02: An Expected Concourse
The quill scratches against parchment, creating swooping calligraphy with the gentle guidance of my magic. The words birthed from the ink are nothing more than a pseudo-emotional contract renewal for the state. Ancestral landlords measured the cycle of time by fifteen years: bestowing new taxes and fees onto their tenants after reevaluating the value of a property. This fifteen-year timeframe is formally known as an indiction, and is largely antiquated by modern standards; however, nobleponies are nothing if not slaves to tradition.
This contract renewal is something all married nobleponies do at every indiction; modern ponies and those nobles who do not falsify their emotions for the bloodline would consider the document I am writing to be "renewing marriage vows." It is absurd to consider something "renewed" when the original vows have been broken countless times, yet to acknowledge any imperfection would tarnish both our families' names.
There is a knock on my door. My ears swivel toward the noise.
"Yes?" I say, finishing a flourish with the quill and replacing it into its inkwell.
The door opens and Ivory says, "Missus, Miss Rarity is here to see you."
I glance out the window to my left. The sun is still rising, but the sky has resolved itself to a still blue. I did not anticipate Rarity arriving so early, but I am happy to have her company at any hour.
"Send her in, please," I say after I turn to face my hoofmaiden. Ivory bows and steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Her hoofsteps echo in the hall outside my quarters, the only noise in the silence that often overtakes my home.
I glance back at my parchment, then cover the calligraphy with a thin coating of sand to prevent the ink from bleeding. The action causes my mind to wander astray, and I imagine myself elsewhere, in another circumstance where my life is as warm and inviting as my manners were taught to be. I see myself as a regular pony, settled in a quaint town on the edge of a forest in full fall foliage, interacting with others as neighbors and friends rather than tokens of diplomacy. In others' lives, there is a true warmth toward others; a platonic intimacy shared between ponies that I simply am not accredited as a living exhibit of pre-wendigo unicorn relations.
My ears swivel toward hoofsteps and Rarity's sweet voice conversing with Ivory's quieter tones, reminding me that I am forbidden the kind of life I live within my daydreams. Meetings with Rarity always seem to incite these reveries in the blank spaces of time before and after our conversations. As I rise to my hooves and walk toward the door, I do thank my status and fortune for one thing: the ability to brush flanks with such admirable members of the community such as herself.
The door is wholly enveloped in a light blue aura, and it opens after a mumbled sentence by Ivory.
"Fleur, Darling!" Rarity says as she steps into the room. Ivory is a shadow behind her, although her smile and lax stance speak to the casual socialite nature of the Element of Generosity.
"Miss Rarity!" I say.
Rarity is radiance in pony form: small with an earth pony frame, long legs and royally colored, purple curls. She trots over to me, her porcelain hooves tapping against the marble as her curls bounce. I reach out a hoof in greeting, but she rises onto her hind hooves instead, wrapping her foreleg around the base of my neck. I bow my head from the weight, my mane falling into hers, and return the embrace, one slender limb draped across the silken, sheer fabric along her shoulders. The purple capelet adorning her withers is made of a fabric that accentuates the gentle slope of her back and sides, and it ends just before her cutie mark, allowing all to see the diamonds gracing her smooth flank.
Her muzzle touches my skin, soft and delicate, her breath warm against my neck for only the briefest of moments before her leg slides from my back as she again settles onto her hooves.
"How have you been?" she asks. Her eyes, ever-inquisitive, have every eyelash defined by mascara and are accentuated by sky blue eyeshadow.
"Busy," I say, a smile gracing my lips. "How about yourself? I hear you have moved back to Canterlot."
She smiles, but it is only polite. Rarity once told me she has a façade much better than my own; yet, her eyes, like broken sapphire, show a pain so raw that I touch my hoof to her shoulder for comfort. Her lips quiver, and she dips her head slightly to the side, her mane falling across her face. I glance up from her for a brief moment, noting Ivory's polite presence in the doorway.
"Thank you, Miss Ivory," I say. "Could you please close the door? You may take leisure time during Miss Rarity's visit."
Ivory says her pleasantries, then the door closes with a quiet click. I return my attention to Rarity, who has moved to the center of the room and is now looking out my balcony doors toward the mountains grayed by the distance.
"What happened?" I ask, moving toward her. Her ears pin back, and she turns her head toward me, her eyes still fixated on the outside.
"How do you and Fancy do it?" she asks.
"It isn't always easy," I say, "but we manage through communication and date nights." Typically, I would not allude to any sort of marital issues whatsoever, but Rarity and I are close enough that I know she would not believe the impossibly perfect relationship that Fancy and I supposedly have.
"You manage, yes," she says, "but is that how you continue to love somepony? Through management?"
There is no immediate, easy answer to that line of questioning with somepony as perceptive as Rarity. Before I can politely deflect the questioning back to what happened to her, she turns to me, sorrow mostly abolished from her expression, and says, "I apologize, I don't mean to be so drab. Why don't we have a look at your dress?"
Her professional exterior never ceases to both amaze and alienate me.
"Of course," I say. "It is this way."
I turn from her, walking toward the door next to my desk. As I push it open with my magic, I wonder if Rarity and I are as close as I believe, or if I am just so deprived of true kinship that I consider professional acquaintances to be "friends" if they speak to me casually. A few ponies come to mind that could fit in such a category, yet none of them make me feel as comfortable as Rarity, nor do any share the same type of history she and I have. As she trots in front of me toward the dress form displaying my wedding gown, I think back to the times we had worked together. She has always been an open book, yet that trait extended to others beyond myself. Perhaps it is simply part of her professional charm; artistic types do tend to seem more overt about their experiences than others.
She calls me over as she pulls her sewing kit from one of the wooden niches in the shelving of my closet. She levitates a hair tie to me as she pulls a red pair of cat-eye reading glasses from the kit. I take the hair tie in my magic, although I find myself entranced by the seamstress's movements as she sets up her workspace.
In moments like these, where she levitates tools of her trade with such precision, I feel that there is a new facet of her personality bared for all around her to see. She hums, the pain lost from her eyes as she settles measuring tape and pincushions into place along the window ledge behind her without drawing her gaze from the dress. Her levitation is so casual—her brow shows no strain as she simultaneously adjusts the dress upon the mannequin and deftly places pins into the fabric in a method that seems color-coordinated.
"You always seem so surprised to see me work!" she says. My heart leaps, and I am suddenly reminded that I should have been using the hair tie levitating near my nose.
"I envy your grace," I say, punctuating the statement with a giggle. She laughs with me, and my heart leaps again as I savor the sound. I begin to move my mane back with my magic, pulling it into what feels like a uniform mass behind my ears.
"It's funny you say that, because I have always envied yours." I smile at the compliment, then focus on pulling my mane into a bun. "Nobleponies are all so graceful."
"We are bred to uphold such an ideal."
The tools in her magic pause, and she turns her body toward me. For a moment, I believe I have said something incorrect, then her face lights up and a peal of laughter escapes her.
"What?" I ask. Despite my confusion, the joy in her expression leaks into me.
"Your mane, Darling!"
I turn to look in the mirror behind me. It looks as though a filly just learning to do her mane had practiced on my head. My mane is grossly uneven, strands hanging down along my neck and the bun hanging in a huge, limp mass drooping behind my jaw. The disheveled mare in the mirror is far from myself, and I cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of the look.
"Miss Rarity, you only need my measurements," I say, glancing at her reflection behind me. "My mane need not be flawless... but I do look absurd."
"I was going to ask you to brunch," she says, "but I can't possibly take you out with that mane!"
My eyebrows raise in my reflection. Brunch?
It is not abnormal for her to show off her generosity, although it has been moons since we have gone out for any sort of meal. She has always been busy with Element of Harmony business or getting her new fashion line in order; our time to be together in a non-professional setting in the past few years has been fleeting, although she has always been apologetic when our get-together plans fail.
The other ponies who fall into the "casual professional" category of creatures I am acquainted with have never shown a similar amount of concern for missing events together. I suppose Rarity and I really have been friendly with each other beyond professionalism; we do share casual letters and attempt to dine together when she is in Canterlot.
Some of the paranoia that settled into my mind earlier is released, followed by tension in my limbs that I had failed to notice.
"Do you have other plans?" she asks, her voice sweet as ever.
"No," I say. "I am pleasantly surprised; you are typically a very busy mare."
"Yes, well, my schedule has gotten lighter with the current events in my life." She looks up at me in the mirror and smiles, although the pain she displayed earlier is rapt in her expression. "We also haven't eaten out in awhile! It will be good to catch up."
"It will!" I find myself grinning despite myself; it is good to know that she was not neglecting my line of questioning, although, behind my smile, I am worried for her.
She beckons me over, and I stand where she indicates. One of her measuring tapes floats in her magic and she begins the process of taking my measurements by wrapping the tape around the base of my neck. After measuring from my withers to my chest, around my forelegs and waist, she pulls her glasses from the tip of her nose with her magic and looks at me.
"Besides the routine maintenance—attending to loose beads, replacing the roses and fixing the tear in the sleeve—I am going to need to take in the collar and waist for the dress to fit as it did before," she says, then draws down her eyebrows. "Is everything alright with you? It is very uncommon for a mare as petite as yourself to become smaller over the years, especially after having a foal." There is a brief moment of silence, then her eyes widen and she quickly says, "No offense, of course! You are radiant as ever; it is just such an odd occurrence! I would hate for you to be ill and not know it."
A small noise escapes my throat, part of a predetermined response for nosy nobles, then I glance at the dress and allow the response to fully perish on my tongue.
The gown was made by Rarity herself for my wedding, and I believe it was one of the first gowns she made from the Carousel Boutique. I ensured the care of the gown over the years, and the fabric is as white as the day it was woven. Rarity had taken such care with the beading along the bodice and sleeves, and the train—twenty-seven feet long due to a tradition in my family—is still unperturbed despite dragging against the ground all those years ago and how it had been folded for storage. The train wraps around the island in the middle of the room, only slightly crinkled from its years inside a closet. The white roses along its lace edges have long since dried out, but their off-white petals, tarnished like silver, still cling to their places on the train.
Rarity makes her designs to last, and always has.
"Let's have brunch," I say, aware that my voice turned into a monotone for the statement. I cannot keep my eyes from the gown now that I have looked upon it. It is an innocent evil; blissfully ignorant of the sins it has committed in the name of the de-Lis lineage, yet, despite the fact that it is but an object, what it symbolizes is deeply upsetting to me.
"Not before we fix your mane," Rarity says from beside me, pulling on the hair tie in my mane. "Come lie here."
From my despair, she brings a smile back to my muzzle. I obey her simple command, lowering myself onto my stomach with my forelegs folded politely in front of me. Our height difference makes my position comfortable for her, allowing her to see the crown of my head. Gingerly, she pulls the hair tie from my mane with her magic and my hair falls all to one side. After a moment, she begins to run a brush through it. I can only assume she found it on my main vanity; however, as she continues to brush my mane, I feel a mounting sense of discomfort.
"I can do this myself," I say.
"Nonsense, Darling," she says. "I've only had my own mane to style for so long, and everycreature expects it to be just this way– otherwise, I might as well not be Rarity!" She pulls a part of my mane to the other side of my neck, then begins brushing another section. "Doesn't this take you back?"
"It... does."
She makes an affirmative sound, then begins humming a song, solidly locking us in the moment.
Once, in a life that now feels far distant, I was a model in Manehattan. It was in the years before I married Fancy, and was also where Rarity and I met. She was just beginning her career, and I was attempting to become a pony all of my own; somepony removed from the de-Lis name. Rarity had found me walking a street alone, and offered me lunch, then, over cheap hayburgers, a job as a runway model. For the next two years, I wore her high fashion designs on the catwalk during the most important fashion shows in Equestria, and, backstage, she pulled my mane into outrageous displays that matched the eccentricities of her early work.
Back then, I almost feared the mare's hair dressing abilities, yet, today, her brush is more gentle than I have ever felt.
The brushing falls into a rhythm, along with the melody she is humming, and I feel warm, as though sitting in the morning sun. I am lulled into a place without time as she does my mane, my eyes nearly shut as I revel in the sensation of the gentle tugs against my neck and scalp. The last strand of hair is combed, then she pulls my hair back to the correct side and begins braiding, pulling strands along to her song. The gentle pressure of her holding the hair taught, of focusing on keeping my head still, causes me to reflect upon my foal's formative years.
Had I ever done Lin's mane? Or had I, in my melancholy, forgotten to show my own foal the same kind of affection Rarity is currently showing me? Mothers are supposed to teach their foals things so simple, and to occasionally use them as their own small models. My mother had treated me as such when I was small, yet I cannot remember treating Lin with such tenderness in her foalhood– her existence always saddened me; Fancy often cared for her in my stead.
I hope she has friends of her own in school, that they can do what I never could—that they teach her how to be a pony, how to be herself; to show her that there is something beyond being a de-Lis.
Perhaps I should speak to her more.
"There!" Rarity says. "Take a look!"
My legs are numb from my time on the floor, and the lack of stimulation along my scalp and neck is momentarily disconcerting. My mane is back into a bun, but, unlike the one I had placed it in before, this one feels secure and does not jostle around as I get to my hooves. My legs fill with the sensation of pins and needles, but I am facing a mirror, so there is no need to force them forward to look at what Rarity has done with my hair.
From the front, my mane is simply pulled back as opposed to being down. I grasp a hoof mirror in my magic from the vanity and levitate it behind my head, allowing me a look at Rarity's handiwork.
"You did a wonderful job," I say, admiring the braids wrapping around the symmetrical bun. One braid is of the lighter strip of pink in my mane and is layered on top of the others.
"Thank you," she says. "I also do believe this outfit would go nicely, don't you think?"
I place the mirror back onto the vanity, then turn to see what she has picked from the closet around her while I was distracted. In her magic, there is a sheer, white capelet similar to her own and a white blouse with a sunflower pattern. I take the clothing in my magic and begin putting it on, careful to not muss my mane.
"You always know what looks best," I say.
"You looked like you needed a little girl time," she says.
I pull the capelet together with a silver brooch in the shape of my cutie mark, then turn toward Rarity with a smile.
"I did," I say. "Where are we going for brunch?"
I am accustomed to attention when I exit my residence, though the eyes on Rarity and me as we trot the Canterlot streets is abnormal. A few ponies, especially as we advance to the lower districts of the city, stop us on a number of occasions only to speak with Rarity, thanking her for her work or asking her invasive questions. After the fourth such occurrence, my partner waves her hoof at the stout stallion who had so desperately come to her, and, as he departs, I ask, "Is this the norm for you?"
Rarity looks to me and nods, her hoof still waggling in the air after the stallion.
"I could have arranged for guards or a private stagecoach if you were aware this would be an issue," I say as she begins walking once more.
"You could have, but there was no need for that!" she says. "I don't mind the attention."
I mind the attention, although I suppose that Rarity was not reared in an environment where others were constantly watching her.
"You know yourself best," I say. She giggles, and what small annoyance I had dissipates as my lips once more curve upwards into a smile.
We walk a while longer, chattering mindlessly about the pretty things along the lane and blissfully only drawing attention that could be dismissed with a short greeting or wave of a hoof. The slope of Canterlot's main byway has become more gradual the farther we travel from the aristocratic district, although the main street– paved with cobbled marble throughout the city –creates the illusion of uniformity throughout the city by utilizing the same finishings and architecture as the aristocratic district in its buildings. The street is almost entirely shops or places of service, and most of the businesses are run by ponies whose residences are in higher districts than where their shops are located.
Rarity's pace slows as we approach a storefront not unlike all the others, and she gestures upward toward the embellished sign: "Tealove's Tea Room."
"Have you been here before?" she asks. A couple of unicorns politely move past us as we come to a stop on the sidewalk.
"Once, with Princess Cadence," I say. "I do remember the tea being quite delicious, although their food servings left something to be desired."
"Shining Armor must have told her about it!" she says with a chuckle. "It's one of the Sparkle family's favorites, although I distinctly remember Pinkie Pie and Applejack also finding issue with the serving sizes last time we all visited. I happen to know that the portions have changed, thanks to Tealove's wife helping her run the place."
Rarity pushes open the door with her hoof, motioning with a dip of her head that she was holding it for me. I thank her and walk in, then pause to allow Rarity to take the lead; she trots in front of me and up to a quaint, wooden counter to talk to a green earth pony with her two-toned blue mane tied up behind her head. They are apparently familiar, as the green pony hugs Rarity over the counter; I look elsewhere as they take their time to catch up, noting the plethora of plants hanging in columns of terracotta pots around the shop. Vines crawl up latticework set up in the archways between sections of the restaurant, some with morning glories in bloom. A couple is seated at a small, rustic wooden table, antique china held in their auras. They are enshrouded by shadows cast by plants growing in the window adjacent.
"...and I'm sure you know Lady de-Lis!" Rarity says, motioning toward me. I smile and trot to her side, giving a polite greeting to the green pony.
"Of course," she says, addressing Rarity before looking to me. "Lovely to see you again, Lady de-Lis."
"You as well," I say. As she turns from us to procure menus, I lean down and whisper to Rarity, "What is her name?"
Rarity's eyebrows furrow and her eyes dart up to mine as she responds in a confounded, quiet tone, "Tealove."
My cheeks feel warm from embarrassment as I right myself just before Tealove turns back around, two menus clutched in her teeth. She raises her eyebrows and nods at us– the signal to follow her. She takes us past the couple sitting in front of the window into another room, seating us at a round, tall table inside a windowed apse. Plants brush against me as I seat myself, and I glance up toward the domed ceiling where a few ferns are carefully placed.
"The decor is quite... floral," I say as Tealove places our menus in front of us. Her smile turns into a grimace and Rarity hides her face behind her menu.
"It was my wife's doing," Tealove says, punctuating her phrase with a heavy sigh. "I can move the plants if you need me to."
"No, no," I say, waving my hoof as she already began to walk toward a pot to move. "I really do think they are lovely, especially for this type of establishment; perhaps, though, they could be more out-of-the-way for future customers."
Tealove pauses, then looks up at me. Her eyes– lavender in color –are surrounded by darkened circles that I had not noticed before. Her posture changes as she relaxes, her stance widening and her grimace subsiding into an expression of relief. Clearly, the plants have not been popular with other customers. She says, "Duly noted."
Rarity peers over her menu at me, her eyes intently locking onto mine as soon as I notice her. A pang runs through me, and I feel my countenance shift toward surprise; I grasp the menu in my own magic and readjust myself onto the stool to distract from my mis-step, turning the laminated paper over to observe the tea offerings. The page is decorated in a blue border with birds, like those on porcelain, flying across a white background. Teacups with simple illustrations for each type of tea are placed next to a cursive font for those illiterate in Ponish script.
"Do you two know what you want, or do you need a moment?" Tealove asks.
I meet Rarity's gaze once more. No words are spoken, no expressions exchanged; simply a look that lasts no more than the amount of time it takes to blink, yet profound information is shared. She looks from me, her expression softening into her own, easy public facade.
"I believe we will have an order of lavender-honey scones, and I trust you to pair me with a tea I will like," Rarity says, then gestures a hoof at me, her head tilting toward me. "Fleur, Darling, do you know what tea you'd like?"
The scones would be so sweet; sweet and light and sickening. The idea of decay seeps into my mind. Lavender. Honey.
"Wormwood, if you have it," I say. "If not, your most bitter blend would be appreciated."
"Wormwood?" Tealove asks, looking at me with her eyebrows drawn down. She raises a hoof to her chin. "I may have something, actually. That's definitely a unique order, Lady de-Lis."
I nod my affirmation and give my thanks. Tealove walks off.
Wormwood.
I look down at the menu, eyeing the birds on the pale page. It is a strange order; medicinal, almost; something an alchemist would brew in the depths of the wood– not an order for a tea shop in Canterlot. While I am grateful for the amount of eccentricity that is allowed to go unspoken due to my ranking, ordering such an absurd thing in my sudden onset of melancholy certainly would become news within the aristocratic circle should anypony hear of it.
Rarity puts her menu on the table, and I whisk my head upward, heart leaping within my ribs as I am brought back into the present. Here, under a domed roof, surrounded by plants and light from the street. She's looking at me– eyes doe-like, glassy, from her own doleful thoughts she has tried so hard to conceal.
I reach a hoof to her, my slender limb reaching across the table and brushing the succulent between us. She returns the gesture, placing her hoof atop my own, and lets out a sigh so forlorn that I feel my own breath catch in my throat. Her colors almost seem to gray, and I have the urge to stand and embrace her; to hold her close to my chest, to share with her my warmth, to let her know that I am not as distant as I must be, yet I curb my instincts and simply watch as her lips draw down and her eyes once again lay upon me: cracked sapphires.
"What happened?" I ask. My voice is hushed. She draws a shuddering breath, closing her eyes tightly as she does so. A tear falls when they reopen, and my ears twitch back as though I have been struck.
"So much, Darling," she says. Her voice cracks. She opens her mouth to say more, but her ears perk and she moves her hoof from mine as she tilts her head toward the archway that serves as the entrance to our own private niche. Taking her lead, I pull my own hoof from the table. Tealove trots in with a tea set balanced on a porcelain tray on one hoof, and sets it onto the table between us.
"Your scones were just put in, so they will be a few more minutes." Tealove looks to me. "I was able to find a wormwood blend I concocted awhile back, Lady de-Lis. I, uh... hope it's to your liking."
"I am sure it will be lovely," I say. Rarity echoes the thought.
"Do you need anything else?"
"I do believe we are fine for the moment," Rarity says. "Thank you, Tealove."
Tealove smiles, the dark circles around her eyes crinkling up, and she dismisses herself. I turn my attention to the tea set, noting that the silver pattern etched into the porcelain is similar to an antique set that I inherited. Rarity's blue magic envelops the teapot, and she pours water into her cup, then into mine before settling it back between us. In my own magic, I pick up a silver spoon and swirl it around my cup, careful to not let it make a sound as it makes its rounds through the water.
Rarity stares out the window. Ponies pass by on the far side of the street, but those patrons nearest to us are obscured by plants.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, allowing the spoon to settle with a quiet clink of silver against glass. Rarity's chest swells and her eyes flutter, then she exhales through her mouth and turns her attention back to me.
"Well, yes, but –" she picks up her own spoon, then turns her attention directly onto me "– I can tell something is awry with you, Fleur. We must confide in our friends."
Friends.
Despite the sorrow in her expression and heavy tone, butterflies settle in my stomach as though the pony closest to me has complimented me on my performance.
"Yes, well, we must confide," I say. "I want to know what is going on with you as well, Rarity. I know you have an abundance of friends, but I would very much like to listen and help if I can; I can tell there is something on your mind."
Her lips quaver into a half-smile. She says, "You always could see right through me."
"It isn't very hard today."
She chuckles, harsh, nearly manic– a tone that she would obtain when high-stakes fashion shows would come to the city, when stress overtook her. She allows the spoon to fall into her tea with a loud noise.
"I suppose not," she says, then sighs. "I do need somepony to talk to. I know I could talk to Twilight, but she's so busy with ruling Equestria nowadays..." She frowns as she trails off, looking down at her cup before looking back up to me. "She doesn't even know I moved back."
That is news. I say, "Oh?"
"She would make it an ordeal," Rarity says. "Normally, I wouldn't mind, but... I don't need all the pomp and circumstance right now." She squeezes her eyes shut, taking in another deep breath, then, very slowly, enunciating every syllable, says, "Sweetmint and I... We broke up."
My eyebrows raise, although the surprise is fully orchestrated. I say, "I am very sorry to hear that."
Rarity nods, avoiding my gaze with her tearful eyes. She raises her cup to her lips and takes a sip. I wait for her to place her cup back onto the saucer, all the while with unfamiliar emotions galloping through my mind and body.
Rarity and Sweetmint had a surprise rendezvous when Rarity moved from Canterlot to Manehattan only a year ago, following the scandal of Sassy Saddles cheating on her with Jet Set. While I have never personally met Sweetmint, Rarity's letters about her sung only praises of the mare. Apparently, they shared many interests to the point of constantly referencing how Sweetmint once went by "Charity" and altered her appearance to look like Rarity. I pick up my own tea cup.
There was never any indication of a problem in their relationship, although I never believed the pair would last. They became an item too soon after the scandal with Sassy– only a few short weeks after. To hide my frown, I take a sip of my tea. It is bitter on my tongue, and my scalp tingles from the flavor.
"I– I do not mean to be insensitive," I say as Rarity places her cup onto its saucer, "nor do I mean to pry too far into private matters, but your breakup with Sweetmint –"
"It was mutual," she says, despondent. I nod. "We just– It just–" Rarity's ears swivel and pin against her head, her eyes squeezing together with anguish. "It– Oh, Fleur, it just wasn't going to work." She exhales, body shaking, a sniffle escaping her. "We tried everything! We went on dates, we shared everything. We talked about everything."
The cup is still in my magic, frozen in the air as her tone rises in pitch, but not volume. The words sound as though they are ripping the lining of her throat, like every syllable is blood leaking from an internal wound. Her head is bowed, but her eyes– which were firmly shut –open in a plea to me.
"What– what did we do wrong?" she asks, voice cracking. Tears leak down her muzzle; the next words are a hoarse whisper: "Why couldn't we keep loving each other?"
Her question from the morning echoes through my mind, the scene playing out clearly as she asked me, in such desperation, how Fancy and I kept our marriage together. How she looked so broken then, how she had put herself back together to work, how she is confiding in me now with emotions so abyssal; her strength knows no bounds.
"Sometimes..." I begin, then stop and shake my head. No. Rarity deserves more than the conditioned response of aristocracy: Sometimes ponies grow apart. She deserves an answer, a concrete reason why a mare such as herself– so strong, bold and confident –could find no permanent love yet in her life.
I reach out over the tea set to touch her shoulder. She drapes her hoof over my fetlock, dead weight, shoulders slumped. She sniffles.
"I don't think you did anything wrong," I say. "Sometimes–" The words catch as she looks up at me. Lines of blue eyeshadow run down her muzzle and cheeks, carried by tears. "Sometimes, life can be unfair."
Her eyes squeeze shut again, and her hoof that was so limply against me flexes, pulling me toward her. A silent sob shakes her small frame, her jaw clenched, my heart aching, tears beginning to claw their way into my own eyes.
She draws a breath, but before another sob can escape her, I move my hoof to her chin, pushing her gaze toward mine. I say, "You're so wonderful, Rarity; perhaps your destiny simply requires patience." My eyes tear up as anguish spreads across her face. "You are so strong, courageous, generous and thoughtful. You deserve the stars."
Before the last words leave my lips, Rarity looked as though she would let out a peal of sorrow, yet those words catch her attention. While her muscles are still taught, her expression relaxes ever-so-slightly and she tilts her face toward me.
"The stars?" she asks.
"Yes."
It is strange to think of her beauty as she stares at me with reddened eyes, her makeup running along the fine white fur of her face and even the translucent spit and snot around her muzzle; even in her sorrow, she exudes beauty. I lift a cloth napkin in my magic from her side of the table and offer it to her; she takes it after it floats between us for a few moments.
"I can't pretend that I know what you're going through," I say, leaning back as she cleans her face. "I have only ever had Fancy; there were never any other options, but, if something happened to us –" I would be devastated.
The words catch in my throat, heavy on my larynx. I feel the urge to cough, as if the phonemes of the phrase are physical, as if they are choking me.
I try again; a syllable croaks past my lips.
I would be devastated.
Wouldn't I?
After so many years, our lives wound together like snake and staff; the destiny granted to us, the easy life we had been handed. Our friendship. Our foal. I would be devastated, wouldn't I?
No.
No, I wouldn't.
Silence escapes me. It envelops us. Rarity stares at me, the napkin held still against the tip of her muzzle in her soft blue magic aura. The facade breaks as my expression contorts beyond my control: lips curling into a frown or a snarl, eyebrows curving downward, jaw tightening as my teeth set, their enamel rough against my tongue.
I remove my hoof from her shoulder, settling back into my seat, hooves carefully placed on the stool. My heartbeat is in my ears.
"If something happened to Fancy, then?" Rarity asks, hushed as the plants around us.
"I would be free." No, that is not exactly right. "Freer."
The air presses down upon us, heavy with the dangerous potential of words. My muscles are locked, frozen; and Rarity... Rarity is staring at me with enough intensity to shatter glass. I cannot look away, even as hoofsteps approach and Rarity picks up the napkin on my side of the table in her magic and uses it to wipe away the moisture clinging to her eyes. In my peripheral, the shadow of Tealove crosses the doorway to our niche, behind the myriad of plants, and she enters.
"I brought some ice cream as well," Tealove says.
"Oh!" Rarity says. "Thank you, Darling! That is so thoughtful of you!"
The muscles in my neck are taught, and feel as though they should rip or tear as I will my head to move against the tension. I relax my face, allowing the easy expression of an aristocrat to settle back upon my countenance as I glance at what Tealove has brought us. In two small, porcelain bowls placed alongside a matching china platter, there are scoops of white ice cream. The scones Rarity ordered are placed on the platter in the middle, with smaller vessels filled with honey on either end. The china does not match the tea set we were given earlier; instead, it is decorated like the shop's menu: white, with blue swallows and vines.
"It seems like you two might have needed it," Tealove says with a chuckle. She looked at me when she spoke, her lavender eyes darting to me in the middle of her sentence, as though she, perhaps, overheard our conversation.
"You know how ladies' brunches sometimes go," Rarity says, adding her own, forced, chuckle as punctuation.
"Is the tea to your liking, Rarity?" Tealove asks. Rarity responds in the affirmative, and Tealove turns to me. "And you, Lady de-Lis?"
I look to my cup. The tea has hardly been touched. I say, "Yes, it is... exquisite. Thank you, Missus Tealove." I smile: an easy, fraudulent expression; judging by Tealove's own smile– her lips stretched just too far –the shock of speaking my avowal aloud must not be as covert as I expected.
"Wonderful," she says. "If you two need anything else, give me a shout!"
"Of course."
"We shall, Darling!"
She leaves us, although her ears swivel back as she turns on her hooves to leave, as if to eavesdrop. What had she heard? I glance back to Rarity, who has taken her ice cream bowl and a dainty silver spoon in her magic. She has already taken a spoonful, and is dipping the spoon back into the dessert. Plants frame the window behind her, blocking the light and obscuring the street; the shadows wrap around her pale body like a shawl.
I grasp my tea in my magic, pulling cup from saucer and taking a long, unladylike gulp of the bitter drink. Notes of liquorice blend with the wormwood bitterness, and something even more bitter bites at the back of my palette. The brew smells medicinal, almost like the cough syrup sold by apothecaries and traveling zebra shamans. I finish the cup, then set it onto its saucer.
"Darling, you need to get this off your chest," Rarity says. I look up at her. She has exchanged her ice cream and spoon for a scone that now floats between us. Her eyebrows pull together and her tone grows deadly serious as she says, "He doesn't hurt you, does he?"
"No!" I say, accompanying the quick retort with a shake of my head. "No, nothing like that." I sigh, levitating the teapot and pouring more hot water into my tea cup before putting it carefully back into its place next to the succulent centerpiece. My chest is heavy, and any appetite that I may have had before leaving my home has completely abandoned my body.
"So what is it?" she asks.
I have already admitted too much whilst taken by the wickedness of my passion. Tealove likely heard my confession, my admittance that I am ungrateful for the life set for me, that I am somehow unfree. I suppose that alone is not entirely scandalous: it is a well-known fact that aristocrats are slaves to an archaic system of laws and traditions, although many common ponies long for the life I live despite their ignorance of its dilemmas; however, even an iota of an idea that marriage makes one "unfree," that I apparently lack love for my husband– that is a scandal.
The remaining ice cream is melting, drowning the swallows painted on the bottom of the bowl. The silver spoon sitting by it has a handle in the shape of a bird's head pointing skyward. Rarity is chewing; refocusing my attention, she has finished her scone. She wipes the crumbs from her muzzle with her napkin after she swallows.
"I know about the aristocratic lifestyle," she says, "but I always thought you and Fancy got along."
"Good," I say. "That is how we should be received. We must uphold perfection, or we must suffer the consequences." I grimace, pressing my front teeth together, and make eye contact with her. "Do not take my previous comment as slander against my husband; I do not dislike Fancy. We do get along."
"So what is the problem, Darling?" She takes a sip of her tea, and picks up another scone in her magic. Her eyes dart to the pastries and she says, "You should have one. They are quite good."
"My apologies, but I believe I've lost my appetite." The sweet scent of the scones is nearly sickening; a pang of nausea passes through my stomach at the thought of putting one in my mouth. I close my eyes and draw in a large breath, relishing in the sensation of my chest expanding with air, and exhale slowly.
Fancy Pants has never been a malicious presence in my life; like all inheritors of an aristocratic title and family name, he was betrothed before ever being conceived. If he was a mare, he would have went to the Crust family, yet he came out a stallion and, upon the second of his birth, was destined to become husband of a de-Lis. As the firstborn mare of my lineage, I happened to be that de-Lis.
We were acquainted while young, and raised in hopes of a friendship fostering between us; after all, friendships make marriage more palatable. Unfortunately, we never beheld the sort of core common interests and values that would have created true friendship; yet, fortunately, we did not dislike each other.
Truthfully, I do not know my husband well. Our one shared interest is botany, although he is interested in the cultivation of plants while I am only interested in their properties. It does lead to "bonding time" when we are in the greenhouse together since he is kind enough to grow my plants, but, otherwise, we have very little in common. He often seems too spontaneous in his decisions; too thoughtless in what he does, yet there is a deep kindness to him that I admire.
I open my eyes to Rarity's patient gaze. I have her attention despite my long moments of silence; that knowledge alone clears up some of the anxious tension in my body, replacing it with a strange feeling of warmth.
"I don't love him," I say, making sure to keep my tone down in case eavesdroppers were lurking beyond our doorway. "I suppose that is no reason to be dramatic, though. Many marriages are not for 'love,' but for a multitude of other reasons."
One of Rarity's eyebrows raises, the other drawing down. She takes a sip of her tea, then daintily places it upon its saucer. She says, "Fleur, Darling, that just isn't true."
"What do you mean?"
"Outside of the aristocracy, ponies marry exclusively for love. It isn't exactly the political or familial or whatever –" she twirls her hoof as she lists these "– statement that it once was. Perhaps other creatures follow the same archaic rules as you aristocrats, but," she pauses, making eye contact, "I would never marry a pony I did not love."
I hold her gaze, mulling over what she said, then I levitate my cup to my lips, taking a sip of tea. The flavor is more dilute with its second steeping, and the medicinal scent of the drink has diminished to smelling more of something akin to swamp water.
"Have you ever loved anypony, Fleur?" Rarity asks. Her question comes from nowhere, and my head jerks back as if being struck.
The sky hung dark overhead, bountiful with stars. The Mare in the Moon had her eye upon us: two unicorns lying together on the side of a Canterlot cliff. We were shielded from the city, a short climb down the cliffs to our secluded spot.
I looked at her, and she looked at me. Her hoof pushed a hair from my face and brushed against the soft skin around my horn.
"What's on your mind?" Blossom asked.
"I am promised to a stallion," I said, "but the idea of him being the first and only to kiss me, when I know I will not be attracted to him– it is... awful. I do not wish to go my whole life without knowing such intimacy from a mare."
"Kiss me, then."
I am left with the memory of Blossom Delight's soft lips and vanilla-scented mane.
"Yes," I say, still partially lost in the memory of that starry high school night. I sip my tea, and the bitterness draws me briefly from my reverie. "Her name was Blossom Delight."
"Her?" Rarity says, her voice shrill, eyebrows raised. "Oh, oh my Celestia, Fleur. I– Do you... even like stallions that way, then?"
It is a question that I have pondered for years, but feel I always have known the answer to without needing to think. Despite myself, I shake my head. Rarity's eyes widen and her hoof goes to her mouth. The scone in her magic drops to the table as her aura winks out.
"I– Darling, I'm so sorry," she says. "I couldn't... imagine."
Silence envelops us again. I finish my tea, then my eyes land on the ice cream again. A large portion of it has melted.
"Fifteen years," Rarity mumbles. She inhales so loudly that I glance up from the bowls to see that her posture has completely changed. Her back is straight, chin tilted upward, her lips drawn firm.
"You have to do something about this," she says. "It isn't right."
"There's nothing I can do, Rarity," I say.
"Well, I can do something." She is so determined, the righteousness she feels exuding from the way she is holding herself. "I can make Twilight make the aristocrats make it legal. I can ask Twilight to get you a divorce!" She leans forward, placing a hoof on the table. "Just because it's tradition doesn't mean it is right."
She is correct, of course; the rigorous traditions of the aristocracy have done nothing but harm me, yet... yet without our way of life, how the tribal unicorns lived before the unification of Equestria would be left to history books. I shake my head at her statements, taking the ice cream spoon in my magic and twirling it in the air a few inches above the table.
"That would cause much more trouble than it is worth," I say. "Unfortunately, the ancient tradition of unicorns is only upheld by aristocrats; our families carry the burden of pre-Equestrian knowledge of our culture. To dismantle it because of one... one unhappy lesbian, well..." I shake my head again, letting out a sound like a laugh. "It wouldn't be fair." I look up at her, and see she is about to say something more. Before she does, I say, "I am not the first to struggle, nor will I be the last. I am responsible for a burden that must be borne, even if I did not ask for it."
"Can't it be changed?" she asks. "You can still plan a foal's marriage their whole life and ask their sexuality when they're old enough, give them a betrothal then!"
"Fancy and I actually devised a whole system," I say with a chuckle. "Of course, it is too late for us, but we have kept Lin's betrothal options flexible in case she should be in the same predicament as myself."
"Darling, it isn't too late for you."
"But it is."
Even though I long for the autumn-kissed hills of the countryside, living in a small home which I must clean myself, speaking to other ponies under a noon sky, it is too late for me. I was not a good mother to Lacis when she was a foal, and she has suffered for it; if she decides she does not want to carry on the family name, then I need to remain as the matriarch until we can find a family member who is willing. Divorce would immediately compromise Lacis's ability to make a decision for herself, and she would have to step in as the de-Lis matriarch.
Yet the cold halls of home, the repetitive life, the same steps over and over, the melancholy, the sunrises: the same, the same, the same... I close my eyes again as they begin to burn, threatening tears.
"Come now," Rarity says, "you always have time in life to change, and sometimes change hurts." I know she's clenching her teeth, holding back her own tears, without looking– it's in her voice, that same raw tone she had when discussing Sweetmint.
She's thinking about her. About how much she loves her, how their relationship fell apart, how they couldn't love each other the right way.
And here I am, nothing to remember but a teenage night under the stars with a mare that smelled like fresh vanilla beans. The fulfillment of that night, when Blossom kissed me, there has been nothing else in my life to match it. No other accomplishment in my life touched me in the same way that kiss made my heart stir and pulse race.
I could throw it all away, this life of extravagance. It would be as easy as divorcing Fancy, announcing my sinful desires and walking away from Canterlot. While it would leave Fancy and Lacis in the wake of familial troubles, they would not be my own. Lacis could always say no. I don't need to be there for her to do that.
She is strong. She can take outside pressure. I could write a note for her.
"Celestia, it's so selfish," I say, mostly to myself.
"Sometimes, we need to be selfish."
Perhaps when an Element of Harmony gives personal advice, it is wise to take her advice. Rarity is the personification of generosity, though, not love, not familial affection, yet my life has been so unfulfilled, so... unhappy. It's tempting to take her advice.
I place the silver bird spoon back onto the table, next to the bowl of melted ice cream. One scone remains between us, and my stomach is still repulsed by any passing thought of sweets or, even, consumption of foodstuffs. It is regrettable; the scone looks delightful.
"I have another appointment soon," Rarity says. "I don't mean to leave in the middle of our conversation, but..." Her expression is skewed, apologetic.
"Rarity, your company has been wonderful and very welcome," I say. "Your business matters are very important; I am sure we can continue this when you come to work on my dress in the future."
"Yes! Of course, Darling. I'll be by tomorrow morning to work on the tailoring. I will need you there."
I nod, and step down from my stool. Rarity does the same, then crosses the distance between us, pulling me into a tight embrace. The muscles on her short legs are like stone against my skin, and weigh my neck down to her height; her warmth against me is so brief and fulfilling that I momentarily lose breath. Before I can properly react to the gesture, she steps away.
"Tomorrow morning, then," she says, then winks at me.
"Yes," I reply after a pause. She grins, then I follow her out to the main lobby of the shop. At the counter, she demands that she pay for brunch, and despite my protests, she dumps enough bits on the counter to pay for the meal before trotting out of the store saying that she is late for her next appointment. Tealove and I stare down at the bits, then laugh together.
"Element of Generosity and all," Tealove says as she scoops the bits into her hoof. I shake my head, feigning annoyance poorly, as a smile is still upon my lips. I pull my own coinpurse from its place in my shirt and place enough bits on the counter to cover the bill.
"Consider this a tip, then," I say.
"Oh! You don't need to do that, Lady de-Lis!"
"No, I want to," I assure her. "I very much enjoyed your wormwood brew. If I may, did you concoct it yourself or outsource it?"
"Well, thank you!" She sets my bits aside, then turns her head to look at the kitchen behind her. "My wife made that particular tea; she's into the whole herbal medicine thing, if you couldn't tell by the plants everywhere." Despite Tealove's sour expression regarding her wife's plants, I can't help but let out a good-natured, polite giggle.
"Give her my thanks and praise! I would very much be interested in purchasing some of the raw product if she is willing to sell it."
"She's actually here right now, let me get her."
I am ready to tell her that it is unnecessary to fetch her wife, but Tealove is turned around by the time she is done speaking her sentence and disappears behind a wall to my right. A few moments later, she returns with a green earth pony slowly walking behind her. The mare's orange mane and tail are wound tight into thick dreadlocks, and a spotted bandana is wrapped around her head.
Her heavily lidded eyes turn toward me; their scleras are pink.
"Your aura is, like, all out-of-whack, Lady," she says. Her voice is heavy and slow like molasses. My eyes dart to Tealove, who pointedly ignores me and waves to a customer who just walked in.
Tealove's wife walks around the counter, her hoofsteps slow as she creeps toward me. A strange, musty smell hangs about her, and she motions at me to walk with her to the far corner of the room. I follow behind her, finding it difficult to step slowly enough to comfortably keep pace with her. A table and chairs is nestled in the corner by the window, surrounded by a myriad of plants.
She pulls herself into a chair with tortoise-like dexterity, and I seat myself across from her.
"So you like my tea, yeah?" she asks.
"Yes," I say. "It is quite exquisite. I would love–"
"You need some, hmm..." She squints while she pauses, an incredible feat with eyes as tired as hers. "Ah. I see."
I don't know how to respond. She smiles at me, and one of her eyes droops closed.
"So, like, here's the thing, man, you can't just, like, run from your sh–" She cuts herself off mid-profanity with a cough. "Excuse me there, Lady. Anyway, you can't just, like, run from your... problems, y'know? The tea– you like it because it's bitter or whatever, yeah?"
"Of course. I prefer bitter flavors when it comes to my tea."
"Man... I'unno what to tell you, but, look, nopony likes bitter anything, you got me? That tea is all about mental clarity, man, supposed to soothe your soul and mind, y'know, open up your energy flow to a new frame of mind."
A deep-set concern, set within my churning stomach, is mounting toward what may have actually been in the tea provided by this madmare.
"Tea is just, like, a way to see somepony– somecreature, you know? You can tell so much about somepony from what they consume, 'cause you are what you eat... what you drink." She chuckles; it sounds drunken. "Your life isn't where it's supposed to be, is it?"
"W-what?"
"Oh, yeah, that's right– it's okay. Ya nobles can't talk about it; s'why all your chakras are bleeding black. You all look like you got problems leaking outta your eyes." She shakes her head; her knotted hair sways like rope. "It's totally cool to, like, do what makes you happy, you know? No need to, like, be a slave to tradition or whatever." She raises a hoof to her chin. "But I guess that's what the aristocracy is. Whoa."
She stares off into space, beyond me, and I feel nearly overtaken by the primal urge to flee the restaurant; however, whatever point she is trying to articulate feels like it may be on the horizon. I attempt to still my wild heartbeat by regulating my breathing, and shift my gaze from Tealove's starry-eyed wife to the tree growing in a planter by the window.
"So did you wanna buy some of the tea?" she asks.
At this point, I am not convinced she is actually peddling tea. I smile politely at her nonetheless and open my mouth to answer, but she waves a hoof dismissively at me.
"No, man, the answer's, 'no,' right? Like, you don't need to keep, fu– uhh... gallopin' away from your problems. I'm not gonna give you any tea, de-Lis, you don't need that, but I got somethin' for ya, alright?"
This mare has placed me in a space beyond words. I wrack my mind, attempting to find a polite escape, going so far as to turn in my chair to look to Tealove. Unfortunately, the mare is busy with her customers.
Tealove's wife puts something on the table, her hoof loud enough to make me jump. I look back to her, then down at the table. A brown paper envelope, small and square, is sealed shut with a wax seal of the mare's cutie mark: a tree with a heart-shaped canopy of leaves.
"So this stuff is, like, so far-out, man," she says. "So, you'll totally get the clarity you need. I had Doctor Pie source the gemstones, what a choice cat, and yours truly made sure that they had the right energy. I think it'll help set you straight, yeah." She laughs, a sound like a pig, and says, "Not like that. Like. Energy." She pauses. "Energy-straight."
What did Tealove overhear? I glance down at the bag provided by the terrifying mare. I could always throw it out once I arrived home; I do not believe any authority would charge me with possession of whatever drug is certainly contained beyond the wax seal. I do not believe, even for a moment, that this mare is giving me innocent rocks.
"That is lovely, thank you," I say after a very long lull in our conversation. I take the envelope in my magic and pull it toward me. When it is in the middle of the table, the mare puts her hoof down on it, and opens her eyes wider than I have seen them open.
"Seriously, your aura," she says, enunciating every word more carefully than before, "it's bad. You need to make some changes, okay? I'm, like, worried."
"Of course, Missus...?"
"Tree Hugger," she says. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
"Far out."
Tree Hugger laughs in her lethargic way, then tips back in her seat, simultaneously relaxed and stiff. She gives me a sideways grin, then waves me off. I pick up her mystery envelope and carefully stash it inside my shirt, hoping that I will make it home without anypony being alerted to whatever illicit substances it contains. Tree Hugger settles into a catatonic stare, and I take that as my queue to leave. Tealove is nowhere to be seen, so I trot out of the store without saying any other farewells.
I keep my head down as I travel back up the main road to my home, both due to Tree Hugger's gift as well as a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Before today, I rarely questioned my abilities to hide my true feelings, yet I bared myself before Rarity– naked as a freshly born foal –and Tree Hugger had dissected my problems even in her dazed state. While Tree Hugger may have just learned from Tealove, the odds of the jack-of-all-trades shopkeep standing by just to listen to mine and Rarity's conversation was unlikely.
How much do others really know about me? My whole life is constantly on display. Is my struggle a part of the spectacle?
I stop mid-stride near my street and stare up at the sky, watching pegasi and other creatures cross below the clouds. At least, for now, nothing is falling apart.
How much parchment do I waste? Dozens of ruined, delicate skins were tossed to the side, tattooed with false laments from my vile ink and quill.
“Is everything alright, Missus?”
After brunch with Rarity, I am not sure it is anymore. There isn’t an ease to the metamorphosis that must overcome me to speak with Ivory; I feel as a changeling feels when pulling at its shape while I contort the worry and tension from my brow and yank the corners of my mouth into their correct position. It is like being a foal again, one learning to “be at ease” — that was what Mother always called it: at ease.
“This whole affair is quite stressful,” I say, perhaps a little too frankly — my voice, it appears, has yet to molt from its chrysalis. Ivory frowns and her hooves tip-tap against the marble, a nervous habit of hers, tapping her hooves. When we first hired her, she crossed her front legs like a newborn foal; the trait evolved to the more-subtle tip-tap of hooves, much like hail against a window pane in a storm, after coaching from Fancy. Both habits were unbecoming of a hoofservant to aristocracy, though I found them mundane.
No. Charming.
There is something quietly pensive about “mundane” that is untoward; it simply doesn’t fit Ivory nor her habits. The long-gone criss-crossed foal stance and new hoof tapping was charming, not mundane.
Ivory has always been charming. Quaint. Pretty. Perhaps it is what endeared her to me. Absent her lilac-colored uniform, as-so designed by Rarity, I do not believe I would recognize the dun-coated mare. I know her pink mane and tail cascade in delicate waves to the floor when not pinned into an elaborate style, though she is rarely allowed to wear her hair natural — servants have always been treated like champion hounds to show off, and unstyled hair was unbecoming, just as Ivory’s nervous habits. She’s imperfect, as all creatures, and her show of imperfection has always been endearing.
I am staring. Ivory is on the brink of tears, I can tell by her warbling lower lip; her façade has always been of rubble, should it exist at all.
“I apologize,” I say, stepping from my chair and crossing the room to my hoofmaiden. “I did not mean to be so crass, Miss Ivory. My anger is not directed at you…” I pause in speech and step near Ivory to study her expression further. Her eyelids are pinkish past her thick, black eyelashes; past them, her eyes are glassy. “Is everything alright?”
She feigns a smile and nods. Rarely does she disclose personal problems onto others, a trait that I loathe currently.
“Fancy didn’t say anything to you, did he?” I ask.
Ivory shakes her head and immediately says, “No! No, of course not, Missus!” Her eyes shift down to the side — lying. “I just heard a sad story, that’s all.” She looks back at me, smiling again, her doll-like eyes — opalescent in the evening light — are unwavering; her lie is only partial. “I cannot imagine how stressful it is to put fifteen whole years of your love into vows! And all the planning alone — I get stressed out trying to help plan birthday parties.”
Love. The word is visceral, hot like a deathly fever in my veins and my cheeks. I feel my face contorting again against my will. My earlier conversation with Rarity flashes in moments, a fluttering heartbeat of a terminal victim of something vile named much too casually. Fifteen years.
Fifteen years.
My eyes sting. Ivory’s hooves still, then, delayed, her eyes widen and her ears pin back. Her mouth opens, and she trips over words, phrases, trying to correct what she must believe is her mistake: “I didn’t…” “Missus!” “I’m sorry!” “I thought…”
I take a deep breath, trying to soothe away that confusing flame of virulent anger and brittle hope, to become, once again, at ease. I reach out a hoof and touch Ivory’s shoulder; she quiets, and I notice tears running down her face.
“It isn’t your fault,” I say; I am trying to stay calm, though my lips wish to frown and my own eyes threaten to water. “I am so very sorry to have upset you, Miss Ivory. And I can only imagine how distressing a story it is you must have heard, only to come here to see me in such a state.” I step back, removing my hoof from Ivory’s shoulder; she wipes at her eyes. “It is admittedly difficult to handle so much with grace. You are correct that it is hard to put fifteen years into words.”
She smiles, quick, dimples forming and dissipating in a fraction-second’s glance, and turns her head away, hiding her face with her hoof as she sniffles. My jaw tightens, pushing my teeth together as a tectonic force, and I, too, glance away, staring into the sky past the windows. The sun, burnished orange, shines through a hole in dark clouds it tints in warm hues; deeply opaque clouds obscuring the valley below are not so painted by the sun’s light, their tops instead angry and casting wicked shadows in their recesses. Pinprick silhouettes, fully black against the clouds, are evidence of pegasi watching over the manufactured storm.
My chest is tight — not from the storms that may or may not come — but, instead from Ivory’s reaction to me. Had I been that shrewd?
“I’m sorry,” I say as a thin cloud passes over the sun, bathing us both in a strange, half-orange shadow. My voice is soft, earnest for once. I only move my eyes to glance in her direction when I hear her hoof touch the ground; she has an eyebrow drawn down, ears forward, her head cocked, but no light glitters off her face — she’s fully wiped her tears. It is hard to know what I am apologizing for; I feel as though there are too many “sorry'”s" to be uttered, yet I do not know which ones apply to Ivory. What had my face looked like to distress her so? Was it my voice? My words?
Again, my teeth clench. I feel short-of-breath at the thought of turning back toward her, so, instead, I avert my gaze to the marble beneath my hooves. The weight of my mane guides my head downward; my scalp tingles as the hairs touch the floor. The delicate gray veins of the stone are small rivers that shimmer into golden life when the sun shines bright upon us again.
“When I was a foal,” Ivory said, steady again, though perhaps wavering in her tone, “my mother used to tell me that it was always good to eat when I started to get frustrated with something. Or, uh, step away from it, but I believe your brunch with Miss Rarity was the last time you ate today, yes?”
I did not eat, though “brunch” certainly implied the action. Against the anxiety that felt so paralyzing, I finally turned toward her and nodded.
“Right! Well, maybe Mama’s advice will help you out some? Dinner is ready; Miss Lacis and Mister Fancy are already seated.”
Dinnertime already? My eyebrows raise along with my head — I am settling back into ease. I frown, this one, purposeful, and then look back to Ivory, basked in the sunset that tints her like marigold watercolor, and say, “Your mother sounds like a very wise mare.”
“She is!” Ivory’s response is so cheerful, I feel something crawling along my spine — a wish, perhaps, to feel so cheerful of my own mother? Despite the creeping corruption that wishes to overtake my features, I smile at her.
“The time has been passing so quickly these days… Thank you for notifying me of dinner. If you would, please let Fancy and Lacis know I will be arriving momentarily; they may begin the meal without me if they would like and have not already,” they almost certainly have, as my tardiness typically leaves me dining alone, “and you may take your evening early if you wish.”
“Of course, Missus,” Ivory says with a curtsy, seeing herself out quietly. As the door clicks into place, I raise my head to the sunlight, watching as my shadow — stretched across the room — waxes and wanes as clouds are carefully curated by weather workers. There is a warbling at the back of my mind, a sort of instability, a disharmonic chord at the base of my skull. I move into the lavatory to wash the faint, gray ink from the bottoms of my forehooves; they grate together under the tap, rough even with the soap. The psychic unsteadiness forces the conversation between Ivory and me to repeat itself, interspersed over reality. The water rushing over my hooves is the sound of a mother hushing its foal, washing over me as the interaction plays along that warbling back-of-the-mind line — Ivory never accepted my apology. I cannot fault her: it had been wholly inadequate.
I should not care what my hoofmaiden thinks of me. She is doing her job, and I am doing mine — it’s a business transaction. We are not friends, nor are we even necessarily well-acquainted, but Ivory is deserving of much better treatment. I will be sure to ask her what I did that offended her so in order to properly apologize. Perhaps it was that simple display of emotion that was upsetting. If that is the case, I am glad she will not be present for supper.
I wipe my hooves on a towel and make my way to the dining hall. The vaulted hallways of the de-Lis manor echo my hoofsteps like raindrops, and portraits of ancestors are watchful as I walk. All of the matriarchs are tall, slender unicorns with pink or purple manes, bred to uphold the family name and traditional unicorn values; husbands gaze past their paintings with hollow eyes, detail of their lives lost in the shadow of their de-Lis wives. Ahead, faintly, Fancy and Lacis’s voices are whispers that come into focus.
“—Princess Twilight Sparkle at the next meet?” Fancy’s voice carries up the staircase from the dining hall. I tread as lightly as my hooves allow; my ears strain toward the conversation.
“Yes!” I rarely heard Lacis so excited; it brings me pause as her youthful joy fills the air. “We think she’ll be judging, but we’re not sure. We’re all invited to a lunch with her afterward, even if we lose.” There’s a pause. “And, whoever wins will be representing Equestria internationally at Mount Metazoa!” Fancy must be clapping his hooves together. I round the corner, but stop before entering the room.
“That is awesome, Sweetie!” Fancy reaches a feathered hoof across the table to Lacis. Both are smiling. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to crush the competition.”
Lacis has the same frail frame as I do, though her father is more stout and portly. She has her light purple mane in a shaggy bun and is wearing a baggy, dark t-shirt — it looks like her sleepwear. Neither is paying attention to my doorway. Lacis tilts her whole body when she is happy, and she is currently sitting at a steep slant.
“Good evening,” I say, finally entering the room. The smiles fall from Fancy and Lacis’s faces, and they both straighten. Lacis’s happy slouch suddenly rights into rigid, proper posture. “I apologize for being late. How was your day, Lacis?”
Any warmth that still remained seems to be drained from the room at the question. Fancy and Lacis share a look — cryptic; their eyes just meet, and Fancy’s mouth twitches — as I settle into my seat at the head of the table. Fancy narrows his eyes at me. Lacis is stoic. Did I miss something?
“It was good,” she finally says. She doesn’t make eye contact with me.
“That is lovely to hear,” I say.
“I missed you at Lacis’s debate meet today, Fleur,” Fancy says. “She won.”
So, I did miss something. Cold creeps into my limbs — I’ve always been absentee. I turn to Lacis with one of her grandmother’s at ease smiles, “I am so happy to hear that. I am sorry I was not able to make it to your meet; I have been working tirelessly on mine and your father’s vow renewal ceremony.” Silence. They do not look at me. I take a polite bite of bread and sip at my wine. “It is a lot of work—” Lacis places her hooves on the table, and I stop.
“Your hoofmaidens take care of the hard work for you,” she says, finally making eye contact; the intensity of her gaze holds me in place, “but I didn’t expect you to show up anyway, Mom.” Lacis stands from the table. “I’m going to my room.” As she walks out, one of the hoofservants along the back wall follows her.
The outburst is not unexpected, though I am surprised that the dull chill – hollow in my chest – does not stir nor change: I am unaffected by my daughter's outrage. It is an integral thread in the cloth of my life; I am not sure when Lacis's anger toward me stopped being as effective as it was when she was a foal.
“You really should be more careful with her,” Fancy says once her hoofsteps are distant. His voice is laced with the actual malice toward me that he felt, dark and rumbling, though the polite words were carefully chosen per our audience of hoofservants.
“I know. Admittedly,” I say, head down, “I forgot about the whole thing.” Truthfully, I never held the knowledge that Lacis had an extracurricular activity to attend – matters involving our daughter have always been delegated to Fancy. My presence has never been called upon nor necessary.
“She really is an accomplished young mare.” He swirls a wine glass in his magic before very pointedly looking at me. “You must be proud to be her mother.”
“Of course." My answer is swift, for our audience, though I am sure to give Fancy as sharp of a glance as he dealt me. "I need to be more mindful of her schedule. High school seems so far away these days; I often forget what it was like.”
Fancy makes an affirmative sound, then we lapse back into silence as I pick away at the morsels on my plate. It is no surprise that Lacis knows about the inner workings of my “labor” — she has, after all, been taught the role of a de-Lis matriarch and its inner workings since her youth — and, though her words should sting, I feel naught a pinprick. Something else is weighing far heavier on my mind.
“Can we talk in the garden after supper?” I ask. The garden is a place where we can speak candidly between ourselves. Some conversations are meant only for our ears.
He finishes off his glass of wine before replying, “Of course, my love.”
We sit in silence for the rest of our meal, and walk, together, to the glass doors to the garden. He opens one side with his magic and gestures for me to go inside. Humidity settles into my nose and lungs as I step into the dark room, flanked on either side by lush plants. Fancy closes the door behind us as we walk to the fountain in the center of the garden; above us, the glass ceiling stares only up at the dark gray undersides of stratus clouds plucked by pegasi from altitudes below. The fountain is both simple and ornate; it showcases the de-Lis lily — like the ones on my flank — spouting water from three points. It trickles down the stone, dark under these dusk clouds, and the water disappears somewhere into the garden.
“I know you called this,” Fancy says as he comes to stand on the side of the fountain opposite me, “but would it kill you to pretend like you care about Lacis?”
“What?” I shake my head, my eyebrows wrinkling together. “I do care about her.”
“You don’t show it, Fleur. When I came to get you to come to her debate meet, Ivory told me you weren’t to be disturbed. Is it really that hard to be an active parent?”
This was a conversation we had many times before. I need to care more for Lacis, as if the agony she endured as a foal with an absentee mother can be undone in her adolescence. I say, “I try, Fancy. I do not know what else can be done.”
“Do you need an instruction manual?” He looks up to the glass, to the clouds, and sighs as the first rain falls onto the panes above us. “Is it so hard to have your extramarital affairs outside of our daughter’s school events?”
“Are you—? Ivory and me?” He does not answer. The trickling fountain and tip-tap of rain fills the heavy air. Frustration leeches into my voice: “By Celestia, Fancy! She is a simple hoofmaiden! Your lifestyle is not mine.”
“My lifestyle?” Fancy enunciated his words like knives. He steps around the fountain to me, then glares up and directly into my eyes. “You know there is nothing you can do for me, and I keep my — Celestia, what would you say? Concubines? — to my time.”
“Need I remind you that you only have a home here due to our parents’ arrangement?” I don’t lower my head to his level, but keep eyes locked with him nonetheless. “You have bits to spend on your mares —” the lowering of my language caught his attention; his eyes narrowed with renewed anger “— because of me. Everything you have is due to your allegiance to the de-Lis family. It is best not to forget your place in this.”
“My place—?” He trails off, mouth open, and rolls his eyes in the way he had at the dinner table — so overdramatic, overacted. He turns and walks into a corner of the garden, but not toward the entrance. When he needs space during our talks, he does this, ambling into the poisonous flowers and, eventually, back to me.
The rain turned to a deluge upon the glass, clear ribbons of water passing over the glass, highlighted by our outdoor lighting. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He returns as a spark of lightning lights up the room; the panes rattle with the thunder. He steps up to me, then places a hoof on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
The simple phrase unbarred a part of my mind I had kept so carefully dammed. The tears are spontaneous. My head bows as I feel the weight of my mane for what feels like the first time, pulling me harshly toward the ground. My neck feels like it might snap under all the weight.
“No,” I say. “I—” I breathe, pulling against the weight of my hair, forcing myself back upright. “I am sorry I insinuated I am the only factor to your success.”
“That isn’t what you want to say,” he says.
The words are in my throat, slimy on my tongue, caught like mucus in my larynx. All at once, they come:
“I want a divorce.”
Author's Note
big thanks to Reba_McIntosh for helping with the editing of this chapter!
