Goldengrape hated Winter Wrap-Up.
He shuddered as he waded through slush and bitter wind on his way home. Why does Cloudsdale always make the day before the worst of the season? He'd file a complaint with Mayor Mare in the morning. Assuming he even lived that long.
He sneezed, a nasty cloud coming out of his reddening muzzle. Home was within sight, its gutters glistening with thorns of ice, the washboard rows of his nearby vineyard blanketed by snow. Shoveling those will be such a pain. He sighed, fumbling with frigid hooves to find the key under the mat. At the sound of a loud crack, he stepped to the side, heavy ice smashing into the steps and scattering off into the barren garden plot.
"Starting early this year, aren't we?"
Key in mouth, he unlocked the door and entered. His home was even colder than outside, doing little to soothe aching muscles soaked to the bone. He shook himself somewhat dry, hung his scarf, bags, and vest on the rack, and stepped out of the entryway into the living room. Have to get a fire going.
Pulling out split wood and tinder from the log grate beside the flagstone fireplace, Goldengrape stacked a pile around bark shavings and old newspaper, striking a match on the hearth to light it. It'd take a while for it to warm up. Tea sounds good.
He went into the kitchen, searching for his copper kettle. Naturally, it had been put above the cupboards, and his step stool was nowhere to be found. Sighing, he pulled a chair from the dinner table over and braced it against the counter, stirring cold tile air that traced up his legs.
He mounted the chair, then climbed up onto the counter, standing on his hind legs to reach for the kettle. It had moved further back. He grunted, teetering on the tips of his hooves to bat the kettle toward him. The cabinet thumped open against his chest, a terrible clattering of plates and bowls as they fell against door. His breathing hitched. He thrust himself forward, clinging to the top of the cabinets, hooves scrambling for purchase. There was no way to keep the cabinet closed and not fall down, himself.
So he moved to the side and flattened his ears, letting a dozen dishes fall out and smash against the counter, chair, and tiles, shattered porcelain scattered like rose petals. "Good try," he grunted, knocking the kettle towards him and taking it in his mouth, "Almost got me." He navigated the shards with care, set the kettle down on the floor, and found a broom and dustpan before cleaning up the mess. It's going to cost a lot to get a new set.
Broken porcelain disposed of, he filled the kettle with water. The acrid smell of smoke wafted through his nostrils. He dropped the full kettle and galloped into the living room. The flue was closed and the room was filling up with smoke. Cursing, he threw the flue and windows open, shivering as the wind blew in from the north. "Going all out, huh? You want me to leave?"
The smoke curled around itself like a mane being played with and wafted outside. "That's better." Shutting the windows, he blinked away smoke-induced tears to collect his kettle, re-fill it, and finally put it on over the burning logs. All of the warmth the fire had built up was gone. He needed something filling and easy to eat, too. Stew sounds good.
Back into the kitchen. He needed an onion, a carrot, some canned tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a clove of garlic, paprika, caraway, and stock, with a cast iron pot to put it all in. Maybe some sour cream on top? He'd play it by ear. After gathering everything up, he found his cutting board.
"Don't you dare." Goldengrape eyed the ceiling, searching for the unseen, before creeping over to the knife block and reaching for the chef's knife. The block rattled and he dropped just before the entire set jumped, all of the knives flying out and spinning, sticking to the wall opposite the counter.
He was sweating. "You aren't going to get me, so stop trying." His heart crawled up his throat as he stood on wobbling legs, approaching the knives. He studied them, looking for any hint of motion. Wiggling handles, vibrating blades, a cold rush of air. Closer, closer. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow. Almost there. Gulp. He stuck his neck out.
He bit down on the handle of the chef's knife and skittered away, but the knives embedded in the wall didn't do anything. I'll... get them later. The vegetables, thankfully, didn't leap at him. They rolled more than they should have, so he had to cut carefully, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.
Stew pot filled, he brought it to the living room and set it by the fireplace. He eyed the flying embers and decided to close the chain curtain. It opened back up. He closed it again. It opened.
Close.
Open.
Close.
Open.
Close. "I'll stay here all night if I have to."
It stayed closed. After a nod of approval, the kettle began to whistle. Time to make that tea. Earl Grey, with grapefruit notes and a hint of honey, perfect for soothing the throat after being outside in this miserable weather. He settled down on his couch, tea tray on the table with a full pot and little jar of honey. He poured himself a cup and smiled in the fire's glow. Finally, the room was warm.
And books were flying off the shelf, sliding across the floor.
Goldengrape sighed and slid off the couch, looking over the pile. Not that one, not that one... ah, here it is. "You couldn't wait, could you?"
He picked it up in his mouth and set it on the couch, setting about gathering up the rest and putting them back on the shelf. The book on the couch flew off and hit him on the back of the head. "Ow!"
He whipped his head around, fuming, "I'm not going to read it if you're going to hit me." The book laid on the floor, open. Its pages flipped and flapped, searching for its place. It stopped at the start, the sewing apparent through the crack running along the cloth-bound book's broken spine.
"No. You haven't apologized."
He stood and waited. A quilt flowed out from the hallway, floating over the couch. He snorted, "Don't try anything funny with it." He picked the book up and got onto the couch, letting the blanket wrap around him as he opened to the first page. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single stallion in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife...”
The reading went long into the night. Goldengrape only stopped twice: once to eat, and once more to use the bathroom, both thankfully uneventful beyond petulant slamming of the walls. "I know, I know," he had said, "I'll get back to reading soon."
"... and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them." Goldengrape closed the book and yawned, looking to the grandfather clock. It read a quarter to midnight. It was time. He moved with haste, stashing the book, dousing the fire with whatever dregs of tea was left in the pot, doused it again with a full pot of water to make extra sure, rinsed off the dishes, and brought the quilt with him into his bedroom. He laid down and covered himself with it.
One minute, thirteen seconds.
This moment filled him with ambivalence. Hope and dread. He knew nothing would come of it, but he so desperately wanted to see—
"Boop!" A chill pressed against his snout, scrunching it. The ethereal face of a giggling mare framed by floating curls smiled at him. A chime rang out. The first stroke of midnight. "Hello, Goldie~!"
He couldn't help but return it. "Hello, Daisy." The second stroke. She had form underneath the quilt.
"Why have you been avoiding me~?" There was a depression there. The third stroke sounded.
The fourth stroke. "I haven't been avoiding you, dear." It was like she hadn't left.
Even though she was cold. "But you haven't joined me yet!" The fifth stroke. He frowned.
The sixth stroke fell like a hammer. Already, their meeting was halfway over. "You know I can't do that, Daisy." The seventh stroke.
"But why not?"
"Ponies would miss me." The eighth stroke.
"But I miss you sooo~ much!" The ninth stroke sounded out.
"I know you do." Tenth.
"Promise me you'll join me next year?" Eleventh.
"We'll see." Twelfth.
Daisy leaned forward and kissed Goldengrape on the snout. "Don't keep me waiting."
And like that, she was gone.
Goldengrape stared at her absence. He reached out to feel the bed where she had just been. It was warm.
Goldengrape hated Winter Wrap-Up.
Author's Note
Can you believe Goldengrape doesn't have his own tag, despite having been around since Dragonshy?
