made all the difference. At last the pegasus squelched her way out and stood beside her, covered in mud and the papers that had exploded out of her saddlebag. “Th-thanks. It’s… it’s not like I needed this suit anymore anyway.” The pegasus hung her head and turned toward the main street. “Sorry again.” “Wait, wait! Could you direct me to a place to… well to clean up? I can hardly get back on the train to Canterlot like this.” The pegasus paused and looked back. “I guess there’s the spa, but that costs a bundle. I just sank the last of my bits into that.” She kicked her back leg toward the now ruined saddlebag half-submerged in the mud, its high end designer insignia still visible. “Thunderlane’s gonna have a heart-attack after I track mud through the house.” Charm held out a hoof. “A spa, you say? Let’s go at once, then. My treat.” The pegasus stood there a long time, staring at her with one eye. Finally a small smile peeked through the layers of grime. “That… that would be great! My name’s Ditzy.” “Charm. Pleased to meet you.” The posh, pink-coated mare behind the spa’s front desk acted just as Charm would’ve expected her too: as if a sewer pipe had burst. “We are not a public bath! One comes here to be pampered, massaged, and preened, not… cleaned!” Charm rolled her eyes. At last she’d stumbled upon a problem that money could solve. She’d buy the whole business if need be. “I’m sure we can come to an arrange—” Ditzy set her muddy elbow on the counter, her expression sullen. “How about we start with a mud bath? You offer those, right?” The mare behind the counter stepped back. “Yes, but—” Ditzy grinned. “Great, because we brought some extra mud of our own! Does that mean we get a discount?” “Certainly not!” “Oh well. We’ll take mud baths, and then… do you have showers?” The spa mare held up a pearly white towel and tried, unsuccessfully, to nudge Ditzy’s elbow away as she mopped up the mess. “Yes, yes we do. Might I suggest—ugh—aroma therapy, or the steam room? I’m afraid your… clothes will have to stay here, unless you’d prefer they be disposed of in the furnace.” Ditzy nodded enthusiastically, whipping mud from her blonde mane onto the walls. “Steam sounds perfect. Is that okay, Charm?” Charm nodded. The living, pony-shaped train wreck was talking to her again, and still smiling amiably. “Err, perfectly, dear. Perfectly.” Within minutes the two of them were stepping into adjacent tubs of even more mud, thankfully the kind that was lavishly scented and enriched with coat-restoring minerals, or so they’d been told. Charm lifted one of her coated hooves into the air, wondering if she could even tell the difference between spa mud and that from the street. “Oooh, wow!” Ditzy, meanwhile, had slipped in up her neck. “I’ve always wanted to try this! Thanks a million, Charm! I’m so sorry I… well, you know.” “It’s no trouble. In fact before you… arrived I was looking for a certain change in my life. This is hardly what I expected, but one can’t always choose such things.” Rarely could they, in fact. With a loud, rippling squelch Ditzy sat up in the mud bath and leaned over to look at her. “But you said you’re from Canterlot, right? I figured Canterlot ponies get to do fancy stuff like this all the time!” “I suppose some might. My life is… troublesome.” “Tell me about it! Up until now this was shaping up to be the worst day since I moved to Ponyville. I got fired for falling asleep at work, the bank manager wouldn’t even talk to me about my loan application, I wrecked my business suit… but now—” she spread her wings and fell backward into the bath, splashing mud everywhere “—this is how I always dreamed of unwinding at the end of a long day. Someday I’m gonna do this every week… if I ever get my business started.” The full breadth of Ditzy’s story took a moment to sink in, particularly since Charm had raised a foreleg to shield her face from the splatter. “Your own business, you say?” Ditzy sighed, her voice turning sullen. “It’s kind of been my dream since I moved here, to be my own mare, to own my home, set my own hours… But I dunno. I really messed up today and… maybe I’m just not good at anything.” Heaving a sigh of her own, Charm tried to remember the reassuring lies she’d been told as a filly. “Everypony has a talent or somesuch, you included. You gained a cutie mark, didn’t you?” She sniffed. “Yeah… but it’s just a bunch of bubbles.” Charm shut her eyes and chuckled for a moment. Perhaps the cutie mark destiny talk applied to working ponies only. “For your bubbly personality, no doubt.” Ditzy laughed. “Yeah, right. I got it back in Cloudsdale, and that’s totally not what it’s for. See, the weather factory’s got this big machine with bubbles floating in it and… why’d you think it’s about my personality?” “I for one couldn’t have talked my way in here, looking the way we did. I doubt I could’ve shrugged off the day you’ve had, either. It’s truly inspiring.” With the loudest splash yet, Ditzy clambered out of the mud bath. One of her eyes darting around and the other drifting off to the left. “Thanks. I-I’ll see you in the steam room?” Stunned, Charm simply nodded. “Very well. I shan’t be long.” Charm saw no reason to lag behind, especially not when a hot shower awaited. She had no idea why ponies paid to get so dirty. Within fifteen minutes she stepped into the steam room and found Ditzy there, seated on a wooden bench next to a pile of towels and, strangely enough, an equally large pile of balled up tissues. Ditzy sniffled loudly as Charm approached. “S-sorry. I um… I really needed to hear that is all. M-maybe I’m not cut out to run my own business. It always felt kind of off, b-but nothing’s felt right since… never mind.” Charm sat facing her on a neighboring bench. “I… well… you’re welcome, I suppose. But I’m sure if you kept at it—” “Nah. I’m clumsy and I forget stuff, so owning a business is a dumb idea. But I guess I can still be my own mare with a regular job… so long as it’s a good job! No more double shifts! No more making hay fries! I’ve gotta do something that I’m good at and that I can feel good about—” Ditzy stood on her hind legs and thrust a hoof in the air. “—and I’m sick and tired of making ponies fat!” Charm chuckled and clapped her hooves. “Bravo, then. I wish you luck in your next endeavor, whatever it may be.” Ditzy grinned, but then stared open-mouthed at Charm’s flank. “Oooh, wow! Of course! I should’ve known you’d have a cutie mark like that!” Flushing red, Charm grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it around herself. “It’s nothing special, I assure you. Nothing at all!” Ditzy smiled all the brighter. “Of course it is! You’re like the most generous pony I’ve ever met, so I’ve course you’ve got a generosity cutie mark!” Charm slipped off the bench, thankfully landing on the towels and not the hard floor. “Generosity?” “Yeah! What else could one of those horn-basket things filled with food mean? You were super-nice after I… um… dropped my bag on you, and you paid for us to go to the spa, and now you totally changed how I see my own cutie mark!” The steam must have gotten to Charm’s brain, or maybe it was the blow to the head; she couldn’t have heard that right. “Did I?” For the first time in ages she thought of the clothes and jewelry she’d given away, and what effect they might’ve had on the ponies who’d found them. Ditzy’s life had been changed, yes, but more by Charm herself than by her second-hoof belongings. The next thing she knew, Ditzy was on the floor hugging her. “Thanks for everything, Charm! You turned my whole life around!” To Thine Own SelfThe ornate front door before Charm looked to be about a mile high. The soft glow of candlelight emanated from the mansion’s windows, no doubt from the get-together she’d uninvited herself to. Not that she could blame anypony for that besides herself. She’d had so many things backwards, and still had so far to go before she could measure up to her true peers. Still, she raised her hoof and knocked. Perhaps they wouldn’t even open the door for the likes of her. A servant with a grey coat, cropped black mane, and a stoic expression opened the door a crack. A fire’s warmth and the quiet din of conversation leaked out into the night air. “Good evening. Are you expected, Miss—?” “Charm. I’d like to speak to Miss Fleur, if she’d be willing to see me.” The servant gave a quick nod. “Very well, I’ll—” Fleur’s voice floated through the door. “Charm? Come in, come in!” Charm remained on the doorstep. She stared down at her hooves, chipped from a day of walking all manner of streets. Still, the hooficure from the Ponyville spa had held up better than any she’d ever received in Canterlot. She’d have to take note of that. “I wish I deserved to come in, Fluer. Alas, I do not.” Fleur joined her in the cool night air. “A less sympathetic pony might agree, but my invitation stands regardless. I must apologize for losing my temper before.” Charm stood up straight and, for what felt like the first time, looked Fleur full in the face. She was a very tall pony, lithe and beautiful in the classical way that no number of specialty products or spa treatments could bestow. “You spoke the truth at our tea party, Fleur. You’ve been nothing but kind, and I squandered that kindness. I was blind to it and a great many other things. Without even meaning to, I’ve treated ponies the same as furniture. I’m here to apologize, and to invite you to my home tomorrow morning, you and whomever else would be willing to come.” A hoof fell across Charm’s shoulders. “Apology accepted, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear. What’s the occasion? Another tea party?” “Actually—” a smile crept onto Charm’s face “—I’m starting up a charitable organization: meals for the poor, housing assistance, personal finance lessons, career advice… Ways to help ponies become self sufficient and better themselves however they see fit. I intend to fully fund the enterprise, but would love some partners to help oversee things and get the wheels in motion, as they say.” Fleur sucked in a breath. “That, Charm, is a cause no sensible pony would dare ignore.” With an hour left before closing time, the line at the post office stretched out the door. Ditzy hadn’t ever questioned why dropping off a letter or a package took so long, or why half of Ponyville seemed to wait until the last minute to do so. Normally she’d see the line from across the street, remember her big master plan for Ditzy’s Delivery Service, and walk by with a smile. Not today. She stepped into line without a word or complaint, something everypony in front of her seemed to have covered. A dozen versions of “why does this always take so long?” went up and down the line within the first ten minutes. Within twenty minutes Ditzy learned two new, colorful earth pony expressions for whiners and line-cutters. After forty minutes she reached the counter and smiled brightly at a haggard mare behind the counter. “Hi!” The post office mare stared at her, as expressionless as a statue filled with dynamite. “Can I help you?” “I saw that help wanted sign in the window—” “Come back tomorrow morning and fill out an application.” Ditzy glanced back at the still long line of impatient customers. “But it looks like you could use some help now, and I can start right away.” The post office mare rolled her eyes, but then turned toward the hallway leading to the back. “Hey, Stamps, somepony needs to speak to the postmaster!” A minute full of grumbling later, an old pegasus stallion with a limp and small blue cap and emerged from a side door. “What’s the trouble out here?” “Next customer!” The mare behind the counter shouted. Ditzy trotted over to the stallion and held out her hoof. “Hi, I’m Ditzy. I’m here to ask about the help wanted sign in the window.” The stallion gave a curt nod. “Proper Postage, but most ponies call me Stamps. Come back tomorrow and fill out an application.” “That’s what your friend behind the counter said, but I could help right now.” Stamps gave a gruff laugh. “Got any postal experience?” Ditzy shook her head. “Nope. The last place I worked was the Hay Burger across town.” “You ever wait on customers there?” “Nope. They only ever had me make hay fries.” “Got any references, any ponies that’ll say you’re a good hire?” Ditzy thought for a moment and shook her head. “Probably not.” Stamps tilted his head back and looked to the ceiling. “Why in Equestria should I hire you, then?” Ditzy gestured to the line again. “Today I got fired because my old boss made me work double shifts for months until I couldn’t stay awake, the bank turned down my small business loan application, I ruined my best outfit in a mud pit, and I just waited for almost an hour to get through this line,—” she pointed to her face “—and I can still smile. See my cutie mark? It’s for how I can pick myself up again no matter what sort of bad thing happens.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I was made for customer service.” Stamp’s eyebrows slowly rose until his cap fell off. The corners of his mouth rose next, and a moment later he was laughing loud enough that the mare behind the counter stopped talking to glare. “Guess I can’t argue with that. What the hay, come on back and help me sort the express mail. We’ll deal with the paperwork tomorrow.” Ditzy stood up straight and saluted him. “Yes Sir, Mr. Stamps, Sir! Oh, uh, the mail is insured, right?” Stamps nodded. “By Princess Celestia herself.” “Perfect.”
Extra FriesFor a moment nothing could tear Ditzy’s gaze from the clock, not the hay sizzling on the grill, the grease bubbling in the frier, or the repeated shouts of her manager. “Hey, new girl! You gonna stand there or you gonna make hay fries?” “Sorry, Mr. Done!” Ditzy lifted the wire basket out of the frier, dumped boiling hot hay fries into the cooling tray, and attempted to give Mr. Done an apologetic smile. The smile ended up being directed at the back of his head, and then at the burger cook who only ever glared at her. Maybe he’d stop that when the hay fry-shaped grease burns on his flank healed. The rest of her coworkers barely glared at her at all anymore, which was a great sign. They were really warming up to her, now that she’d been on the job for a couple weeks with barely any accidents. The last ten minutes of her shift dragged by, interrupted only by the jarring ding of the fry timer. She hoisted out a final batch of hay fries, nodded to the pony taking over the fry station, and headed for the door with all the speed she dared use in the crowded kitchen. She’d learned not to run at work, that’d been Major Accident Number One. Major Accident Number Two taught her not to fly at work either. The only safe method of movement in the cramped, crowded kitchen was to walk carefully and slowly, no matter how tight her schedule was. Her locker swung open on its squeaky hinges, still vaguely smelling like the marker used to spell out “D. Hooves” on its name plate. That would fade eventually, or so said her manager and the owner of the locker next to hers, Mr. “W. Done.” He’d also said a thing or two about if she ever came in late, got too close to the cash registers, or spilled hot grease again, but it was best not to dwell on that. She wouldn’t have to work here much longer anyway, so long as she hurried. It was the second Wednesday of the month, which meant she had a secret appointment to keep across town. She dropped a grease-stained Hay Burger uniform into her saddlebag and flexed her wings. “Okay, Ditzy, you’ve got exactly five minutes to get to the second-hoof store before—” “Hey, new girl!” Well Done’s grating baritone, as greasy as his black mane, made her shiver. Please not now. I’ve have to hurry! “Y-yes, sir?” Well Done stepped closer, his heavy hoofsteps thumping on the cement floor. “You can take the night shift all next week, right?” Ditzy frowned at him. “Night shift?” He nodded. “Somepony’s gotta take it, and you said you wanted all the extra hours you could get.” She nodded automatically. “Extra hours, right!” And before she could dwell on how horrible spending six mornings and evenings in a row staring at bubbling grease would be, she added “I’ll take it!” Extra paying hours were extra paying hours, after all. Every bit mattered, especially where she was headed. Ditzy touched down just as the Ponyville clocktower’s final hourly chime died on the afternoon breeze, its regularity matched only by that of the elderly stallion who ran the second-hoof store. He restocked the shelves once a day, precisely at three in the afternoon. Within twenty minutes every shelf would be lined with gently used merchandise, and within forty minutes the very best deals would be gone. Such was the dance between the store owner and his cash-strapped patrons. Something different happened on every second Wednesday of the month. Something subtle and, in Ditzy’s mind, unexplainable. She’d made the discovery while nosing through the used horseshoes, by way of biting down on what she’d thought was a foal’s toy thrown in the bin by mistake. Second-hoof horseshoes didn’t sparkle and shine unless they were glitter-covered plastic. Except this horseshoe didn’t taste like plastic; it tasted of cool, expensive metal plated in an even more expensive metal. She’d dropped the horseshoe back into the bin, listened to the solid clang it made against its rust-stained neighbors, and nearly spoiled everything by wondering aloud what crazy pony donated a gold-plated horseshoe, never mind what senile second-hoof store owner priced it the same as all the other shoes in the bin. Then she’d seen the designer hat and the diamond earrings. She’d counted her bits three times, crestfallen that she’d hit the mother lode a week before payday, and sullenly chose the hat over the earrings. Her disappointment turned to elation one month later, when more fancy jewelry and several stunning, unworn dresses appeared. A month later she’d found more horseshoes, and a month after that a full set of antique silverware. Some of her finds, like the golden horseshoes, were pointless luxuries. Others, like the dresses and the hat, were staples of a nicer life than her hay fry bits could ever provide. Ditzy took a deep breath and started toward the shop. In the front window’s reflection she could see the vacant building across the street. If she stared at that place long enough, her imagination would take over, mending the broken windows, refinishing the faded paint, and installing a bright blue sign over the door emblazoned with “Ditzy’s Delivery Service” in shiny gold letters. She stepped around an imaginary customer joining the line out the door. “Whoa, sorry friend. The delivery service? It’s the best! Way faster than the regular old mail, and cheaper and more reliable too!” A couple more imaginary customers smiled at her, clearly eager to hear more while they waited. “And the mare that runs the place is awesome! She’s dependable, and smart, and pretty, and—” she cocked an eyebrow at the nearest pretend stallion “—totally available, by the way.” “Huh?” the not-pretend stallion she’d stopped in the street replied. Ditzy turned red and broke into a run. “N-nevermind! Sorry!” She slipped into the second-hoof store, caught her breath, gave the pony behind the counter what she hoped was a nonchalant smile, and hurried to the clothing racks in the back. Speed was essential; she couldn’t let another pony find the special items first, not if she wanted to turn that wonderful daydream into a reality. Her hooves swept through the meagre selection, pausing when she found a professional-looking jacket but moving along once she noticed its threadbare elbows and pungent mothball aroma. “Nope, definitely not this one.” The bank manager would laugh at her again if she walked in wearing this old thing. Loans were for ponies that looked as good as their business plan. Loans weren’t for ponies that looked as bad as their savings account balance. All too quickly Ditzy reached the end of the rack. A checkered shirt at least two sizes too small slid by and she sighed in defeat. Someday she’d find it. Someday she’d turn the modest bag of bits under her wing into the final pieces of her business ensemble, something to show the bank manager that she was a pony worth investing in. Shaking her head, she trotted through the shop in search of other, less important bargains. That perfect someday couldn’t come soon enough.
Scenic RouteCharm pressed her foreleg into her designer saddlebag, relishing the gentle rush of escaping air as the bag went totally flat against the train’s cushioned seat. Another second Wednesday lay behind her, and another bag full of worldly weight and substance had been scattered to the winds. Perhaps she’d try the fifth bedroom on the mansion’s third floor next. There were some lovely candelabras over its fireplace that hadn’t been put to use in over a century. Into her bag they’d go, along with whatever old or opulent things caught her eye over the next month of deathly boring tea parties, galas, trustee luncheons, and whatever other silly things her lofty social rank demanded. And then it would be another glorious second Wednesday, watching the scenery go by through the train window and foisting her family’s centuries-old possessions on the working class, putting her polished yet unskilled hooves to a task beyond gesturing to the nearest servant. Bag by bag, second Wednesday by second Wednesday, she was doing it: taking her inheritance-riddled life apart piece by piece, so slowly that nopony could take notice. This wasn’t out of spite for her dearly departed ancestors, of course. Money had brought them happiness, or so she’d been told time and again. Every one of her ‘proper young lady’ lessons growing up seemed to come back to that idea, that a mare of her station existed to carry on the family legacy, to safeguard their ancestral home and add to its already full-to-bursting coffers until the next generation could take up that mantle. Except there wouldn’t be a next generation. Not this time. The boring, boorish stallions she was made to consort with all but guaranteed that. And so it came down to her, the last in a family line of noble ponies who’d done many great things in their time, or at least accumulated a great many things. Was she supposed to turn into a lonesome spinster, wasting away until a many-times-removed cousin, genuine or otherwise, swooped in to take over? She wouldn’t let that happen; the legacy would end with her. She leaned against the window as another of the villages surrounding Canterlot drifted by in the distance. Sometimes she caught glimpses of the ponies living there, walking their fair city streets in the company of friends, on their way to the market, to their jobs, or perhaps just to the nearest picnic spot. What wondrous lives they must lead! What would it be like for every day to have a real, self-appointed purpose? Charm smiled at the thought. She’d find out eventually. One day there wouldn’t be any antiques left in the parlors and closets. One day the family fortune would be fully squandered on fancy excesses bought only to be given away to those whose lives were already complete. One day, when she’d systematically dismantled her birthright and demolished everything that could remind her of it, she’d find out what being her own pony meant. Perhaps she’d serve coffee, or work in a bookstore. She’d do whatever she pleased far away from Canterlot, somewhere she’d never be recognized, never be introduced as ‘the great great granddaughter of such-and-such’ or ‘the last surviving remember of the so-and-so line.’ She’d just be Charm, and that would be plenty. All too quickly her monthly pilgrimage ended just as it started, with a mighty blast from the train’s whistle and one of the Canterlot station’s street lamps glaring at her through the window. The family estate came into view as soon as she stepped outside, crouching atop a nearby hill, casting a long shadow on the smaller neighboring properties. The estate would make a lovely park one day, or perhaps an outdoor amphitheater. Nearly anything would be an improvement over the stodgy, four story affair she currently called home, but that would come later. The mansion needed to be properly emptied before being given over to the wrecking balls, partly to keep the historical preservationist ponies from having too much say in the mater, and partly to keep her fellow socialites from snapping up the family possessions; she intended to squander her inheritance properly, not to move it to the next mansion on the block. “Oh, pardon me, Miss!” A porter sidestepped just in time to miss her, a luggage tag from the heavy trunk on his back glancing off the hem of her coat. Charm snapped back to the present just in time to tip her hat to him. “Quite all right, quite all right. My fault entirely.” He tipped his hat in kind, a genuine feat considering how much he was carrying. “Have a good evening!” She smiled, lingering in the moment, and in the street, far longer than he. How nice it must be to be a pony like him, helping others with their bags, seeing them off on their outings, and welcoming them home again. It must be hard work, yes, but rewarding too. If only she’d been born into a different life. If only her cutie mark had turned out to be a symbol of workmanship and utility like a wrench or a textbook instead of an overflowing cornucopia, a symbol of wealth and idleness just like her late mother’s wine glass and father’s monocle. “Do you think,” she asked the now distant porter, “that a pony can escape their own cutie mark? I for one intend to find out.”
Spare BedroomDitzy reached for her blanket only to discover she’d fallen out of bed again. Groaning, she wiped a line of drool off her cheek with the dirty sweater that’d become her pillow and tried to remember what came next: night shift or day shift. Sunlight was leaking through the curtains on the window, along with a pretty birdsong. Day shift, then. She pushed herself upright and stumbled toward the dresser, past the half-empty suitcases, the pile of dirty clothes, the stack of clean ones, and the taped-up cardboard box of childhood momentos. She slumped into the chair in front of the dresser, blinked a couple times at the mirror, and yawned. “Two more weeks,” she told herself. Two more weeks and she wouldn’t be on night shift anymore. Unless Well Done changed his mind again. She could still smell the hay fries. The sweater she’d been drooling on tasted like them, and she didn’t even wear it to work. “Need a shower. Need a million showers.” Hoofsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the door and Thunderlane, her second cousin, tapped it lightly. “Ditzy? Are you awake? I was going to make some breakfast, but—” The previous night slowly came into focus, including her blundering attempt to make grilled cheese. She leaned her forehead against the mirror and sighed. “I’m sorry about the mess, Thunderlane. I’ll clean it up. And I’ll buy you a new pan.” “It’s okay. I… kind of didn’t like that pan… or those towels.” She thought of the beige suit jacket, light blue hat, and pearl necklace hanging in the closet, the three parts of her business ensemble she’d acquired so far. It wasn’t that she was lacking for bits, not after working double shifts for months and finding nothing worthwhile to spend them on. In two days it’d be the second Wednesday again, and if she could stay awake long enough she’d go to town on the second-hoof store’s kitchen section. “I’ll replace everything, I swear.” “Don’t worry about that now. I, uh… Are you decent? Can I come in?” Ditzy lifted her forehead just far enough off the mirror to take in her unkempt mane and grease-speckled coat. That wasn’t what really mattered, of course. She reached out a hoof and pulled a large wooden box off the dresser and into her lap, out of sight. “About as decent as I ever get. Come on in.” The door opened a crack at first, as if he was steeling his nerves. A sliver of light from one of the hallway lamps and the fresh scent of mint pierced the midmorning gloom. Finally the door swung wide and Thunderlane trotted in, smiling good-naturedly, Ditzy thought, considering the wreck she’d made of his spare bedroom and now his kitchen. “So… what’d you have planned for today?” She didn’t turn toward him, for his comfort more than hers. Instead she shrugged. “Gotta go to work soon. Gotta take a million showers first. Eat something that’s not deep-fried.” “Isn’t Sunday your day off?” “Huh?” she forgot herself for a moment and looked right at him, thankfully with a squint. “Isn’t today… It’s Sunday?” Thunderlane nodded, his smile as immaculate as the rest of his house, save for the tiny room he’d given to her. And now the kitchen, which he hadn’t. “I get that your sleep schedule is wonky, considering the hours they’ve got you on. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about: the weather team is doing tryouts this afternoon, and I thought maybe if we practice bucking clouds this morning to get your confidence up—” Ditzy turned back to the mirror. “Nope, no weather for me. I’ll just make hay fries. Nice, safe hay fries. And take a million showers after.” Thunderlane stepped closer, and then she felt his foreleg on her shoulder. “Okay, if that’s what you want. I just thought I’d offer. Do you want some breakfast? How about some eggs?” “Eggs are great, thanks. I swear I’ll clean up the kitchen, and this room. Don’t let me borrow your vacuum though… looks expensive. No wonder your house is super clean.” He laughed. “I’ll vacuum for you if you get your stuff off the ground. Besides, my folks are threatening to send my little brother Rumble to live with me, so I might as well get used to having somepony else in the house.” She had to grin at that idea. “And you think this room is messy now, just you wait. You should’ve seen my bedroom when I was a filly.” Thunderlane’s laughter petered out; he probably had the same mental image she did. “I’m gonna get started on those eggs.” “ ’kay. I’ll be out just as soon as I… I’ll be out soon.” Her hooves clutched the box in her lap, not daring to move it until the door clicked shut. Finally she set it on the dresser and lifted the lid. Her glass eye stared back at her: vibrant, lifelike, and covered in a thin film of grease just like the rest of her. She rubbed its smooth surface with a cleaning cloth, pausing occasionally to spritz it with a little spray bottle. She rubbed, she spritzed, and she thought. She thought about her old home back in Cloudsdale. She thought about earning her cutie mark on the school field trip to the weather factory when they chose her to turn on the fog machine. She thought about her first day on the job there, the way her crisp new uniform felt and how everypony beamed with pride and respect when she wore it. She thought about the accident, the sirens, and the screaming. She thought about the hospital’s funny smell, and being so relieved to see her new eye, no matter the tremendous expense. But most of all she thought about how her new eye never seemed to point the right way, and how all that pride and respect evaporated like fog in the sun. Ditzy almost wrecked the whole weather factory. Dummy shouldn’t have been using that machine unsupervised. Dopey’s always been a klutz. Derpy doesn’t deserve to wear that uniform. The box’s lid slammed shut. Ditzy took a long, deep breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, forced herself to look at her own reflection. “Cloudsdale’s over. Ponyville’s a fresh start, and down here you’re gonna be your own mare!” She pounded the dresser for emphasis and immediately heard something fall off the opposite wall and crash to the ground. Wincing, she added a new picture frame to her shopping list and called out “sorry, Thunderlane!”
High SocietyMonday’s afternoon tea dragged by as it always did, with a half-dozen of Charm’s social ilk seated around one of her parlors, steaming tea cups floating in magic auras, half-eaten miniature sandwiches resting on saucers, and the all-important exchange of uninteresting chitchat. Uninteresting to Charm, at least. “That’s exactly my point,” Royal Ribbon, the mare nearest to her said, “exactly. Truly appreciating Lime Garden’s latest piece requires more time and abstract thought than that art critic could possibly manage. The nerve of him, pronouncing his judgement after barely a glance!” Life wouldn’t be nearly as dull if she could get behind some of these ‘causes’ the others held so dear. Today it was appreciating the art world’s newest darling, in a month it might be collecting antiques or attending a new theater production. The only thing these causes held in common, besides the momentary attention of the well-to-do, was their exorbitant cost. Squandering the family fortune would be so much easier if she could get passionate about this artist fellow everypony was prattling on about. “And I hear,” Sweet Dreams whispered in her most gossip-mongering tone, “that the two of them actually live in a Manehattan penthouse! So much for his ‘starving artist’ mystique!” Swan Song frowned and sniffed in socially appropriate disgust. “I knew it. I knew the moment I laid eyes on that pony—” So much for supporting the arts, then. The rich and famous were rich and famous enough. Charm took another sip of her tea, which had been tepid for at least a half hour, and dared to look at the clock on the mantle and its slow progression towards three. That miserable polo game they were all headed to then couldn’t start soon enough. At least there she’d have something in motion to watch besides the clock hands. Why was she going, anyway? Why did she even host this weekly afternoon tea? Was the idea of pulling the rug out from her peers reason enough to keep up this pretense? Why not become a laughingstock and a scandal now instead of later? Why not simply burn the whole mansion to the ground? Her late mother glared at her from a small portrait by the clock, smiling with her mouth but scorching the very air with her eyes as her oft repeated words echoed through Charm’s mind: if you cannot leave things better than when you are given them, you have failed. That advice was chiefly aimed at Charm’s then-small share of the family stock portfolio, but it rang true in the general sense too, one of the few bits of her motherly advice that did. Charm wouldn’t set fire to her inherited possessions, but she would, in a way, make them better. Getting them out of Canterlot’s upper echelons would make them better, where they could be owned and perhaps even enjoyed by those with no prior emotional attachment to them or preoccupation with which of Equestria’s founders had bequeathed them to history. The family possessions would be free then, and freedom sounded like a tremendous improvement over captivity. Fleur de Lis rapped the side of her teacup with a spoon. “Come now, ladies. While the rumors are indeed troublesome, I for one choose to treat the artwork and artist as separate entities to be judged on their own merits. Wouldn’t you agree, Charm?” Charm silently groaned. Fleur was at it again, attempting to draw her into the conversation. What was her game? Did she hope to curry favor, or secure money for a pet project? She had plenty of both already thanks to her well-connected husband, but for some reason she kept at it, complimenting Charm’s reorganization of the parlor one day—she’d donated one of the more garnish china sets and its mahogany cabinet—and regaling her with stories about her own nervous first steps onto the social stage the next. Why did she insist on talking to her? Wasn’t being invited to tea on a regular basis enough? “I… well—” Charm took a long sip of tea “—I can’t claim to be an expert on the arts.” Fleur’s smile didn’t waver, nor did her gaze. “All the better, I say. Whom can better say if the critic or the artist is more in the right than those who haven’t gotten too close to the subject for full objectivity, those who can offer a fresh perspective on the whole affair.” “I… suppose.” “Splendid. Charm darling, you simply must join the private art function happening at my humble home the day after next. All here are invited of course, but I for one would love to hear your personal take on Lime Garden and a few of the other artistes du jour we’ll have in attendance.” The day after next. Two days after Monday. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.” Such was her usual excuse for anything that dared encroach on her one day of freedom. Fleur batted her hoof. “Oh, surely you can find a moment to drop by at some hour or other. We’ll carry on as late as we need to to accomodate you. Won’t we, ladies?” The others raised their tea cups and nodded. Charm did not. “While I appreciate your invitation, I just can’t attend.” “Would you change your mind if—” “No.” Such much for decorum. Fleur’s smile faded as slowly and steadily as an evening sunset, until she seemed devoid of any emotion at all. “Well, let it never be said that I didn’t try, Charm. Let it never be said that I haven’t done my best to be gracious and accommodating to your busy schedule and clear disinterest in anything any of us has to offer, friendship included.” Fleur’s cup settled itself on the nearest saucer, and her hat took its place in her magic aura. “I believe I’ll meet the rest of you at our usual box at the polo game. Good day.” Charm knew she should feel something as Fluer and then the rest of her guests silently filed out, something other than relief. For some reason she felt as empty inside as her parlor.
CharmedThese little towns were surprisingly crowded. Charm’s business in them usually consisted of a quick trot to the nearest donation bin and back, often returning to her same seat on the train with time to spare and no more than a passing glance at the town proper or its inhabitants. Not today. Her meandering walk through town after town, without saddlebag or destination, had started out quietly enough in the early morning with no one but a few early-rising shopkeepers for company. By midmorning the townsponies were out in force, buying groceries and heading to work, and now with the sun at its apex a multicolored sea of bodies seemed to be block most of the main street. Sighing, Charm took a right down what in Canterlot would’ve been a side street but turned out to be more of an alley: empty, narrow, shopless, and smelling of something worse than its unpaved, dirt road. It was as if she’d stumbled into her own mother’s description of what the life of common ponies was like, right down to the odor. She turned to a nearby rain barrel and gazed at its still surface. Her reflection stared up at her: a lightly brushed magenta coat, violet mane done up in tight curls, average length unicorn horn, and brilliant rose eyes with tears forming at their corners. “What makes me so different from them… from mother and father, from the aristocrats I’m supposed to like, from the commoners I’m supposed to ignore… Why can’t I belong? Why can’t I be happy?” The burn-down-the-mansion idea was looking better and better. Offloading a saddlebag of woes at a time wasn’t working anymore. She needed a complete and total change, and she needed it now. Anything at all would be an improvement on this lonely moment. And then a saddlebag fell on her head. Charm found herself sprawled in the mud next to the overturned rain barrel, watching papers swirl in a breeze overhead and hearing a high pitched “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh!” ring in her ear. That part alone stung more than the lump forming on her head. “Oooh, what in Equestria…” And then a grey pegasus was hovering over her, a pegasus dressed in the oddest assortment of clothes, including an ill-fitting jacket, wide-brimmed blue hat with a horn hole, and a pearl necklace that, if Charm wasn’t mistaken, had belonged to her very own grandmare. She might have said so too, if her head were clearer. The pegasus was moving and talking so fast she might simply be a hallucination; that would also explain why her eyes weren’t pointing the same direction. “I’m so so sorry! I-I was just flying home and d-dropped my dumb bag and… I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.” The mud was so thick Charm felt like she’d been glued to the street. Extracting a single foreleg took considerable effort, nevertheless she wasn’t about to turn down an offer of assistance. “Thank you, dear, but be careful, the mud is awfully—” The pegasus grabbed Charm’s offered hoof, gave a mighty heave, and a moment later landed in the mud next to her, screaming more than ever. “Aah! Oh no, m-my clothes! My clothes!” After a few tries, Charm managed to roll her way out of the mud pit and stand, still reeling from the blow to the head and total chaos that hadn’t ceased since. “I don’t suppose I’ll have any better luck, but let me help you up this time.” Magic made all the difference. At last the pegasus squelched her way out and stood beside her, covered in mud and the papers that had exploded out of her saddlebag. “Th-thanks. It’s… it’s not like I needed this suit anymore anyway.” The pegasus hung her head and turned toward the main street. “Sorry again.” “Wait, wait! Could you direct me to a place to… well to clean up? I can hardly get back on the train to Canterlot like this.” The pegasus paused and looked back. “I guess there’s the spa, but that costs a bundle. I just sank the last of my bits into that.” She kicked her back leg toward the now ruined saddlebag half-submerged in the mud, its high end designer insignia still visible. “Thunderlane’s gonna have a heart-attack after I track mud through the house.” Charm held out a hoof. “A spa, you say? Let’s go at once, then. My treat.” The pegasus stood there a long time, staring at her with one eye. Finally a small smile peeked through the layers of grime. “That… that would be great! My name’s Ditzy.” “Charm. Pleased to meet you.” The posh, pink-coated mare behind the spa’s front desk acted just as Charm would’ve expected her too: as if a sewer pipe had burst. “We are not a public bath! One comes here to be pampered, massaged, and preened, not… cleaned!” Charm rolled her eyes. At last she’d stumbled upon a problem that money could solve. She’d buy the whole business if need be. “I’m sure we can come to an arrange—” Ditzy set her muddy elbow on the counter, her expression sullen. “How about we start with a mud bath? You offer those, right?” The mare behind the counter stepped back. “Yes, but—” Ditzy grinned. “Great, because we brought some extra mud of our own! Does that mean we get a discount?” “Certainly not!” “Oh well. We’ll take mud baths, and then… do you have showers?” The spa mare held up a pearly white towel and tried, unsuccessfully, to nudge Ditzy’s elbow away as she mopped up the mess. “Yes, yes we do. Might I suggest—ugh—aroma therapy, or the steam room? I’m afraid your… clothes will have to stay here, unless you’d prefer they be disposed of in the furnace.” Ditzy nodded enthusiastically, whipping mud from her blonde mane onto the walls. “Steam sounds perfect. Is that okay, Charm?” Charm nodded. The living, pony-shaped train wreck was talking to her again, and still smiling amiably. “Err, perfectly, dear. Perfectly.” Within minutes the two of them were stepping into adjacent tubs of even more mud, thankfully the kind that was lavishly scented and enriched with coat-restoring minerals, or so they’d been told. Charm lifted one of her coated hooves into the air, wondering if she could even tell the difference between spa mud and that from the street. “Oooh, wow!” Ditzy, meanwhile, had slipped in up her neck. “I’ve always wanted to try this! Thanks a million, Charm! I’m so sorry I… well, you know.” “It’s no trouble. In fact before you… arrived I was looking for a certain change in my life. This is hardly what I expected, but one can’t always choose such things.” Rarely could they, in fact. With a loud, rippling squelch Ditzy sat up in the mud bath and leaned over to look at her. “But you said you’re from Canterlot, right? I figured Canterlot ponies get to do fancy stuff like this all the time!” “I suppose some might. My life is… troublesome.” “Tell me about it! Up until now this was shaping up to be the worst day since I moved to Ponyville. I got fired for falling asleep at work, the bank manager wouldn’t even talk to me about my loan application, I wrecked my business suit… but now—” she spread her wings and fell backward into the bath, splashing mud everywhere “—this is how I always dreamed of unwinding at the end of a long day. Someday I’m gonna do this every week… if I ever get my business started.” The full breadth of Ditzy’s story took a moment to sink in, particularly since Charm had raised a foreleg to shield her face from the splatter. “Your own business, you say?” Ditzy sighed, her voice turning sullen. “It’s kind of been my dream since I moved here, to be my own mare, to own my home, set my own hours… But I dunno. I really messed up today and… maybe I’m just not good at anything.” Heaving a sigh of her own, Charm tried to remember the reassuring lies she’d been told as a filly. “Everypony has a talent or somesuch, you included. You gained a cutie mark, didn’t you?” She sniffed. “Yeah… but it’s just a bunch of bubbles.” Charm shut her eyes and chuckled for a moment. Perhaps the cutie mark destiny talk applied to working ponies only. “For your bubbly personality, no doubt.” Ditzy laughed. “Yeah, right. I got it back in Cloudsdale, and that’s totally not what it’s for. See, the weather factory’s got this big machine with bubbles floating in it and… why’d you think it’s about my personality?” “I for one couldn’t have talked my way in here, looking the way we did. I doubt I could’ve shrugged off the day you’ve had, either. It’s truly inspiring.” With the loudest splash yet, Ditzy clambered out of the mud bath. One of her eyes darting around and the other drifting off to the left. “Thanks. I-I’ll see you in the steam room?” Stunned, Charm simply nodded. “Very well. I shan’t be long.” Charm saw no reason to lag behind, especially not when a hot shower awaited. She had no idea why ponies paid to get so dirty. Within fifteen minutes she stepped into the steam room and found Ditzy there, seated on a wooden bench next to a pile of towels and, strangely enough, an equally large pile of balled up tissues. Ditzy sniffled loudly as Charm approached. “S-sorry. I um… I really needed to hear that is all. M-maybe I’m not cut out to run my own business. It always felt kind of off, b-but nothing’s felt right since… never mind.” Charm sat facing her on a neighboring bench. “I… well… you’re welcome, I suppose. But I’m sure if you kept at it—” “Nah. I’m clumsy and I forget stuff, so owning a business is a dumb idea. But I guess I can still be my own mare with a regular job… so long as it’s a good job! No more double shifts! No more making hay fries! I’ve gotta do something that I’m good at and that I can feel good about—” Ditzy stood on her hind legs and thrust a hoof in the air. “—and I’m sick and tired of making ponies fat!” Charm chuckled and clapped her hooves. “Bravo, then. I wish you luck in your next endeavor, whatever it may be.” Ditzy grinned, but then stared open-mouthed at Charm’s flank. “Oooh, wow! Of course! I should’ve known you’d have a cutie mark like that!” Flushing red, Charm grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it around herself. “It’s nothing special, I assure you. Nothing at all!” Ditzy smiled all the brighter. “Of course it is! You’re like the most generous pony I’ve ever met, so I’ve course you’ve got a generosity cutie mark!” Charm slipped off the bench, thankfully landing on the towels and not the hard floor. “Generosity?” “Yeah! What else could one of those horn-basket things filled with food mean? You were super-nice after I… um… dropped my bag on you, and you paid for us to go to the spa, and now you totally changed how I see my own cutie mark!” The steam must have gotten to Charm’s brain, or maybe it was the blow to the head; she couldn’t have heard that right. “Did I?” For the first time in ages she thought of the clothes and jewelry she’d given away, and what effect they might’ve had on the ponies who’d found them. Ditzy’s life had been changed, yes, but more by Charm herself than by her second-hoof belongings. The next thing she knew, Ditzy was on the floor hugging her. “Thanks for everything, Charm! You turned my whole life around!”
To Thine Own SelfThe ornate front door before Charm looked to be about a mile high. The soft glow of candlelight emanated from the mansion’s windows, no doubt from the get-together she’d uninvited herself to. Not that she could blame anypony for that besides herself. She’d had so many things backwards, and still had so far to go before she could measure up to her true peers. Still, she raised her hoof and knocked. Perhaps they wouldn’t even open the door for the likes of her. A servant with a grey coat, cropped black mane, and a stoic expression opened the door a crack. A fire’s warmth and the quiet din of conversation leaked out into the night air. “Good evening. Are you expected, Miss—?” “Charm. I’d like to speak to Miss Fleur, if she’d be willing to see me.” The servant gave a quick nod. “Very well, I’ll—” Fleur’s voice floated through the door. “Charm? Come in, come in!” Charm remained on the doorstep. She stared down at her hooves, chipped from a day of walking all manner of streets. Still, the hooficure from the Ponyville spa had held up better than any she’d ever received in Canterlot. She’d have to take note of that. “I wish I deserved to come in, Fluer. Alas, I do not.” Fleur joined her in the cool night air. “A less sympathetic pony might agree, but my invitation stands regardless. I must apologize for losing my temper before.” Charm stood up straight and, for what felt like the first time, looked Fleur full in the face. She was a very tall pony, lithe and beautiful in the classical way that no number of specialty products or spa treatments could bestow. “You spoke the truth at our tea party, Fleur. You’ve been nothing but kind, and I squandered that kindness. I was blind to it and a great many other things. Without even meaning to, I’ve treated ponies the same as furniture. I’m here to apologize, and to invite you to my home tomorrow morning, you and whomever else would be willing to come.” A hoof fell across Charm’s shoulders. “Apology accepted, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear. What’s the occasion? Another tea party?” “Actually—” a smile crept onto Charm’s face “—I’m starting up a charitable organization: meals for the poor, housing assistance, personal finance lessons, career advice… Ways to help ponies become self sufficient and better themselves however they see fit. I intend to fully fund the enterprise, but would love some partners to help oversee things and get the wheels in motion, as they say.” Fleur sucked in a breath. “That, Charm, is a cause no sensible pony would dare ignore.” With an hour left before closing time, the line at the post office stretched out the door. Ditzy hadn’t ever questioned why dropping off a letter or a package took so long, or why half of Ponyville seemed to wait until the last minute to do so. Normally she’d see the line from across the street, remember her big master plan for Ditzy’s Delivery Service, and walk by with a smile. Not today. She stepped into line without a word or complaint, something everypony in front of her seemed to have covered. A dozen versions of “why does this always take so long?” went up and down the line within the first ten minutes. Within twenty minutes Ditzy learned two new, colorful earth pony expressions for whiners and line-cutters. After forty minutes she reached the counter and smiled brightly at a haggard mare behind the counter. “Hi!” The post office mare stared at her, as expressionless as a statue filled with dynamite. “Can I help you?” “I saw that help wanted sign in the window—” “Come back tomorrow morning and fill out an application.” Ditzy glanced back at the still long line of impatient customers. “But it looks like you could use some help now, and I can start right away.” The post office mare rolled her eyes, but then turned toward the hallway leading to the back. “Hey, Stamps, somepony needs to speak to the postmaster!” A minute full of grumbling later, an old pegasus stallion with a limp and small blue cap and emerged from a side door. “What’s the trouble out here?” “Next customer!” The mare behind the counter shouted. Ditzy trotted over to the stallion and held out her hoof. “Hi, I’m Ditzy. I’m here to ask about the help wanted sign in the window.” The stallion gave a curt nod. “Proper Postage, but most ponies call me Stamps. Come back tomorrow and fill out an application.” “That’s what your friend behind the counter said, but I could help right now.” Stamps gave a gruff laugh. “Got any postal experience?” Ditzy shook her head. “Nope. The last place I worked was the Hay Burger across town.” “You ever wait on customers there?” “Nope. They only ever had me make hay fries.” “Got any references, any ponies that’ll say you’re a good hire?” Ditzy thought for a moment and shook her head. “Probably not.” Stamps tilted his head back and looked to the ceiling. “Why in Equestria should I hire you, then?” Ditzy gestured to the line again. “Today I got fired because my old boss made me work double shifts for months until I couldn’t stay awake, the bank turned down my small business loan application, I ruined my best outfit in a mud pit, and I just waited for almost an hour to get through this line,—” she pointed to her face “—and I can still smile. See my cutie mark? It’s for how I can pick myself up again no matter what sort of bad thing happens.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I was made for customer service.” Stamp’s eyebrows slowly rose until his cap fell off. The corners of his mouth rose next, and a moment later he was laughing loud enough that the mare behind the counter stopped talking to glare. “Guess I can’t argue with that. What the hay, come on back and help me sort the express mail. We’ll deal with the paperwork tomorrow.” Ditzy stood up straight and saluted him. “Yes Sir, Mr. Stamps, Sir! Oh, uh, the mail is insured, right?” Stamps nodded. “By Princess Celestia herself.” “Perfect.”
