Everybody Dupes

Chapters

The Great Cairn of the Snails
Chance and Probability
The Reflecting Pool
Bubblegum Breath

The Great Cairn of the Snails

Rarity made her way from the train station into midtown where ponies who had enjoyed their sleep now also enjoyed the tarrying sun in Ponyville Square. The smell of spiced haycakes sizzled her nose and made her rue the early morning she had spent in coach; that ordeal made her feel tired and sallow as an old seminarian, and she found a spot by the plaza fountain to set down her satchel and check her complexion in the reflection of the water.

“No use stopping at the boutique now,” she thought, making a quick adjustment to the checkered ascot she had worn from the city. “Sweetie Belle and I can swing there on the way back.”

She reached into the bag and drew out a parchment form with some writing scribbled on it and scrutinized it. Past Bo Peep’s Paint Supplies, it said. If you reach the joke shop, you’ve gone too far.

She tried to recollect what Ponyville First Universalist Church looked like. “First and only Universalist Church in Ponyville, they should call it,” she sneered as she struggled to form a picture. “Goodness knows I’ve heard about that cursed building enough times from Dad. I wonder if he’s still working there—he must be. Will I have to see him, too? Dad and Sweetie Belle at the same time—now that is not fair. I really need to make notes to be prepared for this sort of thing.” She sidled herself onto the ledge of the fountain to enjoy the warmth of the sun and to savor the plight of a gregarious homecoming, and, looking across town, remarked the oddity of the tree line. “Oh yes, I see what they are talking about. A race of caterpillars has found them. Completely bald like infants grown too quickly, not ready for the world. Fresh but a few months ago. Now it’s as though someone has flipped a record.”

She let herself back down, re-saddled her bag, and headed in the direction of the old part of town, a dilapidated historic district. It was founded by the original merchant-settlers of the area and was on a small rise from the plain, protecting it from the occasional flooding which menaced the river side of Ponyville. It had, paradoxically, become a haunt for younger ponies, who revived its saloons and tight square window shops with cafes and curiosity boutiques, and who were attracted to its ambiance of regenerative vigor. It was difficult for the visitor to discern between the functional, the derelict, and the chic, which seemed fused into one expression; the only clue to the building in question for Rarity was its stature above the far end of the village.

Luckily there could be no mistaking the address, though there were few signs of life outside the church. It was a stucco affair with two stories slumped against the foot of a hill. There was no entrance on the ground floor, the main doors being boarded off; instead, an unduly steep pathway beckoned the visitor to a balcony where a heavy metal door gave the impression of a receiving bay rather than a call and entryway to the Seeker. The smell of the place was old paint and garbage, and it was impossible to see through the small blackened stained-glass windows which lodged along the church’s sides.

“Perhaps I will have to sever my left leg and cast it on the doorstep of the Holy One to gain admittance,” Rarity thought as she ascended. She noticed sweat under her pits. Even worse to her than calling on a deserted building was the confusion caused by an indecorous arrival, disrupting the work of young ponies who—no doubt—must have had very big souls be toiling away in such a hermitage. Not more than a day ago she had been coordinating a marketing initiative for the coming fall line-up in the city, but now she felt like a raisin, climbing the pathway by the recycled building, listening intently for any activity or speech on the other side of the wall which might have been happening in regard to her presumed arrival; but there was nothing but dead, stony silence.

She pressed a buzzer by the old door—nothing happened.

After a short wait she gave herself permission to go back down to the street and look for a joke shop, when of a sudden she heard the clack! of a latch, and standing before her in the metal doorway was a crisply clad ashen colt in a black turtleneck, smiling at her saccharinely. A vine of red hair tumbled rebelliously over the left side of his half-shaved head, sabotaged in its purport by the youthful and expectant face of its owner, which recoiled from offering any offense to the intruder.

“Can I help you?” asked the overfed boy.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Rarity, regaining her composure. “Yes. I’m here to see Sweetie Belle.”

His features brightened. “Oh! Miss Sweetie Belle? You must be her sister. She told us you would be coming.”

“Why, yes!” she answered.

The boy nodded and made a gesture for Rarity to pass—but then corrected himself.

“Oops! Almost forgot. I can’t let you in at the moment—the company is in the middle of a dress rehearsal. Almost done.”

“I see,” said Rarity, taking a step back. Discreetly, she tried to see what was happening in the darkness behind the massive boy, but resigned herself to ignorance. “My name is Rarity, by the way.”

“I’m Free Hoof,” said the boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rarity.”

“Forgive me for asking a silly question, Free Hoof,” Rarity said, peering with greater exaggeration behind where he was standing, “but what is it exactly that your group does?”

Free Hoof leaned his heavy frame against the door. “Think of it as an approach to improvisational theater. Are you familiar with the work of Fritzel Fussbudget?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Free Hoof exhaled like a skier at the base of a tall slope. “Well, then. Super famous director from Allemaneia. He pioneered a method of object-based storytelling alongside Rhineland Rover, under whom our own Miss Bon had the good fortune to study in her early years.”

“Object-based storytelling? Is that where an ensemble of characters has a common dilemma embodied in the form of a magic object?” Rarity asked quizzically. “Like monkeys trapped in a room who have to learn to stack crates in order to reach a banana?”

“Like that,” replied the boy, “but take away the monkeys.”

“Well what are the actors supposed to do?” rejoined the lady in despair.

Free Hoof smiled. “We get so many ponies who ask that question. To understand Fritzel Fussbudget’s vision, I think it helps to be acquainted with his dark background. His father was a minor noble of the old principalities who had friends in the courts and who fell in love with a stenographer. They say Fritzel Fussbudget inherited his legendary obsession with storage spaces from her—who am I to say, though? Whatever the case, his parents’ marriage was ill-fated from the beginning.”

“Oh dear,” said Rarity.

“Yes. Believe it or not, many customs which originate long before modern Canterlotian aristocratic reform still persist in the provinces, and the coupling was not looked upon favorably by his father’s blue-blooded contemporaries.”

“They certainly maintain some strange traditions,” she agreed.

The boy scratched his big chin. “Indeed. His father’s noble house fell into such low standing that he gradually was ceased to be invited to the soirees that comprised the social life of a noble pony in those times. The greatest insult came when his family was left out of consideration for the Great Gala, an annual fête parallel in lineage to the Grand Galloping Gala in Canterlot.”

“What a business it was to get into that,” said Rarity, knocking him on the shoulder. “I could tell you a story of my own.”

“Why, that’d be lovely! Always happy to swap yarn with a fellow traveler,” Free Hoof replied. “Anyhow, as a young stallion, Fritzel Fussbudget became so disgusted by the culture of the aristocracy that he framed a scathing condemnation of it in his first major stage play as a budding dramatist, La Meilleure Nuit de Tous Les Temps. Since it was dangerous to openly criticize the nobility in those days, he wrote the satire entirely in Pony French, couching his acerbic views in a story about a baron who maintains the prestige of his estate by gathering wigged ponies and having them flog each other, perform quadrilles in tar, what have you—all to compete for the privilege of attendance at his parties, to build into it what Fritzel derisively referred to as éclat. Unfortunately, in composing his early masterpiece, he had forgotten that Pony French was in fact the lingua franca of the upper class.”

“Oh my,” said Rarity. “I’m sure that didn’t sit well with the lords.”

“To put it lightly. The nobility got together and trumped up a sedition scandal against him, and he was taken away to a forced labor camp in Neighberia.”

“You don’t say!”

The boy blushed. “Uh-huh. During Fritzel’s time in the camp one of the other inmates discovered a disposal area where the wardens would discard household objects. Fritzel Fussbudget was fascinated by the idea that the jailers would allow themselves to be so indolent in this one respect. He began to retrieve these objects and place them in certain innocuous places around the compound in such a way that only the prisoners were cognizant of their location and purpose. He set up a trail of pins and beer bottle caps which led from behind the document storage facility to a broken cooking slab cordoned off in a patch of brush which he called ‘The Great Cairn of the Snails’. Other inmates were inspired to make trails of their own, and the act of assemblage was imbued with emotive suggestions by Fritzel—for example, he would say to a prisoner leading buttons to a piked ashtray by the woodshed, Sunfall on the dead corpse of a possum!”

As the boy spoke, a cacophony of shuffled chairs and hoof steps sounded from within the dark vestibule.

“Excuse me, Free Hoof,” Rarity interrupted him, “I am really enjoying listening to you, but do you know how much longer the company is going to be?”

“It sounds like they’re wrapping up right now,” he replied, collecting himself. “Hold on—let me go check to see what’s going on.”

Free Hoof disappeared back into the church letting the sentinel door shut thunderously behind him. Rarity picked a portable mirror out of her satchel to inspect her mane, which must have been in a disastrous state, she thought, after the train and the crowd and standing outside talking to the boy in the sun and wind. In fact, it had maintained just fine: her resilient tresses curled about her temples and neckline and vaunted in the fetid breeze that was sticky like fried dough and crusted milkshake cups. She put the mirror back as she heard movement behind the door.

“Come on in!” Free Hoof hollered from the dark.

Rarity passed though the shroud of the vestibule into a vaulted chapel which seemed to rise from the earth itself. Its murals were dark-hued, claustrophobic, and cracked ubiquitously like veins that run through a hollowed mine; the art depicted flattened ponies gathered around topaz wells and vines, and others which rode down on clouds or came out of the pistils of flowers to catch flung rainbows in the chipped ether. They all had the same penetrating side eyes which gave lie to bent postures of supplication and the spirited frivolity of a suspended noon; they hung about the room rather more like the bright points of unseen constellations. Moving amongst these ancients were two or three squadrons of teenage ponies working in the main hall. Toward the center there was a group arranging pews into a hexagonal formation, with exits on the quadrantal sides. Altogether there were four concentric figures arranged this way; Rarity surmised that this must have been where the audience was intended to be seated, amidst the stars, facing outward from the center of the space.

To the right near the entrance was a dais where another group was testing a panel of drum kits. There was to be no snacking while work was happening in the kitchen: the students were diligent, playing only what was necessary to check the sound and assembly of the kits, and discussing quietly the layout of the mismatched percussion stations with regard to the audience entrance and seating. It was all as precise as a cocktail for a hot date. There was a choir where some others were standing over piles and assortments: stacks of antique books; long winds of colored acrylic tubing; a boulder-sized styrofoam dragon’s head; buckets of doorknobs. A writing desk had been placed in the opposite corner which was borrowed from the facility; in the middle of the circled hexagon of pews stood a flagpole with a patchwork banner flown at the top—it brandished a skeletal pony, reclined like a serene mendicant in dishabille lace over the slogan La petite mort séduit le massacre public.

Rarity heard Free Hoof’s loud voice resounding as he approached from one of the accesses to the chapel. She did not see her sister in the room, and caught a gasp in her breath at the thought that she might suddenly appear; but instead, the boy had returned with a stunning old mare with sagging, golden eyes who made nodding replies to Free Hoof’s excited declamations. A blouse clung to her bronze neck like it had been washed in the Fountain of Youth, and beaded necklaces bobbed with her as she acknowledged her protégés in her own antique time.

As she creaked over her eyes caught Rarity’s, and in the glimpse the latter sensed a wave of icy inspection; then, of a sudden, with a smile that pinched the rest of her face, she began:

“So you are Miss Rarity, how very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rarity replied.

“My name is Bon Temps, but the students call me Miss Bon.”

“Miss Rarity is a fashion designer from Manehattan,” Free Hoof interdicted.

“Manehattan? It’s been some years since I was there, but it is certainly a very difficult town to be successful in. Good for you, m’baby.”

“Thank you,” Rarity answered coolly, “but I’m afraid you may have misheard something my sister said. I’m not from Manehattan, but rather grew up here in Ponyville. It is a very sleepy town, I know.”

“That is not a problem at all, Miss Rarity. I adore little places like this. This church—well, I want you to think about the kind of affection this little church has to offer. One can drink it in, the way it sits here outside town untouched by the demands of modernity. Saint Clyde’s in-the-Bowery is quite pristine, I’ll give you that—I don’t mean to offend, Miss Rarity.”

“Not at all,” said the latter.

“A building like this one is like an old book with torn and earmarked pages, stains from morning coffee, a little yellowing from sitting in the sun. One knows straight away that ponies have lived and died here, do you understand? It has a viscosity that one rarely finds in a city like Manehattan. You see, Miss Rarity, that it is to the credit of you and your sister that you were both born and raised in this ‘sleepy town’.”

“Of course you are right,” Rarity answered her. “I’m afraid I am usually so busy that I rarely have time to stop and smell the roses—especially the wilting roses of a sepulcher. But I see your point.”

Miss Bon flashed her another pinching smile. “I am glad you do. It is so hard to be successful in Manehattan, I know. Good for you, m’baby. Good for you. I’ve had close friends who have gone crazy doing it. But you and Miss Sweetie Belle may always remember what home is like.”

Rarity glanced around the room—the young ponies were beginning to retire from the chapel hall. The headmistress was in no hurry to follow them, and lingered like the drag of a cigarette as Free Hoof stood beside her with head hung in what appeared a solemn exercise of self-restraint.

“Miss Bon,” Rarity began, almost out of pity for the huge boy, and in the hope of indirectly inquiring about her sister, “why is it that all the performers dress in black? I don’t see what that has to do with finding objects and all that.”

Neither the boy nor the old mare replied. Miss Bon inspected a front hoof languidly, and took so long in coming about an answer that Rarity could not tell whether she had now made reticent enemies or whether she found herself in the presence of well-wishers that were condescending to give her an opportunity at redemption.

“Miss Rarity,” Miss Bon said at length, “notwithstanding my appreciation for what is humble in a pony’s life, let me assure you that I am well-accustomed to the speed at which things come and go in the life of a young city mare. And, seeing as well that I am acquainted with your sister, who has such a keen understanding and openness of heart, I think I may also trust that the stick is not so far from the branch, and therefore extend those good qualities to you?”

“Of course,” said Rarity. “I would even consider it a ringing endorsement.”

Miss Bon grimaced. “From now on, I would kindly ask that you not refer to our work as ‘finding objects’. It is a degradation of our vision and of the sufferings of those who have strived to bring it into the world.”

“Why, goodness me, perish the idea!” Rarity said. “When I speak of ‘finding objects’ I intend only to convey a respectful curiosity—virtually praise! I certainly don’t mean anything by it. Why, we are looking for things all the time, aren’t we? Just last week I received a complaint from a very important client and was subsequently unable to find the invoice for their order anywhere. Now it turned out that my dear friend and co-conspirator, Coco Pommel, had discarded the invoice in a haste as part of an operation to keep the back-office tidy. I was very cross. ‘Coco!’ I said to her, ‘the invoices are a record of what we do! Now we have no way of resolving the difficulty that has come up with this influential customer.’”

She broke off and straightened her ascot as a gesture of rapport with the older mare. “Coco was very upset with my tone and ran off in a huff, as my friends are sometimes wont to do,” she resumed. “I thought that I might have to carry on without her. Oh, but as the days wore on I began to miss my dear Coco—the way she keeps the store just the way I like it, her little morning donations of coffee and doughnuts to get the day moving. Then the same irate and all-important guest came around again. By a stroke of luck, I found the prized invoice under a desk in the office—but I had become so stressed and disorganized in the basic operations of the shop that I couldn’t find anything in supplies to rectify the complaint! It was not my finest moment.

“Now, you’re probably asking, ‘Rarity, how is it with all this professional bungling that you’re not out on the street selling pirated merchandise of comic book characters? How will you get out of this corner you’ve put yourself into through bad judgment and stubbornness?” She put a hoof on Miss Bon’s shoulder. “Well, who should appear with a joke and a solution by my dear, sweet sister in the industry of fashion, Coco Pommel! She had come to apologize because she had so much respect for me as an entrepreneur and designer, and I tell you, she saved my hide in doing so! And when the dust settled, I told her that it was indeed I the one who should be apologizing, for treating such a close friend so poorly. And I told her as well, that although I had been searching for an invoice to resolve my dilemma, that the real invoice had been right beside me all along, bringing me coffee.”

Miss Bon bristled at Rarity’s touch like a mourning dove. “Please contain yourself, Miss Rarity. I am sure that such tales are very pleasing indeed to certain mares of your old acquaintance—perhaps the kind one would meet over tea at the patisserie—but we are concerned here with serious art. Please grant that I may ask you a question regarding your wayward friend, if you would be so kind.”

“Certainly,” Rarity replied as she observed personal distance.

“What would you have done if Miss Coco had not returned on that day with the angry customer?”

“I suppose,” she answered after some thought, “that I would have had to bite the bullet of the client’s ire and carry on with my business in the state it was in.”

“The office would be a mess. The operations would continue in free-for-all. You might wonder, late at night over a glass of Pinot, what became of your ‘co-conspirator’.”

“Correct.”

Again came the pinching smile. “What I love about you, that is to say, about young people, is your excitement for life. But—here, let me tell you a joke. My grandfather was a city planner in Swardbonne. He became quite well-known there. Well, one evening he went into a café in a neighborhood for which he had been the architect. A young waitress approached him as he was poring over a new design and asked, ‘How would you like your coffee tonight, Monsieur?’ He answered, ‘Without sugar,’ whereupon she replied, ‘I’m sorry, we are out of sugar today. Would you like it without milk?’”

Free Hoof snorted, but made no comment; Rarity awaited the punchline.

“What I mean to impart, Miss Rarity, is that the manner in which you have posed your story to me shows that you missed the point of what happened, entirely.” The clamor in the chapel had begun to die down. Miss Bon paused and glanced sidelong at Free Hoof, who stood by beaming with hardly contained joy at the disquisition of the headmistress. With this look something was understood between them, and he parted their company in obedient step back to the rear of the church. Miss Bon, using the opportunity of the silence for effect in her speech, waited before continuing. “Your long-lost friend came back. Who cares? You have missed something about life, my dear, something important. And therefore you miss the essence of black box theater.”

Rarity listened like she was watching a fly hover around an un-bussed table at an outdoor bistro. “Miss Bon,” she began, “I do appreciate your coming to speak with me and your attempt to help me to understand your art. But, really, I cannot sit and abide by your phenomenological insinuations. You picture my reunion with my old happiness as a symptom—a malady no different, perhaps, then if I were preoccupied with trying to crawl back into the womb. But, in my view, the whole nature of bondage is not that we are trying to get back into paradise, but rather that we are trying to get away from some original tragedy of separation. That is the modern enlightenment—we satisfy ourselves to form a parley with determining conditions, to ascend again the nefarious hill of the rolling rock. But who is coming to the bargaining table of the gods? If you cannot answer that, then you have a very confused notion of freedom, indeed.”

Miss Bon laughed loudly and looked at back her with her sad, golden eyes. “Very well, Miss Rarity. Perhaps it is something one must see to understand.”

“All ready to go!” said Free Hoof returning again. “I left the skeleton key with Miss Sweetie Belle. She’s finishing up sequestering the rest of the furniture downstairs.” He caught eyes with Rarity. “Miss Sweetie Belle is our point pony for this project. We leave it to her to account for the facility property and to lock up.”

“Yes,” Miss Bon chimed in, “we are very grateful to your sister for arranging to have this performance. She has proved ardent and reliable in that capacity. Well, it has been nice meeting you, Miss Rarity. We all look forward to seeing you at tonight’s performance, hear? Please remind your sister that we would like to begin with a silent cleansing at four o’ clock.”

“Will do,” she answered. “It was nice to meet you as well.”

Miss Bon flashed her one more pinching smile and lumbered out the side exit with Free Hoof. With the chapel now empty, Rarity froze a little as she could begin to hear work going on downstairs. There was the sound of chairs scraping on concrete, then a final clank! which reverberated and billowed up over the stars into the rafters. A door wheezed shut. As she heard hoof steps coming up the stairs, Rarity wondered whether she should strike a pose to be more impressive, then remembered the humid air inside the church—she was dabbing her hair to test whether it had become untamed when Sweetie Belle came out of the doorway to the recess. She was sweating and wearing a turtleneck like the others, though it did not quite fit her; she laughed when she saw her sister like the sight of dry land and hurried over to embrace her.

“You stink,” said Rarity, fighting for breath in her clutch.

Sweetie Belle let go. “Good! The commoner shall know me by the sweet scent of my perspiration. Now fetch me the finest bran mash in the province, fair subject, and for thee I shall set aside a plot of eight hectares to till.” She proffered a winking grin as they began walking together.

“Sweetie Belle this is weird,” said Rarity.

“Oh, everything is weird to you.”

“Practically from the moment I got off the train it’s been nothing but dead possums and drum kits and cryptic punchlines. I still don’t know what you do and I dare say I am afraid to find out.”

Sweetie Belle was nodding as she listened. “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it. It’s way more cathartic than thespian acting.”

“And do I strike you as a feverish lady, hungry for whatever pathos is on offer?”

“Hmm. It’s not about pathos, really. With pathos you have tension, climax, resolution, denouement, those sorts of traditional things. With black box theater the drama lies in the presence of the object, which facilitates the encounter between the audience and the space they inhabit.”

“Well I do love spaces,” Rarity quipped.

Sweetie Belle shook her head. “Look—if I see you, we might talk, find something in common, make plans, right? It’s all very intelligible. You could get a robot to do it. But think about the act of simply meeting someone. Isn’t that astonishing in its own right?”

“Bless your heart, Sweetie Belle. Whence come these pearls of great price?”

“It’s like shrining,” Sweetie Belle continued excitedly. “Instead of sympathizing with a hero you build a place where heroism lives, and anyone can go there. Does that make sense? You can also think about it like a zoo exhibit with monkeys, a bunch of boxes, and a dangling banana. Only—”

“Only no monkeys. Honestly, I didn’t know it was such a sticking point for you, dear.”

Rarity shielded her eyes as they made their way out into the sunlight; Sweetie Belle locked the door behind as she left with a soft clack.

“I thought we would stop at Carousel to freshen up a bit before meeting Applejack and the others,” said Rarity. “You don’t need anything at Mom and Dad’s, do you?”

“It’s all in the chapel.” Sweetie Belle pocketed the key and made her way down the walkway with her sister; as they went, Rarity could not repress a proud smile.

“I have to tell you, Sweetie Belle, how impressed I am that you’ve managed to pull all of this together. Your director was just telling me what a good job you’ve been doing in your retainer role. Going to that camp was so good for you, I can see it in the way you walk.”

Sweetie Belle blushed like a subject in a Rococo portrait. “Thanks. It was just luck, really. We were exploring possible venues for our end of project performances and I thought it would be fun to come to Ponyville. I told Miss Bon that I knew some of the princesses and that they would come to the show—before I confirmed with them, actually.”

Rarity raised her hoof. “Now, now. Don’t sell yourself short. It wasn’t ‘just luck’—that’s using your wits and your connections. I know for a fact that Twilight would love to come and see your troupe perform. She really loves theater, you know, and I believe she thinks quite fondly of you.”

“Maybe. I’ve been in correspondence with her about it, and she seems enthusiastic enough. But it won’t just be Twilight—Cadence will be there, too.”

“Cadence?”

“Cadence, Rarity.” She sighed. “I’m kind of nervous about it.”

“Well why is that?” But before her sister could answer: “Sweetie Belle, I want you to look at me. We are having a moment, you and I.”

Sweetie Belle looked at her.

“I have had the privilege of working with Princess Cadence on a number of occasions, and I have met few ponies capable of such fine discernment under critical junctures—she is the rival of Celestia. It will be good for you to meet her in a ‘professional’ context, as it were, you’ll see. I know it is pressure for you, but you are really very fortunate. And though it seems you are feeling jitters, know that your big sister does not for a moment doubt that you are ready for the challenge. Oh, I am so excited for you! It fills me with joy and inspiration to see that you have finally realized the wherewithal to—”

Of a sudden Sweetie Belle caught her hoof on a small root which protruded out of the earthen path on which she and her sister were walking; she was so fixed on Rarity’s speech that she tumbled forward with a “YEE!” and barreled toward one of the sidewalk shops, flailing her limbs and her satchel like a projectile. Rarity cried out in amazement as she chased to where someone had broken her fall; but in the fallout the skeleton key which had nested in the side pouch of Sweetie Belle’s bag had been flung from its compartment and arched through the air, where Rarity accidentally swallowed it as it converged paths with her on her way to aid her torpedoed sibling.

Chance and Probability

Sweetie Belle was helped to her hooves by an elderly stallion. “Are you all right, Miss?” he asked.

She fixed the hair around her horn nonchalantly then turned to her Samaritan with a toothy grin. “Chipped teeth?”

“No, ma’am,” replied the old buck.

“Bloody nose?” she asked with a sniffle.

“Fresh as the day you were born,” he said. “You’re ready for the ball, young lady!”

She curtsied her road-smeared, loose-fitting turtleneck and shared a chuckle with the old man as Rarity inspected her over. “Hear that, Rarity?” she said cheekily as her sister brushed her off. “Fresh as the day I was born.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, sir,” Rarity said in a mock tone. “For all you know the young lady may really be going to a ball, and be perfectly willing to attend looking like an old mushroom, if you let her.”

“In point of fact,” Sweetie Belle rejoined, “we are attending a lunch with friends, and I’m sure they wouldn’t hold it against me if I showed up in a big bowl of mushroom salad.”

“Perhaps not,” her sister replied, “but this will be more than just a get-together—it is a special picnic prepared just for you, little sister, in honor of your performance in town tonight. Don’t you want to look nice for your debut?”

“Is that right? Where’s the show at?” asked the old man.

“Ponyville First Universalist,” Sweetie Belle answered, pointing back up the hill like she was giving directions to an unmarked treasure. “You don’t want to miss this—it’s black box theater. I’m with a company under the famous Bon Temps, who rarely makes appearances outside of Rolling Oats. Seating is limited due to capacity restrictions but if you come around six thirty we can get you in. I won’t tell the fire marshal, I promise.”

“There’s also a silent cleansing at four, if you’d also like to attend that,” Rarity added.

The stallion laughed windily and tottered his head toward the town clock. His smile faded a little. “We’ll see. I’m sure anything either of you lovely ladies decided to star in could pack the house.” He turned to go. “Watch your step, now.”

Sweetie Belle smiled and waved him goodbye; Rarity rolled her eyes.

“You dope,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re taken in by an old flatterer.”

“You never know. That ‘old flatter’ might be a patron of the arts.”

“Here in the streets of Ponyville, you think?”

Sweetie Belle laughed and threw an arm around her older sister, nearly knocking her over. “That’s why I love you, sis. You’re so excruciatingly candid beneath all that hair spray,” she said, teasing one of Rarity’s violet locks.

“Ugh, please, Sweetie Belle! Will you at least pretend to act with a bit of civility, for my sake? Do it for your long-suffering sister, if not for your reputation as an aspiring actress.”

“Will you stop bringing that into this?” Sweetie Belle chuffed at her. “This isn’t Manehattan. Just because my clothes are a little dusty doesn’t mean I don’t care about what I do. You know where all this sweat comes from? Demanding rehearsals in a hot chapel. Moving equipment. Arranging furniture—”

“I didn’t say that, dear.”

“But you meant it.”

They began walking again. As they passed by the town park, Sweetie Belle, glancing for a rise from her sister, threw in: “Besides, who is going to judge me? Apple Bloom? How could I possibly get any lower in her estimation, anyway?”

“You were just telling me how nervous you are that Princess Cadence is going to be there tonight. That’s all. I didn’t intend to upset your artistic sensibility.”

Sweetie Belle looked away with a half-smirk. “You are so impossible sometimes. I’m nervous because I want to do justice for black box theater. Cadence is a pony that listens, like you said. And that is the most a performer can ask for.”

“She won’t be at the lunch, then?”

“She’ll be there. It will be her, Twilight, Rainbow Dash and Applejack—of course—and Apple Bloom. Very casual.”

They carried on in silence for a short way. Then Rarity said: “Oh, there is a minor thing I should mention.”

“What is that?”

“Earlier when you tripped, the key in the side pouch of your bag flew out and I may have… swallowed it,” she said, massaging her throat. “I think I will be okay. But we will have to make sure to stop and see the chapel administrators to get a spare before your show begins.”

Sweetie Belle halted in the street. “You did what!? Please tell me you’re joking, Rarity.” She spoke with a severity that shocked her older sister; the latter recoiled like she had been bitten by a puppy for the first time after trying to play with its chew-bone.

“W-what, you mean there’s no spare?” she stammered. “I suppose that’s something you have to be mindful of with these old places. Well we’ll figure something out.”

Sweetie Belle glared at her a moment longer. She went to speak, but instead removed her saddle bag and began to rummage through its compartments as it flattened out against the warm bricks of the plaza. She sighed aloud a few times as she picked through her belongings while Rarity stood mute like a delinquent student having her locker investigated; after a minute of searching Sweetie Belle threw her head back in resignation. “I can’t believe it. Don’t even talk to me right now.”

“Well I didn’t do it on purpose,” Rarity rebutted in a low voice.

“Of course you didn’t,” Sweetie Belle snapped. “I guess not eating the key to the venue of the performance I’ve spent a month pulling together is easier said than done.”

“Well!” Rarity fired back. “How dare you take that tone with me! I come all the way from Manehattan just to see you and here you are trying to make me feel foolish. I see you’re getting quite good at that, Sweetie Belle. I have half a mind to take the next train back to the city.”

Nearby the babble of a young colt cut the patter of the bustle in Ponyville Square. He had thrown a penny bit into the fountain and was up on his hind legs trying to recognize which in the old mosaic of coins at the bottom of the well had been his. The coins under the water, his mother explained, couldn’t be touched; the boy was so impressed by the undersea world he had helped to create that he took a pouch of bits and broadcast them into the pool, to observe what the world might look like in flux. By this he attracted the amusement of a few passersby, and the mother snatched the boy away before he could see the result of his experiment.

“I’m sorry,” said Rarity.

Sweetie Belle let out another heavy sigh. “No, you’re right. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry if I’m acting like a bitch,” she said, beginning a pace. “It’s just that I have no idea what I’m going to do now, or what I’m going say to Miss Bon, or what I’m going to tell the others—"

“Sweetie Belle you’re not… that, and I won’t hear another word of it. I understand the stress you must be feeling—trust me, I’ve been there too. Also, language, please.”

“Sorry.”

“Now… chin up, lady! Let’s nip this in the bud so we can get on with our afternoon. It will be perfect—we’ve been through far worse, after all.”

Sweetie Belle took a breath. “Right. No need to panic. We’ve been through far worse.”

“Why, to be sure!” said Rarity. “Now, perhaps we know someone who can open the door for us? I was thinking… someone burly. Maybe we will see Big Mac at the picnic today, and we can ask him to help us with his special equipment.”

“Special equipment? Like what?”

“Have you not seen his workshop?” asked Rarity. “He must have tools going back a hundred years, passed on through generations of Apples. It’s a cave of wonders, I tell you. A full history would make a very interesting magazine article.”

Sweetie Belle shrugged. “I think it’s all like… old chisels, though.”

“Maybe with a little elbow grease. He is very strong, you know.”

“Rarity, it’s a metal door.”

“In that case,” Rarity said in accord, “he might have some special tree felling machinery that may be of advantage. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Sweetie Belle frowned. “I think the best way to go would be to find someone who could pick the lock.”

“Ooh, good idea!” said Rarity. “What about that friend of yours—I forget her name, poor dear, but you remember, she was the one who ruined the parade that one year?”

“You mean Babs Seed?”

“Yes! That’s the one! Good old ‘Babs Seed’. I don’t like to judge but she seems like she’s broken into a few places if you get my drift. Wouldn’t it be nice for her to branch out? I’m sure she would love to share in the completion of your success, and provide a small favor to the community.”

“Babs doesn’t live in Ponyville,” said Sweetie Belle. “In fact, I don’t know where she lives because I haven’t talked to her in three years or so. Manehattan, still, probably. Too bad you didn’t bring her along with you.”

“Oh, phooey. You know, it gives me an idea, though. Perhaps in the spirit of Babs Seed we can find our own passage into the church? I wonder how secure those boarded up doors are,” Rarity said, rubbing her chin like a prospector having found in her sieve an antique lug.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Sweetie Belle said charily, “but I’d like to avoid causing any kind of property damage or getting involved in suspicious activity. I’m the facilitator—it’s my job to make sure those things don’t happen.”

“Hmm, yes, I think you have a point.”

“What I meant was that maybe we can ask one of the princesses to unlock the bolt.”

Rarity itched a spot on her neck. “Hmm… No, I don’t think it will be necessary for us to go through with all of that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Sweetie Belle—and I hate to put this sort of spin on things, but you’ll understand when you’re a little older—I am an established mare,” Rarity explained as she straightened her mane. “Now, I ask you, how should someone in my position go about asking such a favor? These things must be considered. Shall I ask Princess Cadence if she knows how to pick locks? Or perhaps I should pull Twilight aside and away from her no doubt busy schedule, and ask if she can come by and open the door to the old church for us? I am sure that out of the goodness of their hearts—for we are dealing with very fine mares—that they would condescend to help if it were in the power to do so. But my own chances to break bread with my friends are these days so rare, and besides, now so interfingered, as it were, with prestigious company, that it does not wear well with me to ‘cadge the swells’ on behalf of petty requests on those precious, precious occasions.”

“But it’s not petty,” Sweetie Belle objected. “It’s the reason we’re all here. A little chagrin is a small sacrifice to make.”

“Like I said, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity pressed on, “you will understand when you’re older. But don’t think that I would turn down such a fine and practical suggestion if I did not have one of my own, other and better. For there is a natural solution to our predicament.”

Sweetie Belle considered the proposition. “In just about any other situation, I’d be touched to hear that you were willing to do something like that for my sake. Which I am, of course. But I’m a little worried that we’d be putting trust in something which is beyond our control… Call it ‘misplaced faith’.”

“Faith is what you are willing to die with—that’s all,” said Rarity. ”What we are dealing with here is a little chance and probability, and that can be dealt with by planning. But I know myself and my rhythms, if it may be so put, and in any case better than I do the discretion of our venerated hosts. And keeping the task within the scope of our own handling is the most direct approach, don’t you think?”

“I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea… We could stop at the pancake house and tell Applejack that you had a big breakfast.”

“Oh, no, we couldn’t do that!” said Rarity. “You know how Applejack is. It would be extremely inconsiderate of us if she went through all that trouble to host a lunch, only for me to turn away from my plate. She really is a star for doing this.”

Sweetie Belle nodded. “Maybe just a few pancakes, then. A short stack—a little insurance policy?”

“Fine, fine. Then it will simply be a matter of stealing away to powder my nose, and the precious artifact will be recovered in complete secrecy whilst we enjoy the company of our chums.”

“You know, we make a pretty good team, you and I,” Sweetie Belle said, putting her bag back on. “We should run for office together some day.”

“Quite right—let the die be cast!” Rarity decreed as she joined her sister and they quit the square at a quick tempo.

***
***

The girls made a diversion to Carousel Boutique where Rarity changed out of her city clothes and Sweetie Belle washed herself; then they went to Bayard’s Café to fulfill the first stage of their plan to reobtain the key to the old church. They tipped the waitress who brought the small stack of blueberry pancakes generously, and explained that Rarity was recovering from a fast and trying to manage her blood sugar.

“We have one mission this afternoon,” Rarity said when her sister caught her blushing. “And that is to get you to the performance tonight!”

Sweetie Belle sipped her coffee.

From there they went to Sweet Apple Acres. As they crossed the yard they heard murmurs from behind the barn house, and guessed that the picnic was being held by the babbling brook which ran there and that most or all of the guests were already in attendance. On the approach they heard an incongruent voice amidst some laughter, and Rarity turned to Sweetie Belle and asked if she had forgotten to mention an invitee during their conversation in the square.

“I’m not being pushy,” she said. “I know for sure that it is one of Rainbow Dash’s Wonderbolt friends, and I am trying to prepare myself.”

“The more the merrier?” Sweetie Belle replied cautiously.

“You don’t understand. Rainbow is an old and dear friend, of course. But she is the last pony I’d want to know about our little predicament. This is just the kind of jab she will bring up at parties, soirees, meet and greets, for years and years, and no one will learn anything from it. That is the real crime, Sweetie Belle. Everything is a laughingstock with her. And I worry that she and her mates might infect the others with their ribaldry.”

“If they crank, we crank back,” said Sweetie Belle, inhabiting the mien of a military officer. “Just fill up and be your lovely self and leave the ribaldry to me. We will make it through with minimal casualties.”

“Don’t josh. You know I’m doing this for you.”

“You don’t need to worry about it so much,” Sweetie Belle said. “That is the tell of a beginning actor. Miss Bon says that it is like taking a bitter medicine to learn that the audience is not there to see you, but good medicine, because it allows you to immerse yourself in the task at hoof. That’s our responsibility to the ponies who come to the theater.”

“Ah, so you’re inured to appeals to sympathy, you briny spirit of the seafaring way,” Rarity said witheringly. “I suppose I will just have to abide as your caring older audient.”

“Oh, save it.”

They arrived at a lull in the conversation of the picnickers. The company was seated around a red checkered blanket in front of small plates whose portions were drawn from a buffet which bunked from one side of the picnic cloth down to a vacant end. The central theme was country bean burgers and red lentil salad topped with walnuts and a creamy pumpkin sauce—an outdoor favorite with a note of autumnal coziness. To these were added two contrasting soups: one a hearty white bean which shone like a notched pearl under the sun, and the other watercress, light and evocative, green as a work of van Doe in her declining years. Down-blanket there was a bowl of macaroni and cheese flanked by vegetable pilaf and a platter of tumescent roasted onions with singed tips; nearby, salted almonds lorded high in a beveled serving dish; sautéed garlic mushrooms, asparagus with butter, potato and squash wedges with eggplant dip, fell prostrate to those gulling about the blanket; and a batch of apricots drizzled with honey promised a sweet and sticky conclusion. Apple Bloom, Princess Twilight, and Princess Cadence occupied the left side of the empty space, while Rainbow Dash and her guest, Master Sergeant Spitfire of the Equestrian Wonderbolt Air Forces, sat opposite to them on the right; at the head of the cloth was Applejack, cook and curator of the feast.

“Ah, the star of the hour has arrived!” Cadence announced, standing up. “Perhaps you would care for something to eat?”

“Hello, ladies!” Rarity answered. “Look at you all, lovely lot.”

“Sit down!” said Apple Bloom, beaming; she motioned for Sweetie Belle to have a seat at the opposite head of the blanket.

Sweetie Belle turned to Rarity. “You go,” she said, recusing herself to allow her sister to take a place there; but the latter marched past her and plunked herself decidedly next to the Master Sergeant, and patted the lawn of the open space which was left open.

“Sweetie Belle, sit!” she said. “It is your right place as the guest of honor.”

Sweetie Belle glanced around the picnic blanket like a fetch dog contemplating a tennis ball floating on a lake. “No surer sign you’ve made it than being party to a roast, right?”

“Eat up, darlin’!” said Applejack, exercising chief status. “The only thing getting roasted today are these onions, and that’s over and done with.”

“The pumpkin dressing is delicious,” Cadence added.

Sweetie Belle took her place and began to make a plate. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have too much, though…” She gathered a little watercress soup and a few squash wedges as a side.

“You on a diet, kid?” Spitfire asked her.

Sweetie Belle blushed. “Heh, not really. It’s more of a lifestyle thing. It helps not to overeat before a performance.”

“That’s true!” said the officer in approval.

“I guess we know that Rarity’s not going to be performing any time in the near future, eh?” said Rainbow Dash, peering with unconcealed amusement at the lunch which the former had made for herself: Rarity had taken two bean burgers and lumped on top of them a mound of macaroni and cheese, lined them with several sides, and was already devouring from a second plate brimming with lentil salad.

Rarity made sure to finish chewing before answering: “One thing I have learned in my travels, Rainbow Dash, is that if someone of acquaintance offers food one should always accept it. It’s not just about one’s own comfort, you know.”

“You have some way of trying to comfort us,” Rainbow Dash replied with a little elbow to Spitfire.

“Now, now, there’s plenty for everyone,” Applejack interceded. “I say, a good appetite is the mark of a good mare. No offense to you, Sweetie Belle—you’re just gettin’ ready for your little show. Poor Rarity here’s probably been running around all mornin’, I wager, coming from the city.”

“I’ve been up since quite early indeed,” said Rarity between bites, “and you would not believe what my sister has gotten herself into.” She slopped a helping of vegetable pilaf onto her plate. “Let me tell you, this is no ‘little show’. It’s something involving monkeys, or rather a lack thereof. I have never seen so many quiet teenagers in the same place, and they have a rampart of drum kits and a headmistress who lurks in the shadows. It is almost beyond comprehension.”

“Tell us again about your theater group, Sweetie Belle?” asked Twilight. “I’m afraid I didn’t understand it from the description in your letter. I’m trying to remember what you called it… A great ‘caw’ welling from the cavern of solipsistic tragedy?”

“Did I write that? I don’t recall,” Sweetie Belle replied, abashed by the scuffs of plastic cutlery which tinkered the air. “That’s not a good definition—let me put it to you a bit differently. Let’s say you have a line on a graph which goes in the same direction from left to right, which you can call a function. Depending on the shape of the line you can derive a formula for it, or give it an explicit operation. But you don’t have to do that to understand that the line represents a type of order. You could write ‘y equals x’ and add operations to transpose the same line to different parts of the coordinate plane. So that, although you are manipulating the line in discrete ways, the line itself is, in effect, a black box.”

“Yes, it gets quite interesting when you try to understand it from a cognitive point of view,” Twilight said, sipping from a sweating salted lemonade. “Because, actually Sweetie Belle, what you have described is just the supervenient attribute of all mathematical symbolism—only, in the case of solving a function, we are asked to reformulate the argument, rather than proceed in an extrapolatory direction.” She reflected for a moment. “Yes. That kind of work is at the intersection of the vector and the cipher, or black box, as you put it. But—I’m sorry. I’m still not sure what this has to do with theater.”

Sweetie Belle shrugged. “Like Rarity said, words don’t really do it justice. You have to see it first, I think.”

Apple Bloom tapped her on the shoulder. “I get you. When I was a filly I used to love listening to my Uncle Turnover tell stories. You know how he was, Applejack—such a fiend with impressions! Gosh, he’d have me in stiches till it tuckered me out. I swear half the time I didn’t even know who he was impersonating, but there was something about where it came from and how he was doing it that it was real enough for me.”

“You knew before you knew,” Cadence observed.

“Yup! That’s exactly it! Heck, might have even been less funny if I did know. That’s what you were talking about, right Sweetie Belle? Like, the audience is supposed to guess?”

“This is art, Apple Bloom, not geography,” Sweetie Belle retorted.

“You know what’s even better than monkey theater?” Apple Bloom took an ice cube from her drink and tossed it into Sweetie Belle’s soup with a plop!

“Hey! Your sister made that lovingly, you wedge bot,” Sweetie Belle said, recoiling.

“I think she’s referring to an emphasized application of type or parody in the metanarrative presentation, Apple Bloom,” Twilight interrupted, “which gets much nearer to my original question—though we would have to be clear on the difference between ‘type’ and ‘parody’, of course.”

“One is order recognized before any observations are made, and the latter is order within the experience of order”, said Rarity, munching an onion. “Indubitability is the common thread you are searching for. Yes, I think we’ve really nailed it, eh Sweetie Belle?”

The ladies assented with one or two puzzled expressions and went back to eating. They made a few expectant glances at Sweetie Belle, who gave no answers but made rings in her soup like she suspected the presence of a pre-Cambrian life form living within it.

“This is the most dubious conversation I’ve ever been a part of,” said Applejack.

“You seem pretty bright, kid,” Spitfire broke in. “Do you get good grades in school?”

“Me? Oh no, I’m terrible in school,” Sweetie Belle answered, embarrassed again. “That’s part of the reason I’m participating in this project. My parents wanted me to do something over the summer.”

“So she went to Rolling Oats,” Rainbow Dash added, “the party capital of Equestria.”

Spitfire blinked. “Really? Heh, that’s not what my parents would have done!”

“It has a good art scene,” Cadence said.

Spitfire looked at her like she had been offered an unmarked beer. “Does it?”

“That’s what they say,” Rarity interdicted with pumpkin lips. “A bit parochial for my taste, though. Are these biscuits, Applejack?”

“’Parochial’… I don’t think I’ve heard that before,” Cadence said with curiosity. “‘How do you mean, Rarity?”

Rarity took a corn biscuit, slathered it with a cut of warm butter, and doused the result in locally acquired strawberry gravy. “If you want to know my opinion, I’ll give it to you. I think there is too much emphasis placed on a certain sort of subject art in places like Rolling Oats. Everywhere you look there is somepony playing a trumpet, somepony riding a streetcar. You either identify or you don’t. It’s the dregs, dear—like walking into a comic book shop,” she concluded, dabbing her bottom lip with a napkin.

Cadence frowned a little. “I see. Actually, what you say is precisely why I enjoy visiting places like Rolling Oats, and I’ve never been on a streetcar.”

“It is a novelty, certainly,” Rarity sighed.

“What I mean is,” Cadence continued, “I form a connection quickly. Shining Armor and I live in the Crystal Empire, which is rich with imperial history. The architecture there is much more opulent even than what one would find in Canterlot. But I’ve always felt that it gives the sense of something altered to convey a certain line of events far removed from the lives of ordinary, contemporary ponies. Shining and I have gotten into a few disputes about it, actually. I tell him I think it’s too obtrusive—he gets so mad!” she said, whisking a smile at Twilight.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” she replied. “He’s very passionate about certain things. And he’s always had a penchant for detailed linework, and loves decoration, maybe even more than I do.”

“It’s all in amusement between us,” Cadenced resumed. “But, in truth, the atmosphere there would be stifling to me if I weren’t so used to it. With Rolling Oats there’s different energy. Rather than feeling like you’re looking at something from far away, once there, you are a creative participant, part of the clay. You know you’re at the source when you step onto the street—it’s a real city.”

“I agree with you about the Crystal Empire, dear,” Rarity said, raising to her lips a glistening piece of watermelon she had found at an untended corner of the blanket. She bit down to the rind and, masticating with precipitous slobber, continued, “and I’m sorry to hear you’ve married into the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I do love Shining, but I’d be excited to get out of the house, too, if I were in your place. I just don’t understand the fascination with ‘hypotheticals’. Color for the sake of itself—there’s nothing truly eclectic or intellectually satisfying about it, though it may give the appearance of those things. Tacky is the word I’d use,” she said, throwing out a watery red hoof to emphasize the point.

“That’s a strange point of view,” Cadence replied. “Maybe it resonates differently in my case. It’s the everyday life of ponies seen without a frosty allegorical lens that grabs me—common things and common dilemmas, the intricacies baked into routine given a fresh expression, which we slip away from a little too easily in a haste for sophistication.”

Rarity tongued a watermelon seed from behind her lip and spit it four feet onto the grass. “No, no. It doesn’t have to do with ‘sophistication’—it’s about clarity. That’s what raises civilization up, and I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go that far with it. Without clarity life is just a big pile of everything which calls itself ‘unity’—I mean, Rolling Oats was founded by speculators, dear. In that respect Canterlot is the more fetching city. Her wending spires wend the mind as well, and lift the spirit, rather than drag it down to sticky traffic. Don’t you agree?”

Rarity tossed a sullied napkin down and a few of the ladies began to whisper to each other, and the conversation seemed to come to a recess; but Sweetie Belle, brimming with eagerness, picked it up again: “Here’s the thing about Rolling Oats—it’s a different city at night than it is during the day. It shows different influences and betrays its kinship to Hayseed Swamp. There are little shops scattered around where you find colorful pony skulls made from baked mud, for example. That sense of the macabre is everywhere, like breath, and you don’t notice it until you stop to pay attention.”

“I remember being struck by how many mediums were in the old part of the city at night, last time I was there,” said Cadence. “It definitely has a spooky vibe.”

“Mhm. Some of those neighborhoods haven’t changed much in the last few hundred years. I’m talking big walled complexes with willowing streetlamps and rope-drawn gates for carriages, that kind of thing. I was walking around one of those neighborhoods with a friend one night after a long rehearsal. She told me about a plague outbreak which was so bad that entire city blocks were quarantined from the community at large. Ponies dined and danced in masks. There were dead piled in the streets.”

“How charming,” said Rarity, crossing her legs.

“Well, it’s a little weird,” Sweetie Belle said, “but that’s the most fascinating side of Rolling Oats to me. Sometimes I would visit the old churches by myself. The whole entryway into the city is surrounded by a cemetery. It’s like a big drumhead beating the pulse of life and death.”

Rarity smiled wanly. “Sweetie Belle, my love. Couldn’t you have just joined the Wash-outs or something?”

“I was hoping this would help you contextualize black box theater,” she huffed. “At least, as we interpret it—as I interpret it. The underworld element can’t be separated from the party atmosphere that Rolling Oats is famous for, in my opinion. They’re two parts of the same thing.”

Rarity flipped her legs and said, “And what thing is that, sex? I saw your flag back in the chapel. You may do as you like, you know.”

“Don’t dismiss it, Rarity,” Sweetie Belle replied with a lurch. “I know that look. It’s not about sex—it’s about mana!” She placed her hoof down to drive her point and accidentally tipped the bowl with watercress, spilling green soup onto the blanket.

“Don’t worry about it, Sweetie Belle,” Applejack said while some of the ladies giggled. She trotted over with a cloth napkin. “Here. This blanket was going to be washed, anyway.”

Sweetie Belle accepted the napkin and took it upon herself to scrub the blotch. “Thank you. Sorry about that…”

Applejack discounted her apology and went to retrieve more cleaning materials from the house.

“So Rolling Oats has mana,” Rarity said with wiggling hips. “What of it?”

“The point is,” replied the Guest of Honor, “that not many ponies are willing to pay the price for that kind of life, the one which you have crudely characterized by ‘sex’. You have to pay for things in life,” she said, inspecting her work. “In Manehattan, you pay first. That is ‘wise management’. But the spirit in Rolling Oats is different. There, ponies pay later—they have a courageous, ecstatic hoof in Hell. How about that! Do you think it stifles the fullness of life? its creativity? its sense of morality? I think that it brings something out in all of these that you can’t find anywhere else.”

Rarity leaned forward. “Well excuse me. And what is your definition of ‘Hell’, little sister?”

“Oh my gosh, can we please move on to a different subject?” Rainbow Dash cried out impatiently. “Something everypony can participate in? I’m pretty sure Spitfire would like a word in now and then. Right, Ma’am?”

“By all means,” Rarity chimed in, “how wonderful it is that you have made time to join us for Sweetie Belle’s performance tonight, which we are all looking forward to!” She fidgeted a little and added, addressing the others around the blanket, “I think it is only polite that we allow Miss Spitfire to choose the topic of conversation.”

The company readily agreed, but Spitfire shook her head. “Nah, nonsense! This is great. Conversations in the royal dining hall aren’t nearly as entertaining. Despite your impression, Dash, I am capable of being a good listener, and a happy one at that. If I started telling you guys what to do this would become a busman’s holiday,” she said, closing her eyes. The ladies were silent as Spitfire seemed to plunge into a meditation.

Applejack began to go around the blanket collecting plates.

“I’m a little concerned to hear that you’re not doing well at Friendship Academy, Sweetie Belle.” Twilight resumed. She glanced at Rarity, who looked away. “I would even say I’m disappointed. You always seemed studious to me.”

“Just a bad year,” Apple Bloom said, coming to her defense. “She goes in and out. Scootaloo’s the one you want to talk to about grades.”

“Yeah, Scoots is hardcore about school,” Sweetie Belle added.

“Really? How did that come about, Rainbow Dash?” asked Twilight. “I mean, I’m not judging…”

She shrugged. “When she wants something, she goes for it. And she wants to go to university.”

“Canterlot University,” said Apple Bloom.

Twilight began raking crumbs off the blanket with her hoof. “Goodness.”

“She has the…” Cadence cut in, pointing to one of her wings. “Right?”

Rainbow Dash nodded. “She’s tried out for a few things. That really wears her out, though, I think. We’ll see what happens. What else can I do?”

“And what about you, Apple Bloom?” Sweetie Belle asked, giving her a pat on the head. “What do they do with ponies who are talented at being redheaded? You don’t want to wind up in Hell, like me, after all.”

“Do you feel that, Applejack?” she responded. “I think there’s a breeze blowing through one of your willow trees. A whole lotta rustlin’ but nothing to concern yourself about. What pretty, hapless things they are, only good for writin’ sad poetry. Shame.”

“You’re so insufferably incorrigible, Apple Bloom,” Sweetie Belle moaned. “A thorough miscreant. In twenty years you’ll be selling inspirational napkins on the street in between singing and dancing about your promised place in the afterlife.”

Sweetie Belle’s remark, after lingering a moment, made Apple Bloom roll onto her side laughing and kicking her legs in the air. Sweetie Belle covered her face as the party looked on in amazement, but a snort wrenched itself out and belied her disapproval—she burst into giggling together with her friend rocking on the grass until both their faces were ruddy like children who had enjoyed a game of their own invention. When they settled down, Apple Bloom looked over and said, “I missed you so much this summer, Sweetie Belle.”

Sweetie Belle tucked a hair behind her ear. “Ugh, I feel so dumb. I meant to bring you a gift. There was this great mug I saw in one of the painter’s shops… I’m sorry.”

“Apple Bloom’s been thinking about joining the service,” Applejack said, resuming her seat at the head of the table.

“She can tell the difference between a pigeon snare and a bear trap, you see,” Sweetie Belle butted in. “And now she wants to turn it into a career. Truly a redheaded vocation!”

“And what’s a vocation for a string bean?” said Apple Bloom. “Sleepin’ all day?” She sat up and tweaked Sweetie Belle on the nose.

“Ow!” she yipped. “Idiot!”

“We have some military history in the Apple family,” Applejack continued. “My grandad on my mother’s side was in the cavalry. Says when he joined he was ‘young and stupid’.”

“Applejack, I’m very sorry to interrupt you,” said Rarity, “but I need to use the little filly’s room. And I’m afraid I’ve forgotten where it is, it’s been so long since I’ve been in the manor.”

Applejack laughed. “Heh, I see you dancin’ over there. Sad for you, Rarity, the toilet in the house ain’t workin’ at the moment. You’re going to have to settle for the ol’ outhouse in the backyard. Don’t mind it now. I know it ain’t nothin’ fancy, but it’s clean, and ain’t nothin’ fancy about that kind of business, anyhow.”

“Oh, dear!” Rarity started. “You don’t mean that little box by the oak, do you?”

“I don’t see no other ones, darlin’.”

“Well, you know… it’s not an emergency,” Rarity went on. “I’d prefer to use my own facilities, anyway. Need to have the right conditions to perform my best. I will wait.”

“Whatever suits you, I s’pose,” Applejack replied.

“But keep us updated, Rarity,” snickered Rainbow Dash.

“How long has the old outhouse been there, Applejack? Let’s talk about that,” said Sweetie Belle, making eyes at Rarity.

“How long…? Now, what kind of question is that, Sweetie Belle?” Applejack replied.

“A perfectly fair one,” she answered. “After all, being here on the orchard and listening to you talk about the Apple family only makes me feel closer to you and to my best friend Apple Bloom,” she said, putting an arm over her. “And I would like to know more about your heritage. How deep did they dig those pits, back in the day? Isn’t it a marvel of engineering?”

“It’s a hole,” said Applejack.

“Do go on, Applejack!” Rainbow Dash said with an affected vowel. “Expound upon some sepia-tone reminiscences of your backyard baño. Recant the tales of dewy mornings and noontime races to that hallowed place, for the edification of the honored company.”

“Actually Applejack, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a little curious myself,” said Twilight. “Please tell us.”

“Gosh, now I’ve for the bug, too!” Cadence said, joining in.

“Let’s not force the issue,” Rarity said. “Applejack knows what she knows, clearly. And no amount of history, however worthwhile of pursuit, will lure me into that old niche, not because it is beneath me—so to speak—but because, as you know, I am very precious when it comes to the natural movements of my body. Oh, how I envy you, who are born with such constitutions that if all the amenities of civilization were to wash away you would still be happy and self-reliant. But alas, things are what they are.”

“Aw, it’ll build character, then,” said Apple Bloom.

“Now, now. If she doesn’t want to use the outhouse she doesn’t have to,” said Twilight as laughter flitted amongst the ladies. “Some ponies are just partial to their own water closets.”

“In any case,” Rarity said, “It is about time that Sweetie Belle and I get going. You have a schedule to keep, dear, and it won’t do you any good expending your energy wondering over the lavatory arrangements of your friends.”

“You know, that reminds me of something, all this talk about cities and shitholes,” said Spitfire, coming to herself. She turned to Sweetie Belle. “I have a story that might interest you. Consider it my contribution to the conversation.”

“Of course,” Sweetie Belle said anxiously, re-seating herself. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“Indeed,” grumbled Rarity.

“A special treat,” Spitfire said, raising a glass, “because I like you, kid—you’ve got gumption. Now, I wouldn’t tell this to just anyone, but we’re in good company, here.

“On one of my last deployments to Saddle Arabia I met this guy named Sandstone Grizzle. I had heard about Sandstone by way of talk amongst the privates, but always through indiscretion, something uttered by a naif or some grunt who was dealing with a little too much stress. He had a reputation with the young ponies as a fixer for hashish and certain potent varieties of alcohol, which were and are suppressed in that region. More than this, though, he apparently belonged to a saintly order of some kind. I thought they were making it up—just a morsel of post-duty wheedling between rookies. But then one night one of them stumbled into the local grog shop looking terrified. He had wanted a dance with the Green Fairy and, doggonit, Sandstone was going to make him dance! He had taken part in some elaborate ritual with runes, chanting, animal sacrifice. At this point my incredulity turned to concern for the cadets. I knew the sight of this boy would be enough to ward some of them off, but just as surely, would entice others to seek out the wizard as an escape from duty and perhaps from life. I wanted to track this guy down, so I extracted from the spooked private just where and how I could meet him.

“A few days later I turn up at a rather antique-looking doorstep which leads me down into a small basement flat. The guy—Sandstone—hears me and waves me in from behind a curtain. He’s red like an old sailor and he has the sharp features of a Saddle Arabian, a promontory chin, and these enormous arched eyebrows that waggle whenever he talks about anything in earnest, which is all the time. I almost couldn’t look away from those damned eyebrows!” she said, stifling a chuckle. “He nods at my arrival at his home, or shop, or apothecary, whatever it is, and asks me in the most nonchalant way if I’m ‘ready’, since the weather today might affect my sinuses. Like I’m going to the dentist! He takes me into a room filled with colored stone bowls arranged in some kind of figure around a clearing on the floor. The room itself has plain walls and a hearth like you would expect in a colonial, but a few religious portraits here and there. He then asks me to lay down in the middle of this arrangement of bowls, which from the floor look like a little sierra valley of pink and green. Cute. Then he asks me to close my eyes, and to speak up if I begin to feel sick, and I’ve got my switchblade and I’m curious as hell to see where this is going.

“I’m lying there, eyes closed, stroking the knife in my pocket, thinking about this guy’s eyebrows. It’s silent for a few moments. Then, loud as the sun, he begins to chant in long tones over my head in a language which is unfamiliar yet which seems just as much made for me as ancient sweet bread.

“His voice softens, and something seems to rise up from the floor—an emanation. I realize, he is playing music from the stone bowls! I’d never heard such a thing.” Spitfire stopped in her story and wet the outside edge of one of the glasses which had been used to serve lemonade to the picnic-goers. She ran her hoof in circles over the top and a ringing tone became perceptible against the breeze and the warbling of a house wren in a distant thicket. “Imagine this,” she said, “but resonating your whole body. My thoughts—or I should say, my thinking—lit up like a particle of glass in a chromatic gamut. Suddenly it was like I was looking at something on a screen, a vision not my own of a mind at work in a sequence of colors and images. I saw a great earthen stronghold suspended in the air dissolve into a thousand marbles, then reconstituted into a new city as naturally as waves recede from the shore.

“I’m not sure how long the visions lasted,” she continued. “There was still daylight when I sat up, but it felt like it might have been a different month. I exchanged a few words with Sandstone—we didn’t need to say much—one thing led to another, and he offered to take me to a remote location toward Mesoponytamia where the Royal State of Saddle Arabia was conducting an ongoing excavation of some kind. He explained to me that they were primarily interested in sequestering the site for historical and political reasons and were not fully aware of its archaeological significance, but whatever holy group his was connected with appreciated it to be something that would change the chronology. I decide I can’t resist such an offer, dancing eyebrows or not, and make plans to trek out with him on my next day off.”

“It sounds like a wonderful adventure!” said Rarity, bobbing. “It’s a pity we have to be on our way.”

“Wait,” said Spitfire. “I’ve almost gotten to the good part. We set out before sunrise on the appointed date in an old jalopy he had, or maybe it belonged to the guy who was driving it—a big colt in a habit like Sandstone’s. I didn’t ask. It was a long, silent ride through the Saddle Arabian desert. It becomes steppe land as you go north from the peninsula, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Sandstone’s conclave was hiding out somewhere in those conchoidal recesses along the far-off ridges we were passing through. At last some kind of mound appeared on the horizon. At first, I took it to be a natural formation, perhaps a low-lying plateau. But as we approached, I noticed that it was quasi-conical in shape, like a half-baked pyramid. By the angle of the sun I could make out irregular patterns on the slope. They appeared to be old terraces of rectangular stone which became more numerous at higher elevations on the mound.

“Sandstone caught me looking in his direction. He laughed with his big chin out, brandishing his big teeth and those big arched eyebrows. I smiled a little smile at him. I was still piecing it all together. The drugs, the sacred order—this pony was a wanderer among wanderers in a strange land, and like some sort of mad artificer he had figured out a way to make all of it work for him. He gave me a knock on the shoulder, as though to say, ‘How about the ruins of a lost city—also, would you care for some gum? Maybe a spritz?’ He had that way about him.”

“And what about the lost city?” asked Twilight. “You said there were houses built into the sheer cliffs of a plateau? That must have been an extraordinary sight! I’ve never heard of such a thing in that part of Equestria.”

“The thing was a massive archaeological tell,” Spitfire replied. “It rose over four-hundred feet in the air and covered a little over ten acres, by my reckoning. It was astonishing—not just for being so huge, but for its monolithicity. It comprised a vast stratigraphy: on the bottommost horizon there was a preponderance of sediments, bones, and stone walls. Then you begin to encounter idols, pottery, beveled vases, articulated weaponry, and so on, as you go up. Toward the top you can see the remnants of monuments and deserted ramparts. There was something about it—I’ve never seen civilization condensed in such a way. It’s like how in a biology classroom you might be asked to dissect owl droppings to learn about the owl.”

“An epochal shit!” said Rainbow Dash, filled with delight.

“A cloacal obsession, if you ask me,” Twilight rebutted.

“And Rolling Oats made you think of that?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“There will be plenty of time for romancing ruins later,” Rarity said, leaping up and aiding her sister to her hooves by the scruff. She added cheerfully, “Good to see you all!” and stole over to the opposite end of the blanket where Applejack was seated. She walked up close and took her chin, gently bringing the right cheek against her own left and making the sound of a kiss, then alternating sides. “Love, can we talk later? Got to keep things moving, you know. Busy day. That’s all. We should see each other more often,” she said, retreating back across the lawn. “You should really come to Manehattan some time. Cadence, I’d swear you were body-swapped again, you’re looking so good!” And still further distant: “What a pleasure it has been!”

“Uh… Bye!” said Sweetie Belle. “I mean… See you tonight!” She and Rarity made quickly across the barnyard and out of sight in a dusty wake.

Rainbow Dash smirked. “I have a feeling Rarity’s going to be romancing some ruins sooner than she’d like us to believe.”

“Not saintly gray,” said Cadence with poetic quaver, “like many a minster fane, that crowns the hill or sanctifies the plain: But rosy-red, as if the blush of dawn which first beheld them were not yet withdrawn…”

And all present, except for Applejack, broke into laughter the way a flame spreads along tiny paper boats.

The Reflecting Pool

Rarity and Sweetie Belle raced along the dirt path which ran from the property of Sweet Apple Acres over a wide meadow to where, at an intersection, it found the main road which led back to Ponyville in one direction. They were crossing the sunny expanse of the field when Rarity began to pant, whereupon her sister, noticing a lapsing of the sound, stopped and turned to find her stalled several yards away.

“What’s the matter?” she called out.

Rarity, huffing, replied with an apologetic look. She indicated by her recalcitrance that it would be better to come closer; Sweetie Belle trotted up as gawkish as a rooster.

“I just don’t think I can make it,” Rarity told her. “Maybe if Sergeant Spitfire had a little less to say…”

She paused to catch her breath. As they waited they looked down the path where the town rose up over a small hill a mile’s distance, like a landscape picture, as the buzz of cicadas made the air heavy and the ground stink with brush and wildflowers.

“I admit,” said Rarity, continuing her apology, “that I am not quite as fit as I used to be.”

“So what do you need me to do?” Sweetie Belle asked in agitation.

“You’ll have to go back to Applejack’s while I find a spot here,” Rarity replied, “and get some water that I can use for wash. They’ll let you borrow a bucket.”

“How will I explain that?” Sweetie Belle objected. “If I tell them you need a bucket of water they’ll want to know what’s happened to you and to make sure you’re okay. If not… What else can I say? I have a theater performance is in less than a few hours. What would I need buckets of water for?”

“Maybe you can go to Carousel ahead of me, then. You’ve got more energy than I do, and must certainly be feeling less cramped. How long will it take you?”

“Too long,” Sweetie Belle replied stoutly. “And water is heavy, too, you know. I’d like to have something left over for the show tonight.”

“Oh, you’re young!” Rarity sneered. “And what else are we supposed to do? That’s where we are—those are the options, Sweetie Belle. If you want to save time I suggest you make up your mind quickly, come up with some excuse or get your bum in gear.”

“Wait—” Sweetie Belle had been surveying the fields as her sister spoke, and her eyes came to the cusp of a dark wood. “I think I have a better idea. Do you remember when Pinkie Pie found the Mirror Pool a few years ago? Wasn’t it not far from here?”

“And why should I tell you where it is?” Rarity answered leerily. “You’re not saying—why, I can’t believe you’d even think—oh, Sweetie Belle!”

“It’s practically a lavatory,” Sweetie Belle said. “It has privacy, a source of water, lots of space, and a refreshing, subterranean temperature. Heck, I’d go there myself even if I weren’t under duress.”

“Huh! I’m glad to see you appreciate the caution one must take in dealing with enchanted places. Pinkie’s discovery of the Mirror Pool was a terror to Ponyville and deleterious to Pinkie’s mental health—she never did fully recover from that episode, poor dear. Once she was an amicable baker and caretaker, but now she likes to wander, hocking theories about how Ponyville is founded on the suffering of a single mosquito or how the court systems would be ineffectual if Equestria were not circled with seas by which sunburnt courtiers can arrive to discover them. But by all means, if nature calls who am I to stop you.”

“But you won’t make the same mistake Pinkie did,” Sweetie Belle replied, brushing close to her, ”because we know what we’re doing there. We are not tempted by legendary incentives, like she was. We are just simple ponies looking for ordinary utility,” she said, taking one of Rarity’s hooves and pulling her toward the forest. “Come on! Come on, come on.”

“Very well, let’s just be done with it!” Rarity grumbled, forfeiting the tug-of-war. “What a day this has been. If I go insane it’s all on you.”

“I’m eager to hear what you come up with, actually,” Sweetie Belle said. “And you’ll be too insane to remember to be mad at me, anyway.”

Rarity groaned. “Tell me why I’m helping you, again?”

Sweetie Belle laughed as they approached the trees, and her mood made Rarity think of grape wine, dark and sweet and intoxicating.

***
***

Where the thorns crowd and jostle
In shrouded abode
A rill there shall pass into mystic commode

“Or I think that’s how it goes,” said Rarity, trundling behind her sister along a muddy pathway. She stopped and frowned at a mossy log which blocked the way. “Aunt Tipper used to tell us stories all the time when we went to stay at her house—before bed, you might recall. That’s where I heard it. And I remember it as a curious fact about the incident with Pinkie Pie that the pool in that old limerick was not only here in Ponyville but so close by the Apple estate as to be almost within its bounds. No doubt a small oversight on the part of Celestia when she granted them the land.”

“Do you remember what it looks like?” asked Sweetie Belle. She was a few paces in advance, pouncing between stones in the muck.

“All I have is the rhymes, I’m afraid,” said Rarity. She wrinkled her nose like a snapping turtle at the fallen tree before hoisting herself over to the other side. “I wasn’t there when Pinkie discovered it, you see, and have only second-hand accounts of its appearance. According to her, the entrance is a long-winding chute which appears as a camouflaged fissure on the outside.”

“That doesn’t help us much,” said Sweetie Belle. “Do you see any fissures?”

Rarity shook her head. “Not one.”

“Maybe it’s something Pinkie made up,” Sweetie Belle said, fretting her brows. “I mean, maybe something else happened to her that caused the clones, and she got it confused with a ravine or a hole in a tree trunk. Pinkie is a little out there.”

“You need not worry on that count,” Rarity answered as they pressed forward. “The Mirror Pool—or Reflecting Pool, as it is sometimes called—is a real place whose function is all-too-intelligible. It works like any magical apparatus in that it requires a payment of the user. In this case, the form of payment is a pining wish held by the applicant as they look into their own reflection. There they see not just their own image but the image of an actor on the stage of the world play. The separation is felt between this condensed ideal and the doughy, hairy world of the living body, and poof! a duplicate rises out of the surface of the water, the client’s uncanny match. The appeal is mathematical. If one can have copies to make calls with friends, carry out professional duties, and otherwise blaze tracks around the Earth in several directions at once—well, one has extended the scope of one’s life. But the matches are never exactly so, and, as we know, the scheme doesn’t work out so nicely.”

“Why are the clones always slightly different from each other?” asked Sweetie Belle. “Why can’t there be a perfect match?”

“It would be impossible to observe yourself otherwise,” said Rarity. “Once you notice you are obsessed with hay cakes your situation is radically different—now there is a recursive element, something divided in you. There is a gap between the observing apparatus and the observed world. You may do what you like with the information—treat it as a joke, self-diagnose, use it as the basis for a peculiarly meticulous denial of self-consciousness—but that’s how it is. The pool is an instrument of that process of reflection.”

“And that’s what happened to Pinkie Pie,” Sweetie Belle replied. “She was trying to make friends with her own mind.”

“Exactly so.”

“I see.” Sweetie Belle became thoughtful. “It’s not the water that’s enchanted, then. If you don’t make the required payment—the wish for duplicates—then the pool is nothing more than an exotic bidet, if that’s what we need it to be. Does it have markers?”

“Not that I recall,” said Rarity. “Why do you ask?”

Sweetie Belle pointed to a location a few feet off the trail where four small wooden posts had been driven into the ground; they were crowned by red tape and slightly hidden by a thicket of brambles. Sweetie Belle made a motion for Rarity to wait and broke away from the path through the debris of the forest to inspect the spot, then waved her over excitedly.

“Have a look!” she said. “Somebody must have thought it would be a good idea to indicate the exact whereabouts of the Mirror Pool since Pinkie visited.”

Rarity stumbled over to where Sweetie Belle was standing and peered into the opening. “Oh yes,” she said, “we’ve landed the bass. If you look, you can see the glowing blossoms of the emerald kudzu which I remember very clearly from Pinkie’s accounts. You won’t see anything like them in all of Equestria. Why,” she added facetiously, “they are rather like dimmer lights opening to a private latrine!”

Sweetie Belle smiled at her jest. “So you’re good with it?”

“I just want to get it over with,” Rarity corrected her, “and perhaps it is not such a bad idea after all. I dare say I even enjoy the adventure of it.” She glanced at her sister. “You are a crafty little lass, now aren’t you?”

“Little?” Sweetie Belle replied. “I’m taller than you!”

“Take the compliment, dear,” Rarity said, “and wait here. I shall not be long.”

Sweetie Belle threw up her hooves in fisticuffs. “No problem. I can fight off a few timberwolves if I have to.”

Rarity crouched down and guided herself into the hole, letting herself drop with a woo! and sliding gently toward a promontory which formed after the initial steep of the entrance. As she stood and collected herself she was struck by the ambiance of the kudzu which lined the descending tunnel in crooked festoons: a soft green light hazed about roots and fungi, matched by an effulgence of smell—exotic, like myrrh, but boasting an accent of pine—and she could not resist trying to get a whiff of one of the bulbs directly. She got down off the ledge and made her way along the tunnel to where one of the boughs hung low. Propping herself up on one of the crannied walls she craned her neck to sniff a polyp; but when she got near it shriveled up and disappeared into the darkness like a burnt ember, and she reeled back in surprise, losing her balance and tumbling the rest of the way down the chute.

“Everything okay down there?” came her sister’s voice from the surface.

“We’ll be on our way in no time,” Rarity grunted, picking herself up. “Though I have to admit it’s very distracting down here.”

The cavern of the Mirror Pool was a large dome which housed a subterranean forest of ancient trees rising over one-hundred feet and filling the hollow with an untamed canopy; all around the sides were crags overrun by branches with hanging flowers and tall ferns which counted their years in the number of revolutions of their petals. The natural boundary of the dome was obscured by the great boles of the trees and their leaves and gave off the impression of a marooned world.

In the center was the pool, rimmed by flagstone and fed by a stream which dripped through some stalagmites, from an unknown source. It appeared to reflect the sun’s radiance from a skylight, but upon searching for the opening Rarity found that the column of light, like everything else, terminated in a crowding of dark foliage; the sheen of the pool was a mirage, an effect of the properties of the pool itself upon the observer, like the white light found at the end of a rainbow.

As she took in the untrammeled environment of the dome Rarity felt the pang of giddy and ironic shame: “For where shall I go,” said she, “where I shall not be exposed by the examining light of this gentle water? What hideaway shall I find which will muffle the echo of that sordid work? In what manner will the foul evidence of its perpetration be concealed, and not go roaming, like a confused Fillystine in this Temple of Fragrance?”

She paused and glanced back up at the entrance to cave, but saw no sign of her sister eavesdropping.

“You really must learn to stop talking to yourself, Rarity,” she said, making steps toward the pool.

***
***

Outside by herself in the shade of the forest path Sweetie Belle took a moment to refocus. The morning with Rarity had been such a tornado of unexpected demands that she had nearly lost the sense of the purport of her performance that evening, which now quickly approached; she started a pace back and forth, fixing her gaze on her hooves as they kicked along the ground and reciting to herself the following blocking pattern:

“In on the courier’s cue… A bucket every three rounds to keep the wheel turning… Slowly, like the first taste of a cup of coffee… Stolid, like the weight of a broomstick in the hooves… Leave and come back, without winking at the audience…”

She looked up at a burst of branches which encircled the mid-day sun and closed her eyes to internalize the routine; and, not long after, sunk in the sea of her imagination, she heard a voice calling to her from the trees.

“Hey, you!” it said.

Sweetie Belle startled out of her exercise and scanned the forest around her to see where there was a commotion was taking place. She saw nothing, and looked about her once more, before stopping and pointing to her own person.

“Yes, you!” came the voice again. A bulky stallion in a pocketed uniform emerged from the bushes and came trudging up the path. Sweetie Belle felt her hair stand up at the sight of the badge bouncing on his vest and the sudden recollection of the red tape on the markers around the Mirror Pool entrance.

“This is a restricted area,” said the sweaty stallion, ambling up to her vicinity. “No visitors except by special authorization. Can I see your papers?”

He waited. After a beat he became impatient and said with gruff affectation, “this land belongs to the Royal Office of Public Services. There’s a sign with big letters right out here by the perimeter which prohibits any entrance to this part of the forest. Did you not see it?”

The ranger shook his head and began his procedure without waiting for an answer, drawing a tablet from one of his pouches and skimming through it. Relaxing a little as he wrote, and without looking up at Sweetie Belle, he continued, “Nothing to get too upset over. I have to give you a ticket, though. You can contest it in court, if you like,” he added as a douceur. “Now, if you had been down in the hole, then you’d be in real trouble.”

He pulled out another manual—a small, thick, coil-bound volume—and leafed through it slowly, page by page. “Name?” he asked after he was ready.

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” said Sweetie Belle.

The ranger snickered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He removed his hat and ran a hoof over his peppered mane. “Papers? Necesita documentos. NOT ALLOWED HERE. DANGEROUS. NEED SPECIAL PAPERS.”

Sweetie Belle laughed and took his arm. “Ooh… Liken ze ‘dancing’?” She pulled him into line with her, placing her hooves on her hips and performing some clogging steps. “Klompen ist gut, ya?”

“T-this is not the time, Ma’am!” grumbled the bobbling officer. He gave her a yank to get her attention, causing her to falter and get a speckling of mud on her legs. Sweetie Belle gasped and withdrew her arm from him.

“Sag mir, wo ich ein Käserad finde!” she cried.

“Look, why don’t you come back to the station and we can get this sorted out.” He put the notepads back in his pocket. “Eh… schnitzel?” he said, pointing back in the direction of the path.

“Ya, schnitzel ist gut!” Sweetie Belle said, taking the lead.

“And beer?” he said, following.

“Das beer ist gut!” she concurred. She made quickly in the direction of the forest perimeter, but was cut off by a second ranger coming from the same direction.

“Here you are,” he said, stepping through the brush. “I told you there was someone over here, Moose Munch.” He stopped in front of Sweetie Belle. “You again, eh? Oh, it’s a good thing I came to check up on you, Munch.”

“Yes, well,” Moose Munch began, digging out his notepad more hastily than before, “everything is under control, Pennywise, as you can see. I found this mare patrolling outside the Mirror Pool. She is from Allemaneia and it has taken all of my wits to get her to cooperate. No doubt a lost tourist. We will have to take her to headquarters and make sure she gets sent off in the right direction. It really is sad how some of these tour businesses treat their ponies.”

“Indeed,” replied Pennywise, raising a gray eyebrow at Sweetie Belle. “You know, Ponyville First Universalist is in the opposite direction.”

It was the same old stallion that had helped her up from her spill near Ponyville Square. Sweetie Belle wiped some mud from her face and answered calmly, “Which is why I need to be out here, far away from the stage and from all the worries that go along with it.” She glanced over at Moose Munch, who was watching her as venomously as a toddler who had had his last tater tot stolen by the family dog. “So sorry about that. Just a bit of method acting. I go for long walks so I can really get into it.”

“Method acting?” said Pennywise. “I thought you said this was black box theater.”

“Of course, of course,” Sweetie Belle replied, stealing a quick sidelong glance at the Mirror Pool entrance. “You learn it so you can discard it. You would not believe how many players wind up accidentally building a character when they’re supposed to be inhabiting a role. It’s not fair to the audience. But let’s talk and walk.”

“You seem like you’re in an awful hurry to get out of here,” said Moose Munch.

Sweetie Belle laughed. “Of course I am! Aren’t you? I mean, the law’s the law, and ignorance is no excuse from it—the name’s Sweetie Belle, by the way,” she said, pointing to where he could jot it down on his pad. “But I had no idea—is that the entrance to the Mirror Pool? Wow. I was just going for a stroll… Thank goodness you guys showed up to warn me. I’m getting shivers just being around it! The quicker we can get out of here, the better.”

Moose Munch looked over at Pennywise for guidance.

“We bumped into each other a little earlier,” the latter explained. “I think all we have here is an overzealous craft pony, Munch.” He gave Sweetie Belle a nudge. “An ‘ecstatic’ as they say… Let’s get her back to the station so she can fill out her papers and get going.”

The younger officer smiled mockingly at their cajoling and prepared to put his ticket book away, when a cry was heard from within the recess of the Mirror Pool tunnel.

“Sweetie Belle, I have obtained the key!”

Munch stopped. “What was that—"

“I didn’t hear anything,” Sweetie Belle said with a shrug. “Cool, I didn’t know there was a ranger station in these woods!” she then announced to the officers.

Pennywise and Moose Much glanced at one another.

“I just feel so much safer,” she explained.

“Yes, yes…” said Pennywise, gesturing for her to desist. “But wait a moment. I heard a voice, too.”

“Yeah!” Moose Munch agreed. “It said, ‘Sweetie Belle, I have maintained something something’. You’re Sweetie Belle, aren’t you?” he said, pointing to his notepad.

Sweetie Belle went to answer but gave a shudder instead. “Ugh, sorry. It just gives me the creeps, is all.”

“What gives you the creeps?” asked Munch.

“It’s a howling cavern, this tunnel. An echo is just the reflection of sound, and the echoes of this cave reverberate for many years after a speech has been made. They say that when you go down to the Mirror Pool there’s a ghastly tinnitus of ever-ringing voices in the arcades of the cavern ceiling. Anyone who hears it will go mad, or otherwise prove they are worthy of approaching the pool by enduring the peals of the chatter of long-dead ponies. It seems we’re adding to the din by standing out here talking.”

“You seem to know more than I do about the Mirror Pool, young lady,” observed Pennywise, “which is quite something, considering you didn’t even recognize where you were or what you were looking at until a moment ago.”

“My Aunt Tipper taught me everything about it,” Sweetie Belle replied. “She was an expert on magical places and used to try to take me on incantation quests, but I drew the line once we went beyond the practical side of her fascinating knowledge into divination through old tortoise shells.”

At these words, Pennywise smiled in remembrance. “Tipper Teacup! Last I saw of her was when she was still delivering the newsletter for the square dance hall a few years back. We were all real sad when she passed—now no one knows what’s going on at the hall!” he said with a wheezing laugh. “So you’re her little niece, huh? You must be out of secondary school by now.”

“Almost,” said Sweetie Belle. “And she was quite the mystic, truth be told.”

“Huh, well I’ll be darned.”

Moose Munch tucked the notebook into his front pocket. “Ah! I think that’s all we need,“ he said in a brightened mood. “Come on, Pennywise, let’s get going.”

Sweetie Belle smirked up at the old stallion and followed along. “Yeah, Pennywise, let’s get going! I’ll have to tell you about Crazy Aunt Tipper some other time.”

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time down at the station,” Moose Munch replied with a dealer’s suave. “We’ve got to get your parents down here. Can’t have a minor snooping around a restricted area, you know.”

“Wait—I can tell them myself,” Sweetie Belle said, hurrying to catch pace with him. “I’ll see them tonight. I’ll take them whatever paperwork is needed. They might not even be home right now.”

“We’ll get your documents ready,” Moose Munch replied, “then give them a call, and if we don’t reach anyone one of us will escort you home at a good time. No worries. You’ll be in good hooves with us.”

“But I have a performance tonight!” she protested—but got no reply. She looked up at Pennywise, who had turned his gaze away from her, and then at Moose Munch. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she sneered at him; but it occurred to her that might have had equal success trying to scare a mudstone away.

***
***

Hanging from one of the species of tree growing in the Mirror Pool hollow were little bunches of coconuts, four or five to a set, in color like marble rye and each the size of a large racket ball. They drooped from fraying vines a few feet over the brush behind the larger trees like a suspended paradrop of lumpy gourds.

“Here we go!” said Rarity, reaching up to grab one; she fondled its surface and grinned. “Yes, this might do! It may be just soft enough… You’re not the only crafty lass in these parts, Sweetie Belle.”

She returned to the atrium and found a stone hard enough to crack the casing and struck the coconut against it with a few hard blows; the shell split open and spilt a fruity indigo liquid onto the floor. In one shell she retained a small portion of the fragrant juice and set it down beside a patch of grass she had smoothed out at the cleft of a tree root; there above it, a branch draped over with crystalline flowers that clung to the dark bark like frost and which formed an elegant veil to the leafy sconce.

Rarity walked over to the Mirror Pool with the other half of the coconut shell and turned to admire the arrangement from afar.

“It is almost worth talking about with others,” she said to herself. “A good conversation piece—even a good place to have a conversation! But alas, what happens at the Mirror Pool stays at the Mirror Pool. Apropos of which…”

She went back to thinking about her plan and regarded the pool which was a few feet away from her. All she needed to do was to avoid her own reflection—from whichever end she might be reflected—and to that purpose, she had decided on the prudence of preparing a bower at which to do her business, and to bus the water from the pool to where it would be of use. Besides this, it would be less profane and more fitting the dignity of a lady to prepare a boudoir for such an excursion than to absolve oneself in the open chamber, where any Trixie might stumble on the unpleasant ode, however anonymous the authorship. It was not just respect for herself, she reasoned, but for her fellow mare, that such precautions had to be taken; and it was owing to this that she had been lured to the grove of dangling coconuts.

She creeped over to the pond with the empty coconut shell and dipped it into the water, turning her eyes away as though holding her nose at the presence of a foul smell. The surface of the pool was cool, but warmed around her like a hoof shake as she scooped into it—she cringed and quickly retracted her arm and looked around her to see if something had gone wrong; but she was still by herself in the dome, and now held a small cup of limpid water.

She returned to the bower and set the cup down in an accessible location near the tree, and, performing due diligence with regard to the space afforded, perched herself advantageously on the velvet green carpet.

“How lovely it is down here!” she thought, looking up from her spot toward the shimmer of the pool which disappeared into the foliage. “Everywhere you look a little life form is shining, scuttling, flowering somewhere. It reminds me of Ponyville in the spring…” She felt her heart palpitate as she missed the stars which would have been in the sky outside at night near the river. “I wonder how long Sweetie Belle has left in the old place… Not more than two years, I reckon. She is eager to go. Well, good for her. I feel almost bad for her, having to spend all this time with me. Look at you, Rarity… She must be so mad at you.” She reached over and pulled the coconut closer to check her appearance: there was a little dirt on her coat; she had applied too much makeup over her tired features; a new, fleeting regret had tugged her face down into a frown; but her mane was luminous in the glow of the pool, spry as the tailfeather of a rare jungle fowl. “It will not be the same without her. Maybe Mom and Dad will move, too—they’ve wanted to retire for some time.” A smile came back to her as she lighted on a different train of thought. “You know… It would be fun to do this once right in the middle of Ponyville square. No crowds, of course. Just to get rid of all that history and make the thing a huge bathroom—what better way to make it feel like it was all made just for me?”

She turned around and set to work, damping her hooves in the water of the coconut, humming to herself in a halcyon of physical and psychic relief. Thinking again of her Aunt Tipper, she remembered the wash-up song she used to sing with her as a foal, and began to recite it out loud to put her mind off the grit of her task:

And into her own complexion she stared
With rinse and rag and gumption prepared
So goblins of grime may gnash and may swear
At a filly whose hygiene can’t be compared

“There we are!” she said, wresting the artifact from its mire—and, by extension, she supposed, the debut of Fritzel Fussbudget’s black box theater in Ponyville from oblivion. She raised it up and called out in triumph, “Sweetie Belle, I have obtained the key!” and gave into a titter as she started to think of making her way out into the open air again, past the dragon of ineptitude, and then onward to Sweetie Belle’s performance. She began a quick restoration of the bower as though she were leaving it for the next soul to find their way. It surprised her, now that she found herself on the other side of the difficulty, that, so far as it was the pretext of her visit, she hadn’t given much consideration to the event itself and to the enjoyment of Sweetie Belle’s work—whatever it was. In fact, the variability of what her own role might be in supporting the enigmatic performance is what excited her most—be it in the mold of a commentator or a quiet confidante in the back of the house.

“I really cannot wait,” she thought, mussing some foliage. “Now I can put this business behind me and be there for whatever might come. It will be a new thing for us.”

Of a sudden she heard a reply from the surface—“Cool! I didn’t know there was a ranger station in these woods!”—which slowed the rapidity of her movements. It sounded off like a gun, and lingered in the dome with her like a frost, ringing around her ankles, until she was entirely stopped again, and stuck in an underground world once more. All her anticipations about the performance vanished. She had known that there was an outpost belonging to some office of the town in the other direction of the split road which led to Ponyville; but, being emboldened with the feeling of filial authority, like the Master of the Feast, she had neglected to give proper regard to her situation, and had overlooked the probable function of the patrol station.

“Oh dear,” she said, tucking her mane behind her ears with both hooves. “I think I’m starting to change my opinion on the value of taking naps during the day.”

***
***

Once she was sure the patrol had left the area of the Mirror Pool entrance with Sweetie Belle in their custody, Rarity crawled out of the tunnel and followed briskly the path back to the meadow, where she was able to reorient herself, and found the split road leading to the ranger station. Along the way she devised an excuse that she and her sister had been a-huckleberrying with their friends at Sweet Apple Acres, and that the callow but eager younger sister had gotten lost in the dark wood, like a medieval poet, and needed to be retrieved. As she arrived at the ranger’s cabin she saw Sweetie Belle through one of the smokey windows craning her neck in an uncomfortable plastic chair. She was swinging her legs under the seat; her face was broken out in blemishes, and her frizzled hair fell over her unmake-upped face and along her shoulders like the habit of a delinquent nun, such that Rarity was surprised by a rough change in her appearance from her memories. She was seated in a shriveled yellow room staring glumly into a missing ceiling tile, next to a gummous-looking officer engaged in some deskwork; and it was from this starting point that Rarity formed her plan, and entered the cabin making a song of plaudits for the diligence of the rangers.

“My goodness, there you are!” she cried, bursting in and rushing over to Sweetie Belle, and kissing her three times on the forehead as the other winced in surprise. “I was so worried that you were eaten by a bear, or maimed by killer bees, or had fallen into a bog, that I despaired of seeing you ever again! Shame on you for wandering off like that, when we had all the berry bushes we needed right in the field—and disrupting the wonderful work of these officers,” she said, indicating the pony at the desk, “who have much more important affairs to attend to in the service of the Princess, than to have to worry about fool-hearty young ponies. Why, I would slap you instead of kiss you, if I weren’t so glad to see you alive.”

She glowered and grit her teeth in barely constrained anger, then gave Sweetie Belle a little tap! on the cheek which sounded as vicious as raw cookie dough being dropped on dirty linoleum.

“And you, sir!” she said, turning now to Moose Munch, who eyed her sidelong like he had heard a gas leak, “you brave yeomen who mark the savage fronts, and learn from nature’s rules—I cannot but offer my gratitude like an ingrate who, stealing a loaf of bread, pays back through labor and the acquaintance of those chalky hooves which rise with the sun to give us our daily each morning, but who cannot expect recognition in their line of work.”

Munch frowned like he had received bad news, and went to answer, but was cut off by the lady’s teehee.

“Oh, come off it now! Don’t be so modest,” said Rarity, strolling over to his desk. She took a seat and tossed and ruffled her hair a little, then tilted her head to bring it over her shoulder. “It is such a relief to have her here safe and sound, and I do hope you’ll forgive her. She’s still just a young thing, you know—a silly filly.”

“I am aware,” said Moose Munch, straightening his collar.

“I’m sure you’d much prefer the company of a mare,” she followed, sliding a hoof over the officer’s wrist. “Wouldn’t you?”

She kept her gaze fixed as Munch alternated between the eyes and the massaging hoof of the lusty civilian. “I think that’s neither here nor there, really,” he said.

“Psst! Hey!” hissed Sweetie Belle, catching her sister’s attention. She glared and shook her head in reproof of Rarity’s course of action, and the latter, smiling like a forget-me-not, withdrew her hoof from the officer’s arm, and went back to tumbling her coiffure with delicate strokes.

“Tell me what happened,” she urged Munch.

“I found this one loitering about the Mirror Pool entrance, which, besides being a restricted area,” he said, turning to Sweetie Belle, “is a very dangerous place for a young bystander to be.”

“Oh, no!” Rarity gasped, tracing her neckline. “The Mirror Pool? Surely you can’t be serious, Mr. Munch.”

He made her a grim nod, and continued darkly, “but it doesn’t end there, I’m sorry to say. When I asked her for identification she attempted to defraud an officer of the Guard by pretending to be a foreigner. Which, I’m sure you know, Ma’am, is a very serious offense.”

“Oh, Sweetie Belle!”

“You hate to see it,” said Moose Munch, shaking his head at the young perpetrator. “I’m sure she’s a good kid.” He let a pause to allow the gravity of his comment to weigh on her; Sweetie Belle stared back at him with resentful, spattered eyes.

Rarity folded her hooves against her bosom. “I try to set a better example for her, I assure you.”

“I would hope so,” said Moose Munch, turning back to her. “I could make this into a serious charge, if I wanted to. There’s a reason we pursue these sorts of things. If this young lady is willing to lie to a petty officer…”

“Naturally, naturally,” Rarity interrupted him, standing up and brushing some office dust from her hips. “I understand completely. Something needs to be done.” She walked up to a map of Everfree Forest which was framed on the wall behind his desk, and set a hoof on his shoulder. “Is all of this your territory?” she asked.

Sweetie Belle closed her eyes and groaned.

“Thirteen-hundred acres,” replied Moose Munch.

“That sounds like a lot to do,” Rarity said, moving her hoof down along his bicep. She came up behind his chair and took the other arm, squeezing it tight in her hoof. “Tell you what,” she continued softly, letting her hair drape by his neck. “Why don’t you leave little Sweetie Belle to me, okay? I promise she won’t bother you again. Would you do that for me, Munchey?”

She gripped a little bit more. Moose Munch looked up at her, and they were nearly nose to nose; he began to move one of her cloying hooves away with a firm touch, when there was a sound at the door.

“Gracious, Munch, what have you got going on in here?” asked Pennywise, stepping in.

Moose Munch peeped at him from under Rarity’s auspices. “The mother showed up,” he said fleeringly, “and is trying to persuade me to let the kid go.”

“Yeah Mom, cut it out,” said Sweetie Belle, sitting up, with a look toward Pennywise.

Rarity let go. “Mother!?”

Pennywise laughed. “Well, Munch, be careful what you wish for, eh? I’m sure she is just excited to see her little girl. What she would want to do with a scoundrel like you is anyone’s guess.”

“She’s been like this since the divorce,” Sweetie Belle said, avoiding her sister’s eye contact for fear of bursting out into laughter. “I guess you’re just such an irresistible stallion, Mr. Munch, that she got drawn into it again.”

“Hey now, Munch here has been known to brandish his uniform in more ways than one,” returned Pennywise. “He’s no innocent bystander. Come on, Munch! We asked for a parent, and we got one, and I reckon that’s all we need to get these gals on their way. Let’s not waste any more of their time.”

“I’ll have you know I did no such thing, Pennywise,” Munch replied, blushing. “And I’m very familiar with what my duties are, thank you.” He turned to Rarity, flexing a formal air. “Ma’am, please see to it that your daughter knows and observes the pertinent zoning and property laws promulgated by the Royal Office of Public Services. We will let her go this time. But in the future any truant or transgressive behavior will be punished by fines or imprisonment, based on whatever is deemed appropriate by the National Court of Equestria, fifth circuit, with possibility for appeal.”

He pulled the notebook out of his pocket, scribbled on the ticket, and handed it to her.

“Consider this a written warning.” He stepped back solemnly and made a gesture directing them to the door. “Have an excellent day, Ma’am.”

Rarity looked at the ticket, then Pennywise, and then Sweetie Belle, in disbelief. “Er… well, thank you, Mr. Munch. And I apologize if I came on a little bit strong. Things have been very hard for us since the, um, accident.”

“Accident?” asked Moose Munch, breaking face. “I thought you said it was a divorce.”

“Oh, yes!” said Sweetie Belle, nudging Rarity out the door. “That’s how she refers to the relationship. She’s a bit of an eccentric, you see. Believes in the singularity of the psyche and that we may depart from a given destiny, and all that. Old world psychology, I tells ya. But we can forgive her that. Right, Mom?”

Rarity did not get a chance to reply as the girls slipped out the ranger station. But before they were out of earshot Pennywise called out, with a laughing voice, “And break a leg!”

***
***

“You washed it, right?”

“Thank you, Rarity,” the latter replied facetiously as she and Sweetie Belle galloped back toward Ponyville. “It was very generous of you, indeed, to go through such peculiar trouble to make sure my colleagues don’t think of me as an irresponsible person.”

“Just making sure,” Sweetie Belle said. “I mean, at this point, after all, how much can you really be trusted?”

“Ugh. Now you’re just enjoying this.”

They rounded a bend and saw the skyline of Ponyville rise up on the horizon beneath an orange sun.

“I’m just kidding,” Sweetie Belle said as though she were waiting at a bus station.

Rarity looked over at her as they crossed a bridge beneath some oaks on the outskirts of town.

“Me too,” she said.

Bubblegum Breath

Two things were bothering Hondo Flanks as he ate breakfast with his wife and oldest daughter in the squat kitchen of his house by the river.

First, there was the matter of the job he had taken on contract from the Restoration Committee at the old church on which he perceived his whole reputation in town to be staked, and which with increasing resentment he suspected an act of personal sabotage on the part of Gyro Spit, who after all never really liked him and privately envied his home life. It had been Gyro’s idea to replace the broken circular glass window in the chapel loft, not with a purely decorative design as it had been before, but with preening monkeys, to reflect the naturalistic spirit of the Unitarians; and it was Gyro who convinced the committee to give the job to Hondo, whose recent hobby was making stained glass simulacra for birdhouses (the very ones sold by his neighbor, Winsome Weathervane, in Ponyville Square, with which members of the committee were fondly familiar), but whose talent for window making only needed the opportunity to shine beyond such humble incipience. Hondo had no use for philosophy, natural or otherwise; but if by his skill could raise the spirits of the worshippers to heavenly climes it was just as good as fixing the fountain at retirement home so that it could once more spritz for the elderly. And, as he had emphasized to his wife Cookie Crumbles, he was able in fact to draw the plans. But his novice equipment did not allow him to go further with the setting of the design in proper lead frames, and now his shed and basement were overrun with useless shards of the parts of glass monkeys.

He set down his fork as he contemplated Gyro Spit’s prankish bent, having not yet taken a bite of his Belgian waffle. “This, see… This is the real reason!” he thought, taking in the whipped cream and the slice of mango and looking across the table as Cookie and Rarity chatted with each other. “Monkeys grooming each other! What does Spit know about Unitarianism, anyway?”

After this there were his misgivings about the theater show which had been put on by his younger daughter in the chapel the previous night, attended by his family and a few important friends and functionaries, including some on the Committee who had granted the performance to Hondo as a favor for his commitment on the project.

To be sure, it had been an occasion for him to remark upon some rather interesting windows while in the company of his wife, with whom he was ever desirous to exhibit his new interest. They were sitting at the widest circle of an arrangement of pews which faced outward nearly in front of a wall, a few feet yards away from a writing desk on the periphery; sitting on the desk was a large fishbowl filled with folded sheets of paper and a framed butterfly set up like a lepidopterist’s display. Throw pillows had been scattered about the floor which made Cookie, donned in a modest black hi-low dress, blush with the feeling of overpreparation.

Hondo leaned over to her and put his arm over her shoulder. “Now, here, dear—wouldn’t you say that these fenestrations are quite different than what you see at the new church in the town center, or even, say, in Canterlot?”

“I guess I never paid attention,” Cookie replied distractedly. She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed her forehead. “They represent the soul’s illumination, right? It’s been so long—my old Sunday teacher would have a fit with me.”

Hondo twitched his moustache. “That may be, dear. But the point for us is that somebody had to build them. Get them from paper onto the wall.”

“Oh, naturally.”

“Can you imagine,” he continued, “using the same method, the same tools, as those brave craft ponies of bygone days? Picture setting hoof on one of the great slabs of their foundries, breathing the smell of their soot, as it were. Why, it lifts my heart to think about.”

“Do you have the tickets, Hondo?” asked Cookie, who had been looking through her purse again. “What time does it say the show is supposed to begin? Did Sweetie Belle tell you where she’s going to be standing? I would hate to be looking at nothing for an hour—I’m very confused.”

“Eight o’ clock, pet, eight o’ clock,” he reassured her. “We’re in the right place. I’m sure she’ll find us, clever girl she is.” They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the babble of the other guests which reverberated through the tiny vault like a slipstream. “But,” Hondo resumed tactically, craning his neck so as not to be overheard, “if I might add something—picking up our conversation on architecture, that is—in those days, ponies did not have recreation like we do now. Something like this—” he said, indicating a high pointed window in front of them, “might take months, maybe years, depending on the project. No, there was no recreation. Their only enjoyment was the satisfaction of their work—its clarity and longevity, see. There’s something heroic in that, isn’t there?”

“Oh, Hondo—they weren’t slaves,” she replied. “My grandfather was a mason. They had music and dancing and bars just like we do. Besides, this old place couldn’t have been built more than fifty years ago.”

“Now Cookie, this is going to sound forward, but you are really missing something here,” Hondo answered firmly. “These craft ponies—the ones that I’ve been talking about—were ponies of purpose, and it is thanks to them that we can enjoy a Gothic Revival to begin with, and experience the past in so glorious a manner.”

Cookie rolled her eyes and pulled out a compact to check her makeup.

“Here, let me give you an example,” Hondo went on. “Now, you like to keep roosters around the kitchen—on towels, potholders, ceramics. You say they make it feel ‘homey’ because they remind one of a simpler and more rustic time. Imagine waking up to the rooster’s call as to the embrace of the day’s work. Maybe those old ponies knew something about living, maybe not. But your bric-a-brac”—he emphasized the term—“speaks volumes. Now, stay with me. When I go into the workshop I can put my hooves on the same materials my forebearers did—make the same investment, you see? It is as though they reached through the mists of time and said, ‘Here are the tools, Hondo, old boy! All that remains is they be picked up by a capable hoof!’ Because they left them for me, Cook.”

“Thankfully nowadays it’s much easier to pay someone to do that, if you want it,” said Cookie.

“The point is,” Hondo retorted, “that it was the ponies who stuck with their methods, despite the necessary hardship it entailed, that gave us the fruits of civilization which you now enjoy, dear, and not those who would try to haggle with that same fruit.”

Cookie wrinkled her nose at her husband’s insinuation. “Oh, for the love of criminy, Hondo! Is this about that Gyro Spit? We’re here to see our daughter go up on stage! Can’t you set aside that silly grudge for one night?”

“I’d be happy to, pet,” Hondo returned, “only I don’t know where the stage is. All I can see is an office desk, and I could see one of those at home if I wanted to. And you know that Spit is always trying to have a laugh on old Hondo. You try to be serviceable for the sake of the town…”

“Oh, pipe down, Hondo.”

The performance, which turned out to be a squandered opportunity to build rapport with his wife on his new favorite subject, obtruded on Hondo’s enjoyment of his breakfast like the burnt portion of his waffle. “Perhaps if Cookie hadn’t been so sweaty,” he thought, “things might have gone better.

“Or perhaps if Sweetie Belle’s theater group had been pushed to a different week, and fallen on a less busy and hot evening,” he observed, glancing over at the untouched stack of waffles sitting at her spot on the table—she had still not gotten out of bed.

“Well what don’t you understand about it?” Rarity asked her mother earnestly. “Perhaps I can explain. It’s really all very straightforward, I think.”

“Didn’t you think it was a strange venue?” said Cookie, resetting her napkin. “Trust me, darling, I was part of a dance troupe when I was young and I know the budget for these kinds of things can be tight. But the town convention hall is not that expensive and it has a stage. It was so confusing having all of those young ponies moving around the floor.”

“But Mother,” Rarity interrupted her, “isn’t it refreshing not to have the sense of separation between performer and audient that one experiences when one is looking up to a platform?”

“No, it isn’t!” she answered with a little laugh. “I pay money to see somebody perform. I think I saw Sweetie Belle on maybe one or two occasions, and both times she was just lugging around a jug of water.”

“The performance wasn’t about Sweetie Belle, Mom,” Rarity said with politic firmness.

“Now that we can all agree on,” Hondo interjected.

Rarity leered at them. “Now, I wish you two would be a little more open-minded. It was an interesting and innovative presentation! Besides, Sweetie Belle is very proud to be in Bon Temps’ theater company.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better,” Cookie said with a cautious smile, “if Sweetie Belle had sung a nice song under the stage lights? She has such a lovely voice, just like Aunt Snuff. Her teachers have always said that. I don’t understand why they didn’t let her sing. Instead it felt like she wanted to trap me and take my jewelry. It was very odd, Rarity.”

Rarity let her gaze fall down on her coffee without replying.

“I’m sorry, cupcake,” said Hondo, “you know I tried. I just don’t get that jazzy stuff.”

“Ah! Father, I think you’ve hit it right on the head,” Rarity said, sitting forward. “Jazz is all about form. I think you could appreciate that.”

Hondo winked at Cookie. “Evidently not.”

Rarity took a quick slurp from her cup and said, “The form acts as the container where the plenum of inspiration may abide. If you didn’t know the rules of boxing, for example, and you were watching a boxing match, you might think that the participants were just trading blows in an unusually decorative manner. But the rules lay out the moves, and each move is a gesture—it conveys an act of will. A ‘fight’ in our ordinary experience is just a muddle, save for the event of the fight itself. But when form or structure enters into it we can go deeper into a world of psychic expectations and external realities. That is why even boxing can take on the aspect of art, which is just our capacity for seeing things fresh.

“Now, to go back—” she continued before Hondo could reply, “let’s say that boxing is a little like bebop—don’t you think? And modal jazz, to extend and compare, is a little like stand-up comedy, all about ‘mood’. But you see, in both cases, the formats ground and condition the possibilities, just like the frames in one of your windows.”

Hondo blinked and made a pass around the dusty walls and display cases which packed the kitchen and adjacent living room. “If that was supposed to be stand-up comedy,” he japed, “I’ve got a hell of a routine for you.”

Cookie joined in. “Gosh, dear. You could have been making millions all this time.”

Rarity checked a smile. “…You know what I mean. Call it ‘post-modal impressionism, if you like.”

“I think I’d rather be in the boxing ring,” said Hondo.

Hondo and Cookie laughed together and this time Rarity could not resist joining in. A morning breeze came through the screen door by the water, and as the laughter settled Sweetie Belle ambled into the small kitchen from the corridor leading to her bedroom. She wore patches of bright red and yellow face paint which disguised her features and was sporting an uncombed, unruly mane. She waded up to the table and looked down at her dish like the first morning’s swim, then took her spot and began eating without acknowledging the others. Hondo reclined back in his chair as he amused himself over her appearance.

“Keep your wits about you, dear,” he said, nodding at Cookie. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say this was part of the show.”

“What time did you get in last night?” asked Rarity.

“One in the morning, maybe,” Sweetie Belle answered her. “But it was hard to sleep, so I stayed up listening to records.”

“Were they silent records?” he asked.

She stuck her tongue out, and then told him, “Not before I’ve had my coffee, Daddy.”

“Then let me get you some right away,” said Rarity, leaving the table.

“I can’t believe how much coffee you drink,” Cookie said in disapproval. “Look at the bags under her eyes, Rare. She looks beat up. Doesn’t she?”

“Don’t be silly, Mother! Hers is a monstrance which glows like a sunrise over the dales of Rainbow Falls.”

Sweetie Belle smirked at Cookie as Rarity came back into the room with a steaming mug. “There you are, dear,” she said, setting it down in front of her sister. “Now you are ready to face the world!”

“Thanks,” said Sweetie Belle. Rarity took her seat and the room became quiet. Sweetie Belle began to swing her legs under her chair. “I didn’t want to be too forward with this…” she began. “But… what did you all think of the performance last night?”

“I liked it,” said her mother after a pause. “I thought it was very… intellectual.”

“Intellectual?” Sweetie Belle replied as though an insect had landed on her shoulder. “Um… Yes. Well, a lot of thought does go into it. But ‘intellect’ is like… Imagine being quarantined in a place where everything valuable seems to be outside of you—the tangibles—food, friends, beautiful things. That is the intellect. I mean, that’s important, too, because it helps you put things into context.” She thought for a moment. “But in the compound all you have are the objects which seem to make up mundane life. You have to draw something from them, or else you are just trying to escape from yourself. So it’s about instinct… yeah. Do you have any questions about it or…?”

Cookie startled. “Oh, no, no. I just that it was very different from something I would have done at your age.”

“It’s always fun to try something new, isn’t it?” Sweetie Belle said demurely.

Her mother conceded a smile. “I do have a question, actually. Have you told your theater troupe director that you can sing? I think that if she were aware of your talent she would certainly consider it a wonderful addition to the show.”

“I think she knows,” Sweetie Belle replied, blushing. “It’s come up a few times in talking with some of the other players.”

“But have you shown her?” Cookie said with mild irritation. “Don’t undersell yourself, Sweetie Belle. I don’t know why you act like that. I bet they would love you in Rolling Oats. It’s a music city. I think you should go right up to her and say, ‘I know you’re busy, but just give me three minutes of your time.’” She turned to Hondo. “What do you think, dear?”

He nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sweetie Belle said. “I don’t really see myself as being a ‘star’. I went to Rolling Oats so that I could learn from Miss Bon, not to steal the spotlight from the project. I like my role in the group. I’ve gained a lot from it.”

“Good for you, dear,” Cookie answered listlessly. “I’m glad to hear.”

There was another break—this time no one was eating. Sweetie Belle picked up her coffee mug and took a sip.

“Princess Cadence liked it,” she said. “We talked for a half an hour at the juice bar after the show! She said the performance made her ‘go inside’.”

“Into a hole?” Hondo said, shooting another glance at Cookie.

“Hondo!” she chided him. “Now that’s enough out of you. Next time you get a waffle in your eye.”

“I’m just kiddin’ around,” he replied with a joker’s grin. “You know that. Right, cupcake?”

“It’s okay,” Sweetie Belle replied, mashing a piece of waffle on her plate. “Black box theater is a little weird. It’s going to be challenging for some ponies. I’m actually impressed you guys came out and made the effort! Especially you,” she said, tossing a mango slice at Hondo. “I mean, we don’t even tell you when to clap.”

“Oh, so that’s how they explain it to you,” Hondo laughed. “I can feel your mother giving me the evil eye, but you’ve had your coffee now. There’s no excuse. But if you like I’ll tell you what I really think. You’ve got business sense like your sister, who has business sense like me. And business requires a strategic mindset. Why, this beautification project I volunteered to undertake—there are some who might look at me and say, ‘What a fool that Hondo is, getting caught up in all that work.’ Question, cupcake!”

“Answer, Daddy.”

“How do you go from building small windows to building big ones?”

She shrugged.

“By building big windows!” he said as though he had just dealt twenty-one.

Cookie rolled her eyes. “Just ignore him, darling. This is all just part of a petty game with that Gyro Spit.”

“Gyro Spit?” said Rarity. “You mean your old roofing partner? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve seen him since Carousel was being finished.”

“Now, ladies,” Hondo carped, “there are certain names which I humbly request not be mentioned in this household, and that one happens to be one of them. Spit is a scoundrel of a pony, a thief and a deceiver. That I’ll maintain until I’m old and crusty, or at until I’m older and crustier than I already am. However, in this case he offers a comparison which is exactly to my point. This ‘Miss Bon’,” he said, turning back to Sweetie Bell, “to be forward with you, cupcake—and I hope you’ll forgive me—seems to me like a witch who has had a little white pearl fall into her clutches.”

“You don’t even know her, Daddy,” Sweetie Belle snapped back at him. “I think you’re focusing too much on her media image. Miss Bon has been super kind and supportive to me. And I’m no pearl.”

Hondo frowned. “See, that is exactly what I’m afraid of. She has got you so under her hocus pocus that you think you’re lucky to get the gig. But deep down you’re too smart for that. You smell the ruse. It was in your face when you were trotting around that little chapel, I tell you. You’re thinking about the next step, and if you have to play in the sandbox for a little while then, by the dog, you’ll play in the sand.”

“You must get some kind of school credit if Miss Bon is so well-known,” Cookie said, chiming in.

“I don’t think so…?” Sweetie Belle answered, sighing as though her pile of leaves had just ben diffracted by an autumn gust. “There might be, maybe.”

“Well, goodness, you should ask her, or somebody! And two princesses were there? And they enjoyed your show? All this opportunity around you, honey! Don’t get upset. I just don’t want you to get to the end of this and feel like you’ve wasted your time.”

“But I don’t think it’s a waste of time,” Sweetie Belle said. “Mom, listen. It felt so good to get out of Ponyville for a while. I love this town. But I really love being part of this theater group, too. Believe me. It just makes me feel… more free,” she said, surprised by the weight of her own words. She placed a comforting hoof on her mother’s wrist. “And I’m really grateful you guys gave me the chance to do it.”

“I’m glad you had a good experience,” Cookie replied patiently. “But you have your future to think about, as well. One of my girlfriends was telling my about an excellent charter school in the Crystal Empire—Crystal Clear—small classroom sizes, one of the top-rated in Equestria. She has a daughter that went there and they were able to give her lots of personal attention. I think that’s what you’re really looking for. And I’m sure Princess Cadence could help you with admission. In fact, I bet that’s exactly what she was thinking about when she agreed to come to your show. She’s a very smart pony.”

Sweetie Belle looked away and took another bite of her waffle.

“Don’t turn away, dear,” Cookie resumed. “This is important. You know what the school motto is, there—? ” she paused for effect. “One is not born a mare—one becomes one.”

“Simone de Bovine said that,” Sweetie Belle answered her, letting her eyes fall down on her plate. “But that was part of a long argument against biological essentialism, not an endorsement of finalism. I doubt they’d have any of that written on the side of the school.”

“You said it was good for you to get out of Ponyville, right?” said Hondo, cutting off his wife. “Well, here you are, cupcake. Think about the next step. If you were shrewd enough to get Princess Twilight and Princess Cadence to come out to Ponyville—to stir up a little publicity, if you know what I mean—why not capitalize? You’ve earned it.”

“It’s absolutely true, dear,” said Cookie, following him. “Look at your big sister. Do you think she would pass up a chance to improve her prospects?”

Hondo and Cookie glanced over at Rarity in unison—she was seated with her chair pushed slightly out from the table and started at the mention of her name. Sweetie Belle continued working on her breakfast.

Rarity cleared her throat and said: “Well… I think we should remember that Sweetie Belle has been feeling a little bit depressed lately. I was very disturbed to see her that way the last time I visited. Now, I admit that experimental theater seems like a strange remedy for this, and not quite to the point regarding some of these practical matters, of which we should of course be very cognizant,” she said, sidling a look at Sweetie Belle. “But on your part Mother, you must admit that all of this has been so much more effective than conventional therapy. I dare say Sweetie Belle has got her legs under her again! See how expressive she is! And let’s not forget, it was her initiative to bring Miss Bon’s troupe down to Ponyville to share with us, and that in my mind is as valuable a logistical exercise as any.”

“And I didn’t invite the princesses to the performance because I wanted to ‘stir up publicity’,” Sweetie Belle interjected sourly.

“And I suppose you think that ‘Miss Bon’ would have wanted to go through the hassle of shifting operations to the hometown of a first-year understudy if there were no promise of tiaras in the audience?” Hondo launched back at her.

“Dad!” Rarity hissed at him.

Hondo held up his hooves in defense. “Hey, Sweetie Belle is my shining star, she knows that! But you’ve got to know when to look at things from a business—”

“It’s okay,” said Sweetie Belle, stopping him. “You’re right. I mean… it would be kind of silly for me to argue otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

She went back to eating, and another silence fell over the room. Finally Cookie, tottering in her chair like a bowling pin, put on a tender smile and asked, “Did you have fun, dear?”

Sweetie Belle nodded. “Oh yes, it was a blast! Would do it again!” She proffered a puffy smile which was reciprocated by all present.

Hondo pushed himself away from the table. “Time’s a-wasting,” he grunted. “Cupcake, maybe you can help me with a little project. I need someone to draw me some new patterns—you’re an artist, right?—real simple, I’ll even give you the measurements. Since you’re bursting with ‘expressiveness’, and all.”

“What time do you leave, darling?” asked Cookie, following Hondo.

“Oh, pretty soon,” Rarity answered, putting her napkin on her plate. “It won’t be too much of a rush, though. I’m mostly packed.”

Amidst the commotion of moving chairs and plates there was a knock on the door.

“Wonder who that could be,” said Hondo. “I bet it’s that Spit, come to apologize…”

“Now you’ve broken your own rule, dear!” Cookie called after him, gathering the empty plates to bring into the kitchen. “You have no right to be angry with us.”

She gave Sweetie Belle a playful elbow as she went to the sink. When the sisters were alone at the table they caught each other’s gaze, and Sweetie Belle puffed another smile; Rarity stuck her tongue out in reply.

“Rare, it’s for you,” Hondo announced as he came back into the room. “What’s her name?”

“Well I don’t know, Father! I have to go see.” She offered Sweetie Belle a parting shrug and got up from the table. “But who could be calling for me, here?”

She stepped into the foyer and laughed to see Starlight Glimmer waiting at the door. Her legs were folded and she was tapping the hardwood floor as though water might come out with sufficient concentration; she did not look up until Rarity addressed her directly.

“Why, hello there, Starlight!” said the latter, buoying in. “You’ve found my parents’ house, you goldilocks. I hope you find it to your liking—who knows what troubles you’ve endured to get here.”

“Only one,” Starlight replied facetiously. “I’m sorry to intrude, but this is where I was told you would be.”

“Skip it, dear. Would you like to sit down?”

“Let’s keep this private,” said Starlight, looking over into the noisy kitchen.

Rarity’s smile fell from her. “Okay. What’s the matter?”

“What happened with you and Applejack at your picnic yesterday?” asked Starlight.

Rarity was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Applejack hosted a big lunch in Sweetie Belle’s honor and you wound up playing some kind of joke on her?” Starlight replied as shrill as a squirrel scurrying into a canopy.

“Can we step backward for a moment?”

“I saw Rainbow Dash at the farmer’s market this morning. It was unusual to see her there without Applejack. When I talked to her, she said that AJ went to be early last night because she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh no!” gasped Rarity. “I can’t imagine what this is all about.”

“It’s about you making weird speeches with your sister then leaving abruptly because you’d rather suffer than use AJ’s outhouse,” Starlight answered hotly.

Rarity brushed back the hair over her temples. “It was not like that at all. There was a long repartee in which my lavatory preferences were discussed in a light-hearted manner. I was very straightforward that I prefer to be around my own amenities, and there seemed to be no harm done. I feel bad for her but I don’t know why she is acting the way she is.”

“Come on, Rarity. You didn’t think for a moment that something like that might hurt her feelings?”

Rarity blushed at the feebleness of her excuse; yet the truth was equally ridiculous, and perhaps less believable. She sighed. “Look, I have a little time before I have to leave. I think this whole thing can be smoothed over. I’ll go to her and apologize and we can all be back on good terms, peaches and cream. I really didn’t mean for things to go like this.”

“It won’t be so simple,” Starlight said. “Now Rainbow Dash is in a tiff because she thinks Applejack is being melodramatic, and I think she’s a little cross with you two for ‘acting out’ in front of one of her superior officers.”

“Acting out? What does that have to do with anything? We were all acting out…” Rarity swiveled around in frustration. “Rainbow, dear. Life is a teacup meant to be drank from, then used to hold biscuits, then arranged into a pretty play with the little dishes and silverware, then worn on one’s head! Short of that we just become old and spiteful”—she turned back around as though Starlight had just walked through the door. “What did she say, Starlight Glimmer?”

Starlight grimaced a little, like she was trying to keep from passing wind. “I didn’t push too hard. I caught her as I was on my way—we were both going our own ways. It was a short exchange.”

“And?”

“She said that you and Sweetie Belle were asking strange questions and seemed to be having some kind on ‘inside’ conversation… I think she thought you might have been showing of contempt for the military lifestyle.”

Rarity stuttered a laugh. Had she been guilty of flippancy? The indictment flooded around her like the inertia of an incoming ocean wave. She also recognized a delicious incongruity in the thought that followed this feeling, that it was so characteristic of military ponies to attach themselves to preposterous notions of rank!

“Well what am I to do then, Starlight?” she asked resignedly.

Starlight corralled herself like a bull ready to charge. “Let me be clear: an apology is absolutely in order. But I’m sure you can handle that all yourself. Heck, I bet you would have done it anyway without my prompting, at some eventuality.”

“Something like that,” Rarity replied. “Well, thank you for the telegraph, dear.”

“Wait. I wanted to come to you in person—not because I thought this wouldn’t reach you, nor because Twilight put me up to it or anything like that. Rather, I have come to petition you.”

Rarity scratched her head. “Petition me? Do you need my congressional support, or what?”

“When one of the students is dealing with a ‘latent issue’,” Starlight explained with air quotation marks, “I will often initiate a petition to help bring the problem to a ‘state of cognizance’. This involves gentle, non-coercive reminders from myself and other ponies in their caring circle that an important intra- and interpersonal obstacle not being addressed, and that it is within the troubled student’s power to make it right. The idea is to not just to bring the issue to light but also to impart the student with a sense of what I call capacity.”

“And upon what issue have you come to empower me?” Rarity asked.

Starlight’s face softened. “How do I get to this… Rarity, have you considered what effect separation from you is having on your friends and family?”

Rarity forced a chuckle. “Starlight, I think you’re taking this a little seriously. All we’re dealing with is a little misdirected banter. I don’t see a need to—”

Starlight held up a hoof. “I want you to close your eyes for a moment,” she said.

“Um… All right,” Rarity replied, closing them.

“I’m going to close mine, too. This is to show that I’m not trying to overpower you. Would you like to open your eyes and check?”

“I trust you with my foals, dear.”

“Good, good,” Starlight said with a smiling voice. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, it’s very important that if at any time you feel like you need protection from me, you say so.”

“Got it.”

Starlight let out a long, aspirated sigh. “Sometimes when I’m thinking about a problem—trying to work something out—I find it useful to let the diaphragm relax. Just a gentle release in the ribs and the belly,” she said as methodically as though she were painting a clown nose on a child’s face. “We mares especially tend to be self-conscious about our bellies. But in other cultures the belly is a symbol of wisdom, of our total communion with nature and everything that proceeds in us without our noticing. Let’s be in our bellies for a moment.”

As Rarity waited for the next instruction she began to notice noises around the house: she heard hot water and the artillery of clanking places coming from the kitchen; she became sensible to bodies there and to the creaking of the old floor of her childhood home and she and Starlight swaying gently in place like graying daffodils.

“Starlight, I—”

Starlight shushed her. “Are you okay, Rarity? Do you need a hug?”

“No, I do not need a hug.”

“Just let me know. Now, let’s talk about you,” Starlight continued. “This is your time to sink into yourself and become open. Let loose anything that is stopping you up.”

“Er… How would you like me to do that?” asked Rarity.

“Let’s imagine that you and I, just us, are at opposite ends of a large pond—let’s say, one perhaps four hundred feet in diameter. The surface of the water is still. It is so still, in fact, that we see ourselves clearly, and can look at almost nothing else but our own reflections, until we lift our heads and—lo!—we see each other on opposite shore. …Rarity, is that you?” she asked, and left a pause.

The sound of plates being put away hung in the air. “Um… H-hello, Starlight? Yes, it’s me, Rarity! I see you’ve found my favorite pond!”

“Oh no, the weather is changing!” Starlight said in a mock panic. “A cool front is moving in and mist is beginning to settle over the water! I think I can hear you, but your image is fading away… Where did you go? Speak to me, Rarity!”

Rarity hemmed. “Shall I just… walk over and join you?”

“What was that?

“Do you want me to walk over to you, dear,” Rarity said like she was speaking over a din. “It doesn’t seem so very far.”

“No!” Starlight barked in reply. “This is no ordinary mist. I’ve encountered this before, at other ponies’ ponds and at my own pond, too. Do you taste that? It has an acidic flavor… It must be a Haze of Held Resentment! Any step you take toward me could be the path of the will o’ the wisp, which could tangle you in fruitless struggle for months or even years.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that! Forgive me, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We’ll have to cut through this fog using the candidness of our words and our unperturbed feelings of mutual friendship,” Starlight called out like a logger.

“There could be no other way,” Rarity agreed likewise.

“And I want to reassure you,” Starlight continued, “that I know how frightening it is to be in your position. I’ve spent my own time in the Haze of Held Resentment. Strange to say, I grew to almost enjoy the feeling of alienation that came with it. There’s a kind of paradox in it—after all, it is a way of relating to other ponies to excise them for how one perceives one has been betrayed. It was a while before someone came along and held out a hoof through the fog, and helped me to let go and make sense of my confusion. Take my hoof, Rarity.”

“Oh, my! But aren’t we four hundred feet apart?”

“I mean actually take my hoof,” Starlight said.

“Oh, okay.”

All the while they had been talking Rarity and Starlight had their eyes closed as part of their imaginative exercise. Rarity groped the air in front of her until her hoof was caught by Starlight, who gripped her with serpentine tightness.

“Ah, there you are!” said Rarity with a laugh. “You know this is kind of fun.”

Starlight took a deep breath and wound their joined hooves in the air as she spoke. “We’re all a little different. I’ve got gray hairs coming in now, and meanwhile Twilight is as purple as a vine plum. One just has to be humbled sometimes. I even joke about it when I see her—it’s all good. I’ve made peace with it, you could say,” she said, squeezing a little. “Now, let’s take your case. I know you must think it very embarrassing to be ‘inexperienced’ at your age. Especially when you’re around other ponies and their families—it’s only natural. Maybe you’re a little shy—I don’t know—just not good at talking with other ponies in that way. Maybe you didn’t have a good model to take after growing up. The reasons could be many, and I’m not here to judge. But you have to try and avoid those bitter scenes like the one you let yourself fall into yesterday.”

“Starlight, may I interrupt you?” Rarity interjected, opening her eyes.

“What’s up?”

“On the ‘awkward’ scale this conversation has reached a six.”

Starlight looked back at her. “Well I’m sorry, Rarity, but it must be had.”

Of a sudden, Rarity began to feel something unpleasant flare up, like the swelling itch of a sunburn acquired unwittingly during a busy day; it was a creeping spite for Sweetie Belle’s theater engagement. She identified it unmistakably and with miserly satisfaction: the unhappy mess of ideas, the shadowy troupe and its difficult appeal, the dirty shirts and disheveled atmosphere—all of her sister’s foolish, mistaken pride—"some ponies just can’t be helped,” she thought with bitter detachment.

“Yes, you are right,” she said. “I suppose I have too high a tolerance for solitude. But we are all creatures, in the end. I will try to be more responsible on that front.”

Starlight placed a hoof on her shoulder. “Here’s a little trick. When you feel the anger welling up in you, imagine you see ‘Little Rarity’ watching you from inside a big transparent balloon. She’s watching you lovingly, remember—do you think ‘Little Rarity’ cared about this sort of thing? She is just waiting and wondering what you’re going to do next.

“Imagine the balloon she is standing in is pulsing, almost ready to burst. Then, go up to it and lay yourself on its surface, hold it in your arms, hug it with your whole body. Hug it until it becomes softer and you feel it receding, getting closer and closer to the ‘Little Rarity’ within.”

Rarity heard the floor creak behind her. She turned and saw Sweetie Belle tiptoeing through the foyer with a damp mane that matted against her forehead from work in the kitchen; the face paint from her performance had nearly been washed off in the vapor.

“Ah, there’s the pony I wanted to see,” Starlight said, raising a hoof in salutation to her.

Sweetie Belle offered a meager smile. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me! Helping Mom in the kitchen?”

“Beats playing outside,” Sweetie Belle replied dryly.

Starlight laughed like a songbird. “Oh Sweetie Belle, you’re so funny. I’ve always thought that a sharp sense of humor is a sign of great intelligence. What about you?”

She shrugged.

“Hey, your sister and I were just talking. I’ve got some bad news, unfortunately.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m afraid the way you were acting at Applejack’s picnic yesterday might have really hurt her feelings.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Starlight nodded. “I bet you noticed that she wasn’t at your show last night.”

“Yeah, I did,” Sweetie Belle answered dolefully.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Starlight asked as Cookie waddled into the room. She greeted Starlight by eye contact and took a place beside Sweetie Belle.

“No thank you, Ma’am,” Sweetie Belle said. “I was very excited, that’s all. There’s not too much to say about it. I’ll make sure to go see Applejack today.”

Starlight came in closer to her. “Sweetie Belle, I need to tell you something, but I don’t think you’re going to like it. I want to let you know in advance that the point of this is not to threaten you or to make you feel embarrassed. I’m glad Mom is here, too. She can support you. Are you ready?”

Sweetie Belle rolled her eyes and made a presidential salute.

“I think you have a hard time being cooperative with your emotions, Sweetie Belle. This is a big struggle for you. It has definitely hurt your grades,” she remarked as though she had discovered an open candy bar wrapper on the windowsill. “We all want to help you, but we can’t keep waiting for you to come around.”

“It’s true, honey,” Cookie added after a fermata. “I always feel like you’re keeping something from me.”

“Can I ask a favor of you guys?” Sweetie Belle said calmly. “We’re talking about cooperation, right? Can we not go into this today? Now, I think what you’ve said is very fair, but I don’t want to focus on the negative, you know? I just had my big show in town, and my sister’s here, and I’d just like to enjoy the moment, if I can.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Starlight responded quickly. “I’m down with that. By the way—totally stoked that you brought black box theater to Ponyville. Fritzel Fussbudget, right? I had a boyfriend back in my hometown who was totally into him. That was more years ago than I’d care to count! You know what I’m talking about?” she asked Cookie with a wink.

Cookie covered up a Pinocchio smile. “I think you have some catching up to do to get to where I am, young lady!”

They laughed like dogs barking in a far-away lot. Then Starlight resumed, “All the same, Sweetie Belle, this can be the kind of moment where it is most important to evaluate your emotional landscape. A performance, metaphorically speaking, is where everything significant comes out. Right? It’s what all those rehearsals are for, after all. In my field we call it a crucial juncture. I have a game we could play to make it easier. Would you like to hear about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Sweetie Belle. “I don’t think it will help me.”

“It’ll be fun,” Starlight replied. “Listen. I call it ‘Feelings Tic-tac-toe’. You begin with a nine-square grid just like in regular tic-tac-toe, except when you put down an ‘O’ or an ‘X’ you have to include a genuine feeling you have about someone else, a situation, or yourself. The rule is: when you make a statement, you must always begin with ‘I think that’ or ‘It is my feeling that’ to be clear that you are talking about what you perceive, and are not trying to ascribe something to someone else. Of course, you can always say something positive!”

“What happens when you get three in a row?” asked Cookie.

“You get to ask your opponent for a judgment-free compliment! This can be frightening but very satisfying—normally we don’t give ourselves permission to ask for praise. It could take the form of ‘Tell me about something that makes me beautiful’ or ‘Tell me the most fun memory you have of me’ or whatever seems relevant to your state of mind.”

“Ooh, let’s play!” said Cookie, elbowing Sweetie Belle in the shoulder.

“This sounds really dumb.”

“Just go with it, Sweetie Belle,” Rarity said with impatience. Silence hung in the air like firecracker smoke.

“We don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” Starlight said.

“No, let’s play. You first,” Sweetie Belle replied, squaring herself in front of Starlight.

“Me? Okay…” Starlight made four strokes in the air between them, representing the board. She thought for a moment, then made another mark in the air and said, “’X’—I think you’re unhappy at the School of Friendship.”

Sweetie Belle made her own mark on the board. “’O’—I think you’re trying to corner me.”

Starlight made another cross. “’X’—It seems like your family is worried about you.”

“’O’—I think they love me very much.”

“’X’—I think you are a good daughter to them.”

“’O’—I think they want me to be more like Rarity.”

“’X’—It seems like you are very confused.”

“’O’—I’m a fuck up.”

“Watch your mouth, Sweetie Belle!” said Cookie. “For goodness sake, we are trying to help you! And, by the way, what you said about Rarity is not true,” she added tartly.

Starlight stopped her. “Let’s give it a little air, Mrs. Crumbles.” She turned to Sweetie Belle with a minty smile. “Sweetie, honey, I know we’re tapping into strong emotions here, but let’s try and remember the most important rule of Feelings Tic-tac-toe.”

Sweetie Belle let out a wet sigh. “It is my feeling that I am a fuck up.”

“Good,” said Starlight. “Now, that gives me the last move. ‘X’—I’m glad that we can be friends. It looks like I win. As per our rules, I am allowed to ask you for a judgment-free compliment. Let’s see… What would you miss about me if I went away on a six-month mountain climbing expedition?”

“Your breath,” Sweetie Belle replied with facility. “You always have fruity bubblegum breath which reminds me of my time in counseling. It may be storming outside, and I might be much happier somewhere else, but I can always count on your excellent taste in gum.”

Starlight balked. “I see. Well… Thank you, Sweetie Belle. I acknowledge and accept your compliment.”

“Are we having fun? Because I’m not,” said Rarity in a brass voice. “Honestly, Sweetie Belle, you’re making this way more difficult than it needs to be. Starlight and Mom are right—and I will summarize their feeling and say that you need to learn tact. We all have to give in to each other now and then. It is very true in business. One makes little compromises all the time to establish good relations and a professional reputation. Even if I think a client is unpleasant or undeserving I will still entertain a negotiation of price for my services with them if I think it will be of long-term benefit to the store. And I think you would profit greatly to look at this, Sweetie Belle, and even more to have a concrete experience of it, because it is the exact same way with friends and family. You’ll see that one must learn to network with one’s dear ones, too. It is all part of having a productive life in the real world.”

“Ah,” Sweetie Belle replied weakly, “that makes sense.” She leaned and started brushing the floor with a dangling hoof.

“It’s so true,” said Cookie. “I always consider it a point to make holiday appearances at Winsome Weathervane’s get-togethers, even though I don’t know most of her friends and never really enjoy myself, honestly,” she remarked as though she had delivered a punchline. “But I can’t complain about Winsome. She’s quiet and is always willing to lend us her tools when we need them.”

“And once you’ve built those relationships,” Starlight added, “then ponies can get to know the real you.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Sweetie Belle said. She looked up at Starlight and Cookie. “Look, just ignore me. I’m tired still. I’m going to go take a nap. Thanks for coming to see me, Starlight. It was really considerate of you to go out of your way to make sure I’m okay. We’ll have to continue this at another time,” she said, turning to go.

“Oh, anytime!” said Starlight. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your sister?” Cookie asked after Sweetie Belle. “She’s going to be leaving soon.”

“Oh yeah, have a safe trip,” she returned from down the hall; they heard the door shut.

“I hope I was of use today,” said Starlight.

“Oh, of course, darling,” said Cookie. “You are always welcome here.”

“I don’t know. Did you want to get Dad into this?” Rarity said distantly.

Starlight shook her head. “Oh, no, no. Maybe some other time. I’ve got to get going—we’ve all got places to be, I’m sure. Just one more thing, though.”

Starlight waved for Cookie and Rarity to come over. Cookie took a stolid first step then looked at Rarity as though she had already lost hear way; Rarity then took her like a convalescent by the shoulder to where Starlight was waiting for them with a broad smile, before girdling them into an embrace.

“I love you guys,” she wheezed in a breathy voice.

After several moments they released. “Always good to conglomerate with you,” Rarity said.

Starlight smiled in approval and departed.

“You’ve met before, right?” Rarity asked after her mother after Starlight had gone.

“Oh yes,” said Cookie. “At least twice, I think.”

“Mother, I’m going to go check on Sweetie Belle before I go,” said Rarity, glancing in the direction of the hall.

“She’s probably sleeping,” Cookie replied. “She looked exhausted this morning, didn’t she? Are you sure you want to poke that bee’s nest?”

Rarity nodded. “If she’s sleeping I shall quietly tiptoe away, I promise.”

She went down the hall; the door was not locked. When she looked in she found that Sweetie Belle was not in bed but rather seated at a rickety turquoise vanity making brushstrokes though her mussed hair in its tiny mirror. He belongings did not take up much of Rarity’s large old quarters: only the aqua vanity, a small black trunk at the foot of the bed, and a petite wooden-panel bookshelf were her own contributions to the décor. Next to these, Rarity’s old queen bed towered with minaret bedposts, along with an armario which was now in disuse. There was a phonograph on the floor and a dusty mousetrap by the floor molding, though Rarity did not remember having a problem with vermin.

Rarity did not announce her presence but entered with gentle wonderment as she parsed the objects which now populated her old room. She examined the bookshelf opposite to the vanity where Sweetie Belle was toiling. Slumped on the top shelf were several button-sewn stuffed dolls which gladdened her with their familiar, mock-Victorian facades; below the dolls on the next shelf were some dappled school textbooks and a slosh or earmarked poetry volumes and some slim philosophy readers. Among the poetry the most careworn collections were Amethyst Remembrance by Feathered Thing and Ariel Plow’s The Colossus, the latter a library tagged book which was many months past due. Below these still was an assortment of weathered board games which were displayed in dust like precious antiques.

Turning back to the vanity, Rarity was struck by the sparseness of her familiar habitation: nothing but a throw rug and a few jettisoned accessories covered the lake of swollen floorboards which now fell between where she and her sister stood in the old family home.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said, “and to say goodbye. Back there… The context was a little strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

A moment passed before there was a reply. She heard the rip of another hair stroke, then Sweetie Belle said, “Well, yes, it was. But you see me now, and I’m fine.”

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” asked Rarity.

“I don’t want to talk,” Sweetie Belle said shortly.

“I know when something is not right with you,” Rarity chafed, “and bottling it up won’t do either of us any good. I am almost offended that you aren’t willing to be candid with me, Sweetie Belle. Your therapy couch excuses are no good with me.”

Sweetie Belle wheeled around to face her. “Why can’t I just be sad? What’s the big deal? Everybody gets down sometimes. Honestly, it’s none of your business and you just make it worse.” She went back to looking in the mirror.

“Are you angry because Mom and Dad and Starlight are pressuring you to go to Crystal Clear?”

Sweetie Belle glowered and went back to picking at her hair. “I don’t know. I’m not happy at the School of Friendship, I guess. I like the ponies there—even Starlight, when she’s not so wound up—but I feel like I’m just watching. Watching them find partners, watching them matriculate. I feel like maybe I don’t belong there anymore, and it scares me.” She set down the brush with an aggravated sigh. “Hey, Rarity—could you…?”

“Oh, sure.” Rarity jaunted across the room and took up a place behind her sister. She gathered a swath of Sweetie Belle’s hair in one hoof, then the other, and pulled the mélange back tightly so that it tugged her forehead into a smooth white prominence.

“Look at you!” Rarity said half-admiringly. “Oh, to have a coat like that again!” She reached for the brush with her spare hoof and began going to work like a bivouac surgeon. “What is it you’re scared of?”

“Like… ponies are disappointed that I don’t like to sing as much as I used to. It leaves me with a weird feeling in my stomach, like the earth is going out from under my hooves.”

“Well don’t you?” Rarity asked with hair pins dangling from her mouth. “Enjoy singing, still, I mean.”

Sweetie Belle was quiet. Rarity worked and hummed an inaudible melody to herself as she wrenched and combed her sister’s tresses into a firm, pliable weave. Sweetie Belle continued, “When I first started singing for ponies, it made me happy that I could do something that I loved to do and that the community loved at the same time. There wasn’t a division between ‘Sweetie Belle at home’ and ‘Sweetie Belle at school’, I guess. It was simpler. There was no need for argument. The more I nurtured myself, the more others seemed to be nurtured by me.”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I stopped nurturing myself. It just seemed like bullshit—excuse my language. Like, what is the point of that? To be able to sit on my throne and look pretty? I want to get dirty, and to be changed, and to be there. The ‘personal improvement’ stuff pushes ponies away, takes me out of it. I don’t want to have a better message—I want to be in a place where there’s no ‘message’ to impart. How can I get to that?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Rarity said as she carefully preened the hairline by Sweetie Belle’s ear. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re asking—I think that one is more open to others when one has a strong sense of oneself.”

“You know what I mean,” Sweetie Belle said. “I know you do. I want to sing—to go back to that old feeling, rather—but I can’t. I knew that if I just got to Rolling Oats things would be better, like I would find some kind of direction to the answer. …I still feel like that might be true, but my problem that I also might get swallowed up being there.”

“Isn’t that what you want, though?” Rarity asked.

“Now you sound like Dad. I know it’s dumb, or I’m dumb, or I’m overthinking it, or whatever.”

Rarity harrumphed as she teased the top of Sweetie Belle’s mane. “I don’t think it’s dumb, Sweetie Belle, and I’m here to support you, and so is Starlight, and Mom and Dad too, even if they miss the mark sometimes. We all want you to do well.”

“I get that,” Sweetie Belle replied. “And I appreciate it. But you can’t help me, not with this particular thing.”

“Now I went with something a little different,” Rarity said, cutting by her and gently craning her head to eye level with the mirror.

Her locks had been woven into two plaits which crowned her head and came down into a bun at the back of her neck, clasped together by a topaz barrette—the centerpiece clarified the braid and added a tone of slightly masculine self-assurance to the weft. Rarity had altered the comb of her hair from a romantic side part to a simpler centered figure, and evened out her bangs to allow them to accent her temples and eyeline. Sweetie Belle noticed for the first time too her high cheek bones which imparted an unfamiliar sense of maturity to her face.

“I call it—my sister, the young artist!”

Rarity stepped back. She let Sweetie Belle examine herself in the mirror and waited for her as she hung her head and began to cry. She swiveled around to face Rarity, rubbing her reddened face, but avoiding eye contact.

“It’s very practical, you see,” Rarity said softly, trotting over to her. “Nothing to get in the way of your eyes and hooves. And yet… You look so fetching! Isn’t that nice?”

Sweetie Belle nodded.

“What do you think?” Rarity asked after a pause. “I bet Mom and Dad will be blown away.”

“I don’t want them to see it,” said Sweetie Belle.

“Well why not?” Rarity asked, caressing her. “Do you not like it?”

“Can I be honest with you, Rarity?”

“What are sisters for?” she replied, sitting back on her haunches.

“Sometimes their ‘support’ just makes me feel farther away.”

“What do you mean, ‘farther away’?” asked Rarity.

“It’s like when Starlight plays little ‘games’ to try and relate to me. I think she feels like she’s really making a connection with me when she does that, but she’s not. Sometimes I think it would be easier if she just didn’t like me and put on a pleasant face when she had to deal with me—that way, at least, I wouldn’t have this guilt. It makes me feel like she doesn’t know me, even though she thinks she does, and telling her that would be like stabbing her. Same with Mom and Dad. It’s not their fault, but I hate it.”

Rarity nodded. “Are you sure they would feel that way if you told them about it?”

“I’m afraid to test it,” Sweetie Belle replied.

“I understand.” Rarity was quiet. “And what about us? Do I make you feel ‘farther away’?”

“It’s all good,” Sweetie Belle answered skittishly. “I mean, you should think about getting back to Manehattan… I’m sorry for being snippy out there with Starlight and Mom. But I really did mean it when I said I hope you have a safe train ride back. I don’t want to make you late.”

Rarity fixed her gaze. “I’ll catch the next one.”

Sweetie Belle turned and labored over to the vanity and said in a pinched tone, “If you really want to know, yes, you do.”

They were silent together. Then, concentrating on her reflection, Sweetie Belle continued, “When you left there was a vacuum in my life. I was used to having someone who I could share everything with, and to whom I could go with anything that I needed to talk about. But things have changed. You’ve been away. And I’ve felt this pull, and I’ve been trying to make sense of it. And I’ve come to realize that I can’t follow its direction without turning my back on you.”

Rarity watched her in puzzlement. “Really, Sweetie Belle, you have such a strange way of speaking.”

“It hurt me when you said that one’s family is just like anyone else, that one needs to network with them. It hurt because you’re right, that’s exactly how it is, that’s exactly what I do to you, that’s exactly what Mom and Dad want to do to me by sending me away, and that’s exactly how it is with us. We all just ‘get along’, just like at school. I know none of you wanted to be there at the performance last night, and there’s a part of me that’s mad at you for pretending and wants revenge for every fake compliment.”

She paused and took a breath. “But there’s another part of me that’s overwhelmed by Rolling Oats and its musty promises and the prospect of leaving this all behind, every last waffle, because I miss you terribly, not just because you live somewhere else but because you don’t have the answers anymore and I have to go on without you. I have to end it. And another part of me wants to scream that you don’t have to network with me, that I’m right here and we’re just playing a long game of hide and seek.”

Golden afternoon light made a soft glow on the floor between Rarity and Sweetie Belle through the rickety window on the western side of the house which faced the pines. In the silence Rarity found herself wondering again about what was beyond those trees, as she had from and early memory, looking up through the glass as she waited to get out of bed on a lazy day; it seemed to her that the dark tree line towered over the world, and was the only feature of the room which hadn’t lapsed with time.

Sweetie Belle began to sniffle again. Rarity came over to her and pulled her in by the shoulders; Sweetie Belle pressed herself tightly against her sister’s chest and felt the boniness of her presence, her delicate shoulders and heartbeat.

They let go. Rarity gave her a kiss and they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Then Rarity said, “Listen, Sweetie Belle. Go out into the world. Chase those musty promises. Fall in love. Make a fool of yourself. Make big mistakes—you hear me? Live your life and everything that goes with it. Break hearts. Get your own heart broken. Live on a dime, if you have to. That’s the only advice I can give you. You don’t have to do anything to be in my network—I just love you, okay?”

Sweetie Belle let out a laugh in a wave of relief and exhaustion. She went to say something but stopped and allowed the silence to come in again. Even the chattering birds outside did not disturb it; rather, their song seemed to coalesce around it, the way beads of sweat form on a glass pitcher filled with fresh, cold water.