We Sing Cover Songs

by GaPJaxie

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rarity, Changelings, Slice of Life
Length: 8749

The changeling who impersonated Rarity during To Where and Back Again returns to Ponyville to say she's sorry.

The changeling who impersonated Rarity during To Where and Back Again returns to Ponyville to say she's sorry.

A speedwriting exercise. Unedited.

Published 2021-11-01 00:30:03 UTC
Last updated 2021-11-06 18:25:23 UTC

Chapter 1

Late one fall afternoon, there came a knock at Rarity’s door. Tugging aside the blinds of her second-story office window, she spied down to the street below and saw a unicorn standing by her door with a dress box hovering beside them. For a moment, she wondered if she had forgotten to affix that sign which she hung on her door on weekends, whose text unambiguously read “Closed Until Monday, 8 AM.” But upon pondering the matter, she decided that that sign was likely indeed in its proper place, and that it could therefore provide her answer on her behalf.

All of which was to say, she shut her blinds again and ignored the caller.

Yet, their knock came again, then again, then a third time with no loss of exuberance, and Rarity came to the reluctant conclusion that this pony was one of her particularly determined customers. Exceptionally determined clients could earn a smile or a scowl, depending on their willingness to pay her exorbitant weekend rate, but smiles were less common, and even the most generous patron was not truly welcome on the weekend. Rarity, after all, needed time to herself.

Nonetheless, she went downstairs. She cracked the door, enough to see the pony on the other side and enough to make them feel unwelcome. “We are closed until Monday,” she said.

On one occasion, Twilight had made fun of her for that. The implication was of course that Rarity had assistants because what distinguished storeowner does not, but as she did not employ anypony at her Ponyville boutique, her use of the word was technically the royal “we.”

At the time, Rarity has replied to Twilight, “We are not amused.” Which got a round of laughs.

She had time for these reflections, as the pony waiting outside her door appeared frozen to the spot: unmoving, unblinking, like a statue. She was a mare, grey coat, green mane, a cutie mark with ladybugs or something like that. Visually, she was without distinction; perhaps cute, perhaps sweet, but only in that way that all ponies are, and entirely forgettable.

“Hello?” Rarity finally asked, tone curt, and the mare snapped from her reverie.

“Um. Hi,” she says, voice soft and dry, like the sound of dust being swept across a stone floor. “I’m sorry. I’m not a customer. I’m here to see you. I’m a changeling, and I fought in the Battle of Canterlot and a few other places. We’ve met before. And, and I wanted to talk about it. And say I was sorry.” After a moment, she appended. “If you’re free. It doesn’t have to be now. Or ever. I’ll go away if you want.”

Put rather on the spot, Rarity needed several moments to consider her answer. During that time, she watched the mare or changeling in front of her shift uncomfortably, moving their weight from one hoof to the next, and turning their gaze anywhere except to Rarity’s face.

“Is there a reason,” she asked, “you are disguised?”

“Habit,” the mare said. “I’m not comfortable being among groups of ponies as myself. And I think ponies still aren’t used to seeing changelings around. We don’t get, you know. Ponies are friendly, I mean. It’s not like I’m worried about getting run out of town. But I get a lot of attention and I don’t always want that attention.”

She did not change into some other form. And after a moment, Rarity relented. “Well, you had better come in then, shouldn’t you? Please, take a seat in the front room. I’ll make us some tea.”

Rarity’s as-yet-unnamed guest did as she was instructed, taking a seat and placing the dress box to the side of the table. She sat silently as Rarity lit a flame off her horn, staring down at the table and not making eye contact. Each waited for the other to speak until the stillness became oppressive.

Rarity’s unicorn magic produced a flame hotter than any common stove. The water boiled quickly. “Water’s ready,” Rarity said, “would you be a dear and get the nice teacups for me please?”

The mare at the table flinched like she’d been stung, and a laugh escaped her though it was an anxious and quiet sound. But she did as she was bid, and without further questions, she trotted into the back room, and thereafter to Rarity’s kitchen, opened the correct cabinet, and returned with Rarity’s good teaset, set up the way she preferred.

“The Battle of Canterlot indeed,” Rarity said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Do you prefer tea or boiled water?”

“Boiled water, please,” the changeling replied, eyes still on the table. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t know how to say… I mean. I did actually fight in the Battle of Canterlot. That’s true. It’s not why I’m here, but I didn’t know how to break the ice. You’re very clever. You know?”

“Thank you.” Rarity poured her guest a cup of hot water, while she filled the teapot for herself, adding something herbal and minty. “May I take it then, that you are the changeling who kidnapped and replaced me during Queen Chrysalis’s second return to power? Before Starlight and the reformation and all that.”

“I’m the changeling who replaced you.” She levitated her cup over to herself but left it to cool. It was very nearly boiling after all. “There was a team of three who kidnapped you. I wasn’t one of them.” Before Rarity could speak again, the changeling said, voice stiff, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know… I…”

“Dear,” Rarity reached across the gap between them and gently touched her guest’s shoulder until their head rose. “I won’t say ‘it’s okay,’ because it is not. But I do believe you are genuine in your regret, and it does not make me feel any better to see you punish yourself. You said you wanted to apologize and to talk about it. You’ve apologized. Let’s talk about it. Tell me your name.”

“I’m Novelty,” the changeling said. “And I know, that’s not a changeling name. My old name was Poison Sting. But after the changelings reformed, I didn’t… like, that. It didn’t feel like a good name. So I changed it.”

“Novelty?” Rarity asked, speaking slowly. “Am I correct in assuming that’s… let’s say an homage?”

“Yeah.” Novelty nodded once. “I um… I had to study you for four years. Because Chrysalis thought I was going to have to impersonate you indefinitely. That meant I needed to be able to pass as you to people who knew you well. To your parents, and Sweetie Belle, and old customers. I needed to know my way around your house, how you talk and act, what jokes you’ll tell in private but not in public. So we…”

She tapped the table twice with a hoof in quick succession. “We, um. Recorded your private conversations, stole your diary, read all your correspondence. I don’t know if you know changelings can turn into objects, but um… do you remember that panel in the upstairs hall that was ‘wiggly’? Sometimes it stuck out, and sometimes it seemed recessed into the wall? It was always recessed, I could just turn into an identical panel of the same size, fit into the recession, and listen in on what you were doing.”

“Ah.” Rarity’s eyes went up to the ceiling for a moment, but she forced them back down. She kept her eyes on Novelty, even if Novelty could not keep her own head up. “And I suppose you also listened in on those most private moments. My liaison with Thunderlane, the nights I cried, my use of the ladies’ room, all that?”

Novelty nodded. “Your secrets are safe with me. Forever. I won’t tell a soul. And we destroyed all the old recordings and notes. Nothing is written down.”

“Well. Good.” Rarity picked up her teacup and blew over the top, taking the excuse to pause before she spoke. “I confess, I already suspected that something like that was true. While you may have failed to deceive Starlight, you did fool nearly everypony else, including several ponies with whom I share private connections, in-jokes or the like. Thunderlane said… in his words, ‘the other Rarity’ shared our private joke about how his tail looks. At which point I realized I had very little privacy left.”

When Rarity returned her teacup to the table, it hit harder than it should. It clattered against the saucer, and tea spilled out onto the table. “I suppose it’s good to get confirmation.”

Novelty began to speak, but Rarity cut her off with a sharp: “Don’t say you’re sorry again. I know you’re sorry. I accept your apology. I’m not mad; I’m upset. It’s different.”

“I would, um.” Novelty took a breath. “I’m living in Ponyville now. With a few other changelings. We’re renting the rooms over the bowling alley. If you ever want to talk about this again, you can go find me there. Or we can never talk about this again, and I promise, I’ll take all your secrets to my grave.”

“You’re leaving already?” Rarity’s tone kept its edge. “What is this? A hit-and-run confession? The tea isn’t even cold yet.”

“I mean, I don’t have to. If you want me to stay,” Novelty said, rubbing one leg over the other. “But you’re um… upset. I’m just offering to give you your space. If you want to think about things first. Or if… I don’t know. Maybe that was stupid to say. I can stay.”

Rarity held her counterpart with a glare for a long moment, but in the end she relented, and her gaze softened. “I’m actually not mad, you know,” she said, and Novelty nodded. “But you’ve given me a lot to think about and…” Rarity struggled. “While I may believe you’re sorry, naming yourself after me gives the whole thing an um… well. An unhealthy aura, doesn’t it?”

Novelty said nothing and continued to stare at the table, with only the barest glances at Rarity. Finally, Rarity said: “Maybe you’re right, and we should discuss this later. When I know what I want to ask. And what questions I’d rather not know the answers to.”

“Okay.” Novelty rose from the table, her teacup full of water still untouched. She lifted the dress box from where she had left it, and offered it over to Rarity. “Before I go, I wanted you to have this. To pretend to be a dressmaker, I had to, I mean. I had to make dresses. Obviously. So I studied. I um… I don’t need it or want it. Changelings don’t wear clothes. And I won’t be the least offended if you want to throw it away. Get rid of the memories. But it’s based on your work, and I can’t think of any creature that deserves it more than you.”

“Thank you,” Rarity took the box in her telekinetic grip. “I will open it later.”

Novelty accepted the rebuke for what it was and bowed her head -- which, given where her gaze had been for the whole conversation, involved looking at Rarity somewhat more than previously -- and left.

With her guest’s departure, Rarity decided that four in the afternoon was not too early to pour herself a glass of wine, and having done so she departed to see her friends. Twilight and the others could tell Rarity was disquieted and were to degrees troubled by her refusal to explain why, but Rarity told them that no matter the source of her inequities, being with her friends always made her feel better.

And it did.

When she returned home late that evening, Rarity felt somewhat herself again. She was still, in the deeper sense, distressed by what had happened, but she no longer felt an involuntary tension in her muscles and did not suffer from the instinct to cry or the urges of fight and flight. She tried to think of what she wanted to ask Novelty, but found her mind blank, and considered the merits of not pursuing the matter. She knew, in the general outlines, how she had been wronged and wondered what peace there was to be found in the details.

The dress, to her mind an afterthought to the whole affair, was forgotten until the next morning. Only when she was readying the storefront to open did she again notice the dress box she left leaning against one wall, still unopened. She did not expect much of it. Novelty, or “Poison Sting” at the time, had been in possession of her shop for several weeks, during which time she had executed on Rarity’s pre-existing designs in a manner competent but mechanical. Upon her return to Ponyville, Rarity had found not a single deviation from her designs, for good or ill.

Surely then, Rarity thought, the dress must be a copy of one of her classic works. Maybe it was a Princess Dress; there were so many of those it would have been easy for the changelings to acquire one for practice. She would never sell such a thing, and didn’t want it, but nor did she wish to discard the box unopened.

And so she broke the seal and pulled open the lid.

It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen.

Chapter 3

Ponyville’s finest drinking establishment was Wine and Carpets, located just across the street from Sugarcube Corner. Their business model of “you stain it, you bought it” produced robust revenue, and nopony could deny they had the finest selection of drinks and the best live entertainment to be found in Ponyville. They had standup comedy, performance art, and consistently good music, and several of the Elements of Harmony were regular customers.

Rarity generally only went as part of a group; in her mind, drinking was a pleasant distraction with friends, a vice alone. Her feelings about standup comedy were much the same. Yet, one particular evening in the fall, she arrived at the door of Wine and Carpets unattended. Once inside, she sat, ordered a small glass of mild wine, and left it untouched as she sat alone at her table.

Anypony could tell she was waiting for something. Her eyes lingered on the stage, and it wasn’t long before the evening’s scheduled show began.

“Hello, everypony.” The band that walked on stage had five members: a dragon on drums, a griffon on the saxophone, a unicorn on the piano, an earth pony on the guitar, and a pegasus singer in front. “I’m Prior Art,” said the pegasus, “and we are They Sing Cover Songs.”

And they did, with grace and distinction. They sang Smells Like Horse Spirit with such passion Neighvana themselves could not have done better. They sang Birds of a Feather, an old griffon song, though they changed some of the raunchier lyrics to be more suitable to pony culture. And, in response to request from the audience, they sang the Winter Wrapup song, just like Ponyville would in a few months.

Their performance won them applause and a good quantity of tips, and Rarity suspected it also won them a second booking at the same venue. But she did not applaud and no sooner had the show ended than she strode towards the stage with purpose, arriving before the band members had even finished removing their instruments.

“Which one of you is Novelty?” she asked.

A moment of silence followed. None of them ratted another out. Eventually, the griffon raised a talon. Rarity experienced a moment of incongruity, trying to associate the slight, quiet, grey unicore mare who knocked on her door with the bulky, intimidating, male griffon before her. But she had overcome greater challenges before, and did not show her discomfort on her face.

“I’d like to speak with you now.” The words came out cold and snappish, and Rarity had to force herself to amend, “If that’s okay,” in a noticeably softer tone.

“Sure,” said Novelty, said the griffon, and he did not follow his bandmates backstage, but hopped from the stage to the floor, and followed Rarity back to her table. A waitress asked if he wanted anything, and he ordered a glass of water. When Rarity failed to speak, he tried to start the conversation on his own. “Did you like the show?”

“The dress you gave me,” Rarity said. “It’s good. It’s very good. It’s…” She lifted and released her hoof from the table several times. “It’s in my style. So much in my style I feel like I made it, only I hit my head and somehow forgot about it. There’s so much artistry in the design, the technique is…”

Several times, Rarity tried to speak and failed, but Novelty did not interrupt, and after a moment to steady herself, Rarity was able to finish: “You might be the greatest dressmaker of our generation.”

Novelty laughed. The sound gave Rarity momentary pause, much like she’d experienced near the stage; it was very much the laugh of the archetypal male griffon, a boisterous, loud, assertive sound. “I’m not. And this isn’t how I expected this conversation to go.”

“If you made that dress yourself, I think you are.”

“You’re flattering a mirror,” Novelty said, his tone light. “That’s a copy of your work.”

Rarity pulled back her lip. “That isn’t one of my dresses.”

“No, it’s every one of your dresses.” With the tip of a talon, Novelty gestured in the air. “The floating chest plate and geometric shoulder wraps are from the princess dress. I know they look different because they’re in orange instead of teal, and because they’re broken up into hexagons instead of triangles, but if you put those two dresses side by side, you’ll see it. The wither wrap is from Twilight’s backup coronation dress, again, I just changed the color and added a geometric pattern. The dock rest and train are from your ‘pegasus week’ display at Rarity For You. The hock wrap is from Rainbow Dash’s second gala dress.”

Rarity hesitated for a moment, her expression turning to a frown. “Still, there is talent in knowing which elements to combine for the best result.”

“I used trial and error.” For a moment, Novelty hesitated. “I don’t want to attract a lot of attention by transforming in the middle of the club, but.” He extended his talons, and there was a small rush of green fire, after which the digits in question were painted an ugly yellow. “I look at that and go, mmm. That color palette doesn’t work.” Another flash, an ugly purple. “Oh, and that doesn’t. And then I do this all day until I find one that looks good.”

He shrugged and sat back. “It was like that, but with dresses. I must have tried a thousand combinations before I landed on that one.”

“Oh.” The frown on Rarity’s face only depend, and with it appeared lines below her eyes. “I thought… it was beautiful, you understand.”

“Yes, it is. But that’s because your work is beautiful, Rarity.” Novelty leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “It’s because you’re creative and talented and… you’re the sort of pony who’s good enough that even their cheap knockoffs stand out from the crowd.”

Rarity lapsed into silence and met Novelty’s eyes across the table, and Novelty again spoke: “I uh… I picked a name, like yours, because I admire you. And I’m sorry, if that was too much. But after Chrysalis’s downfall, I didn’t have a lot of figures to look up to. And I knew you well.”

“I’m not mad, Novelty.” Rarity’s voice was stiff. “I’m… upset about what happened. But as long as you keep your word about not revealing my secrets, I’ll just be upset that it happened. Not mad at you.” Then she added. “The stitchwork is excellent.”

“Well I’m good at sewing.”

“You want a job?” Rarity asked, her expression suddenly animating.

“What?” Novelty pulled away from the table, and his expression was quite taken aback.

“I could use another seamstress. And your stitchwork really was good. I’d certainly trust you to finish one of my dresses, with—”

“Rarity, I’m very sorry for what happened,” Novelty said. “And I’m very grateful for how forgiving you’ve been. And if you want to talk about it, I will. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to spend a lot of time together. I know the layout of Carousel Boutique too well. If you understand.”

“Oh… yes.” Rarity laughed, faintly. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

It was at that moment that the waitress returned with water for Novelty, and bread for the table. “You want anything else?” they asked.

“I was just leaving, actually,” Novelty got up and nodded to Rarity in what could be taken as a respectful gesture, but then left before she could reply, and at a pace that discouraged inquiry.

“Ouch,” the waitress said, in the face of sudden retreat. “Too bad. He was cute.”

Rarity sighed, and in a dramatic motion, dropped her head to the table. Her wine glass, untouched, wobbled and tipped over, spilling down over the side. She and the waitress both looked at the spill, their eyes tracking the drops of fluid.

“It was a white wine,” Rarity said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

“We put special dyes in the wine,” the waitress explained. “It makes white wine stain carpets just as well as red.”

Rarity went home without answers, and with one carpet, mildly damaged.

Chapter 4

Not for the first time, Rarity knocked on the door at the back of the bowling alley. The sound elicited sounds from within; shuffling, buzzing, scraping, mumbling, hoofsteps on wooden boards. It was not long before the door handle turned, and Rarity could not help but notice that it was still unlocked.

The door opened. On the outside were Rarity and a carpet roll, the latter hovering in the former’s telekinetic grip. On the inside was a beautiful unicorn mare, lithe and athletic, with a creamy tan coat and a luxurious blue mane. She radiated style, from her perfectly kept tail to the little colored glasses that rested on her muzzle.

Rarity stared at her for a moment, until she asked: “Can I help you?”

“I uh…” Rarity coughed. “I’m looking for Novelty? Is she… in?” Rarity’s eyes traveled over the mare as she spoke, her expression becoming narrow, her tone interrogative.

The beautiful mare laughed. But before she could answer, a female voice called from inside the attic, “Yes, I’m here! Rarity can come in.”

“Alright,” said the beautiful mare. “Do you two want some privacy?”

The voice in the back, presumably Novelty, indicated that they did. In a flash of green, the beautiful mare transformed into a grey pegasus, and unceremoniously flew off, leaving Rarity facing the open attic door, unguarded.

It took Rarity a moment to work up her courage. She stepped through.

The attic was brighter than it had been on her first visit; every window was open, and many obscuring objects were removed or pushed up against the far wall. The air smelled like pine and solvents, and where the sun cast its rays, floating dust or other particulate matter was visible in the air. Some form of spring cleaning was evidently occurring, though it went beyond the usual dusting and sweeping. The source of the voice was at once visible at the end of the hall: an earth pony mare with a speckled green coat, and a snow-white mane and tail, both kept in practical bobs. Cleaning tools were all around her, and a toolbox by her side.

“Novelty?” Rarity checked, and the mare nodded. “Sorry, you’ve looked different every time I’ve seen you.”

Novelty nodded again. She did not assume her true form. “Did you um,” she eyed the carpet floating beside Rarity. “Want to talk?”

“Yes! But uh.” In response to Novelty’s drifting gaze, Rarity proffered the carpet roll. “I thought, you’re living in an attic. It must be a bit drab. I know changelings don’t normally adorn their dwellings with pony furnishings, but I thought having something to walk on other than the bare floorboards might be nice. You don’t have to accept it if you—”

“No, that would be lovely, actually.” Though she could have become a unicorn, Novelty stepped over and took the carpet the earth pony way, letting Rarity settle it onto her shoulders. “I was actually sanding the floor, now. It’s covered in splinters and we were all getting sick of it. A carpet would be much easier. Thank you.”

She propped the carpet up in a corner, evidently intending to roll it out later. “You want some water or something? I’d offer you tea, but the landlord says we’re not allowed to have fires up here.”

“Water would be lovely.” The two went through the motions of polite society. A table was dragged out for them to sit at, glasses procured, a jug of water found. It was while all this was happening that Rarity said, “Who was the mare by the door?”

“Fool’s Gold.”

“It didn’t occur to me that changelings could look like that,” Rarity said, in a tone of quiet admission. “I’m surprised you don’t… well. Do it more often. She could certainly catch a stallion without any trouble.”

“Lust isn’t love,” Novelty said, with a small shrug. Her kept her eyes on her work. “And before, changelings didn’t build relationships, we stole them. It didn’t matter if the pony impersonated was beautiful or hideous; what mattered is that they were truly cared for.”

“Oh,” Rarity cleared her throat. “I’m surprised you didn’t impersonate more children then. What with children being loved by their parents, and such.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” Novelty said, a sharpness entering her tone.

For a time, that pushed the conversation back into silence. But when Novelty finished the work of pleasantry, and two glasses of water sat upon a clean table, Rarity said, firmly: “I’d like to know the answers. To my questions. And if the answers are unpleasant I think it’s better to face that unpleasantness. And I can’t promise I won’t ever be angry with you, but if you’re genuine in your intentions to make this right, I need to know. You understand?”

Novelty nodded, and so Rarity said: “Let me start with what I already know. You spied on me, stalked me, lived in my house as an intruder for months, read my diary, spied on my friends, watched me use the restroom, watched me sleep with Thunderlane. You watched me sleep in the literal sense. Like a cat, up all night. You interrogated friends and relatives about me. And you used all this knowledge to impersonate me for several weeks, including to my family and closest companions.”

Again, Novelty nodded. And Rarity asked, “Is there more?”

Her question did not elicit a clear answer. Novelty wiggled her hooves, looked this way and that, and finally shrugged. “Sortof. I mean, there’s always more. I could go into more detail. But that’s a fair summary.”

“Is there more you’re specifically afraid to tell me? Because you think I’d be mad, or because you’re ashamed?” That produced a clear answer; for though Novelty did not speak, the truth was shown in her tightened posture, shown in her downcast eyes. “You need to tell me.”

“Nothing else happened, physically,” Novelty said, pushing her glass of water around with a hoof; a nervous tic she had not before displayed. “If you were to put me on trial, that would be a fair summary of all crimes committed. But I can’t… I don’t think any creature could watch a pony for so long without developing opinions about them, feelings for or relating to them, judgments about them and their life. And to me that feels like um… not worse, than the spying itself. But like something that would hurt you more.”

“Oh, so you weren’t just gathering data, my life was being cross-examined?” A tight laugh escaped Rarity. “Did you weigh my soul against a feather?” But Novelty did not reply to this, so she continued more forcefully, “Out with it then.”

“You love your parents but you’ve never respected them.”

Novelty’s declaration produced a momentary stunned silence across the table, then Rarity blew out a breath. “A swing and a miss, I’m afraid. Elocution lessons and romantic notions about life in Canterlot do not make me any less my parent’s daughter. We were a very happy family.”

“I didn’t say you were unhappy,” Novelty said, barely above a whisper. “And your elocution lessons, wanting to move to Canterlot, those are incidental. The more fundamental truth is that your parents raised you to be happy. To be satisfied with what you had, and see the little joys in life. Your father’s special talent relates to hoofball, and he was always a mediocre player. Your mother’s is cooking, and she burns every meal she touches. But they had self-esteem, and loved each other, and would have loved you just as much if you were a middling dressmaker.”

Rubbing one hoof over the other, Novelty continued: “And you rejected that. You worked very hard to excel. And when you didn’t live up to the standards you set for yourself, you tortured yourself over it. And your parents hugged you, and told you you were always wonderful, but it didn’t mean anything to you because you knew better. They were the ponies who sheltered you, fed you, protected you, but they didn’t really raise you. You raised yourself. And I think that deep down, it bothers you that they don’t understand that. It sounds nice to say they’d love you just as much if you were mediocre, but it’s equally true to say all your accomplishments mean nothing to them.”

“Mmmm.” Rarity drew in a breath through clenched teeth. “That’s not how it happened.”

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Novelty said. “It’s your life, and I’m sorry I saw so much of it. But that’s what I wanted to confess. Ponies don’t like being weighed and measured.”

“Oh, you don’t want to argue with me?” Rarity asked, her tone turning sharp. “You’re sorry. You want to confess. All fascinating statements. None of which are an admission that you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think I am wrong.” Novelty made a small shrug. “It takes a gifted pony many years to learn how to make a dress. It takes a common pony but a moment’s glance to assess if a dress is beautiful or ugly. It’s hard to see something when you’re inside of it. Sometimes things are only obvious from an external perspective.”

Rarity struck the table with a hoof and began shouting, “Oh really? Well from my outside perspective, it’s obvious that…” But she cut herself off before she could finish the thought, the effort of restraint visible on her face. “Sorry,” she said, still tight.

“I don’t know why you’re sorry. You have every right to be mad.”

“Because…” A series of long, slow breaths slowed Rarity’s racing heart, and when they were done, she elicited not to finish that sentence either. “So you spied on me, and over the course of that spying, developed many feelings and opinions about my life. Many of which are not kind to me, and which you feel I would not appreciate. Is that the shape of it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No.”

“Then I want you to make a dress,” Rarity said. Her voice was tight, and she gesticulated wildly as she spoke, emphasizing every word with an exaggerated flick of a hoof. “The dress that you gave me. The one that is sitting in my study. I looked at it last night, and yes, I do see now how it is derived from my work. But it is still the finest dress I have ever seen and I want to understand how you made it.”

“You know how a dress is made, Rarity,” Novelty chuckled, though a faint wavering quality had manifested within her voice. “I learned by watching you. And some basic sewing classes, but nothing special.”

“You’ve judged my life and work.” A sharp tap of the table emphasized the words. “I think I have the right to judge your work for myself. I want to watch you make a dress.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I need to see—”

“I said no.” Her tone developed a warning edge.

“If you ripped off my work, my style, I think the least you owe me is—”

“I said no!” Novelty reared up, and her hooves hit the table hard enough to shake it. Her glass toppled over, spilling water across the top. Still shouting, she went on, “I am out of the dressmaking business, you understand? Not happening!”

In the wake of the sudden outburst, both of them sat in stunned silence: Rarity leaning back, Novelty panting with her hooves on the table. A mix of expressions played across both of their faces, surprise, alarm, fear, shame, anger, and curiosity, though the order in which those emotions appeared was different between the two.

Traditionally, the onus would be on Novelty to speak next; to apologize. But Rarity, ever willing to defy convention, seized the initiative. “Then I’d like you to play me a saxophone solo.”

“What?” The seeming non-sequitur caught Novelty off-guard, her expression befuddled.

“You play the saxophone, don’t you? As I understand it, you sing cover songs.” Rarity shrugged, her tone suddenly calm, carefully controlled. “Music is a form of art. I feel like watching you play last night helped me understand you. I’d like to see you play again.”

“Oh.” Novelty hesitated, but finally said, “Okay. Um. Okay. Just a moment.”

In a flash of green, she transformed from a female earth pony into a male griffon, the same one from the show the previous night. Novelty, then a he, retrieved his saxophone from the storeroom and set about readying it to play. Left to his own devices, he played smooth jazz, something peppy and light that Rarity vaguely recalled hearing before, even if she couldn’t place it.

“That’s was wonderful,” Rarity said, “Thank you.” But then she added, “Play it as a unicorn.”

For half a second, Novelty froze, his eyes wide. “Uh, controlling an instrument with telekinesis is difficult. And the saxophone was really meant to be played by a creature with fingers anyway.”

“Then play it as a diamond dog,” Rarity said. “Or a dragon.”

Novelty didn’t move, staring at Rarity, still as a statue.

“So,” Rarity said, “you turn into a griffon every time you play the saxophone.” She tapped the table twice. “Who do you turn into when you make dresses?”

“I don’t make dresses anymore,” Novelty said, his tone bitter. “And it’s time for you to leave. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Thank you for the carpet. Get out.”

Rarity rose from the table and left.

Chapter 5

Many weeks passed without Rarity seeing Novelty. Perhaps Novelty saw her, but it would hardly be the first time their relationship was one-sided. Rarity attempted to put the matter out of her mind and might have never again spoken with the odd changeling, were it not for the annual Ponyville Days festival.

There was a music stage that year.

“Hello, everypony,” The headlining band was new to Ponyville, having only arrived in the last few months, but their consistently delightful performances had already won them a modest fanbase, and it was felt that in many ways they perfectly represented Ponyville’s accomplishments under Princess Twilight’s rule.

They had a dragon on drums, a unicorn on the piano, an earth pony on the guitar, a pegasus singer, and one particular griffon on the saxophone. “I’m Prior Art,” said the pegasus, “and we are They Sing Cover Songs. This song is in honor of our beloved Princess Twilight, and the spirit she brought to Ponyville.”

Prior Art cracked a smile, and in a flash of green, transformed into a perfect copy of Princess Twilight. The band behind her struck up, and she launched into a stylized, poppy rendition of, “It’s Hip to be Square.”

The sight of Princess Twilight on stage, singing about conformity while strutting and otherwise behaving in a manner not at all like her, reduced the crowd to peels of laughter. Twilight was sitting in the front row, and during one of the instrumental sections, the parody of her on stage leaned down and whispered something into her ear. She giggled, and Prior Art flashed her another smile before resuming their performance.

Rarity sat quietly. The middle of the song, she knew, was a saxophone solo. Certainly, she had eyes only for the griffon in the back, but with so large a crowd, it was hard for her to tell if Novelty was staring at her in return.

“Oh, how did she do that?” Cookie Crumbles, Rarity’s mother, asked softly. Rarity was sharing a table with both her parents, Sweetie Belle, and that new colt Sweetie Belle was keen on, though Rarity had been greatly relieved to discover her sister was still in the puppy-love stage. “With the magic.”

“This is that new changeling band,” replied her father.

“I thought that was They Might Be Changelings?”

“No,” Sweetie Belle whispered. “That’s that new pegasus band. The name is ironic.”

“There’s a new pegasus band?” her father asked. “Is that that new one you’re always listening to? Uh… with the lyrics about shaking your tail feathers?”

“No,” Sweetie said, “that’s Birds of Prey and they’re a mixed griffon/hippogriff band.”

“Oh, gosh,” their mother said. “Music is getting so multicultural these days.”

The saxophone solo began, and Novelty strutted forward to take center stage, performing with flair under the spotlight. “You know,” Rarity said to her parents, “you might have inferred that they were changelings from the fact that they transformed in front of you. And you might have inferred that a song about shaking one’s tail feathers was not written by a pegasus, because pegasi do not have tail feathers.”

The looks her parents gave her were each mildly confused, neither reacting to what might reasonably have been taken as an affront. “What?” her father finally said, “and miss Sweetie Belle telling us about the new music she likes? It’s better when she explains it.”

Her parents went back to watching the performance. Rarity watched them.

Late that evening, after another band had taken the stage, there was a mare flirting with Novelty. He was still in the form of a griffon; she was brushing the feathers along his chest. “So you can turn into anything, right?”

“Changelings don’t have a pair-bonding instinct,” Novelty said, rather stiff. “We don’t do relationships, in, you know. The pony way.”

“Do you have a one-night stand instinct?”

Novelty cleared his throat. “Gosh, look at my wrist, I gotta go.” He turned to hurry away, only to stop short as he nearly ran face-first into Rarity. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, his expression was momentarily stricken.

Then Rarity gently placed her hoof in his talon. “This one’s taken, darling,” she said to the mare of unwelcome affection. “Get your own.”

“Aww, come on,” the mare pressed. “What’s she got that I haven’t got?”

“Intelligence,” said Rarity without missing a beat, emphasizing her cultivated accent, “creativity, class, empathy, money, status, flare, flanks you could bounce a coin off, and perhaps most importantly, him. I have him.” She pulled Novelty close. “So trot along.”

Novelty went along with the act, pulling Rarity close at the shoulders. Offended, the mare in question turned up her nose, let out a sharp snort, and marched away grumbling. Rarity did not at once speak, but turned to go the other way, and tugged Novelty along with her. The two pretended to be a couple for perhaps a half-dozen steps, until they were sure the other mare was gone. Then Novelty laughed. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, darling.” Rarity let out a faint chuckle. “Really, it was.”

“I could tell you enjoyed getting to describe yourself, yes,” Novelty said, lightly. “Um. Did you enjoy the performance this evening?”

“I did. I’d like to talk with you about it if that’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “Privately?”

“Are you sure? I’m sorry about… I mean, our last talk—”

“Yes,” Rarity said, firmly. “I’m sure. Please.”

The Bowling Alley was not convenient to the center of town, but Carousel Boutique was, and so it was to Rarity’s shop that the two wandered. She skipped the pleasantries, and did not entertain Novelty in the front room like a guest, but rather pulled him upstairs, towards her creative workroom.

“I’m not making you a dress,” he said, tone guarded.

“I know,” Rarity replied. “But I want to talk. And I want to dispense with the illusion that you don’t know your way around my house. You lived here for weeks. Months, really. Make yourself comfortable.”

They entered the workroom together, and Rarity took a seat by her work desk, Novelty by the dress models in the corner.

There was no preamble. Rarity struck without mercy. “Would you be as ashamed to play jazz in front of the griffon whose form you’re in, as you are to make dresses in front of me?”

Novelty ruffled his feathers and flexed his talons. “Yes.” He managed to keep his head up, as he had not in their past interactions.

“Who is he?”

“He’s dead. Has been, for a long time. His name was Groove, and he lived about fifty years ago. I learned to play by listening to his music and stole his form from pictures and drawings. But we never met.”

“Was he famous?”

“No.”

Tilting her head, Rarity asked: “Then why him?”

“Because he was good,” Novelty let out a sharp snort. “Selling records doesn’t make a musician any better, and not selling them doesn’t make them any worse. I can decide for myself what music I like.”

“You don’t think he’d be flattered? That fifty years after his death, somecreature is still performing his songs in his style?”

“Does it flatter you?” Novelty demanded, the sharpness in his manner becoming more prominent. “Does it flatter you, when I take your style and make it my own?”

“No,” Rarity admitted. “But maybe it should. I was thinking about your performance tonight. About seeing everypony laugh. You didn’t perfectly mimic Hip to be Square. You tweaked it, changed it in ways that made it better for the audience. If Horsey Lewis and the Neighs had performed in-person tonight, I don’t think Ponyville would have enjoyed it as much as they enjoyed you.”

Rarity drew in a deep breath, and said: “Sometimes the cover is better than the original.”

“Yeah, because I have it easy,” Novelty snapped. “I get to sit back, watch while you labor, and after you’ve put your sweat and love and tears into creating something beautiful, I take it and make a stupid little change, and say, this is mine now. I made this.” He cast a talon out to indicate the dress stands beside him.

Rarity rubbed her face. “Is it a stupid change if it really does make it better?”

“I’m sorry, what did we do tonight?” Novelty pointed at the window. “We said, hey! Let’s do Hip to be Square. Only it’s a princess singing it. That’s funny. Oh, and let’s have Princess Twilight do really out-of-character things on stage, like shaking her hips and winking at the audience. That’s musical gold. Does that sound like art to you?”

“I didn’t invent stitching,” Rarity replied. “I don’t make my own fabric. Often the center point of a dress is a fabric pattern that I saw in a merchant’s stand and was inspired by. Or, I see dresses from other designers and want to do my own take on the concept. Nothing is entirely original; we all borrow from others.”

“You borrow concepts and use them to make masterworks,” Novelty hissed. “I borrowed your house, put up a coat of paint, and decided this is mine, I live here now. It’s not the same.”

Rarity let out a long breath, staring Novelty down. “Did you enjoy living here?”

“Of course I did,” Novelty almost laughed. “You’re… brilliant, Rarity. How was it you described yourself tonight? Intelligent, creative, classy, empathetic, stylish? It’s all true.”

“You forgot ‘flanks you could bounce a coin off.’” She managed a small smile.

“Only because I know you enjoy fishing for compliments.” And they both laughed.

“Before,” Rarity said, her tone relaxing, “you said you had many judgments about my life which were unkind. Things you didn’t want to share.”

“Do I have to think an artist is perfect to admire them?” Novelty asked. “I don’t want to talk about… what I think about you. Because I did judge you, and nopony likes being judged and I don’t want us to argue again. And no, in many ways you’re flawed. But your work… your life. Was good enough to steal. I don’t… I don’t know any higher compliment than that.”

Rarity nodded and looked over the room with both of them had at different points called their own. “I think, if I was a musician, your cover songs would offend me. But I’m not. And I like them. And as the pony I am, the thought of you stealing my… art. My art. Infuriates me. But the dress you gave me was beautiful.”

Rarity bit her hoof, and went on, “I hope that… one day. You’re comfortable walking around your true form in Ponyville. And I hope that one day, you can play the saxophone without turning into a griffon. But I accept that today is not that day. And today, your music is still art. And I hope that one day, you can make dresses without turning into me. But I accept that today is not that day.”

She got up, and in two short strides, crossed the distance to stand before Novelty. “But I think your dresses are art. And tonight, I’d like to see you make one. Please.”

Novelty’s face was frozen; a perfect neutral mask. For several long seconds, Rarity’s request elicited no response, and he was as the allegorical deer in headlights.

So Rarity leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. “Please, Novelty. Show me what you think of me.”

There was a flash of green light, and when it passed, there were two Rarity’s in the room: the original, and as Thunderlane had called her, ‘Other Rarity.’

“Oh, you do have a flair for the dramatic,” said Other Rarity, in a perfect imitation of the original’s voice. “It’s a tall order you know: concepting, sketching, designing, and sewing a work of art in a single night. We shall be up until dawn at the very least, and quite probably fail despite. But I suppose if it means so much to you, I shall make my greatest effort.”

She didn’t wait for Rarity’s reply, but whirled on the spot in that very same way that Rarity did, and from the drafting table procured her tools. “Now, given the time and resource constraints we’re under, it will obviously have to be something light. Minimalist. Show me what fabrics we have on hoof, would you? But nothing black. I know minimalism and black go well together, but it’s a dreadful cliche, particularly recently. I think we can aspire to something higher.”

Hesitantly, Rarity nodded, and did as she was told.

The two worked until mid-morning, when a graceful blue evening dress rested on one of the models in Rarity’s study. Rarity perhaps expected Novelty to immediately transform back into a griffon, or the grey unicorn with bugs for a cutie mark, or some other shape. But instead she, still in Rarity’s form and with Rarity’s voice, excused herself to the restroom. “Darling, I’ve been working all night, and it was a hot and humid evening to begin with. I’m tired and sweaty, and should like an opportunity to bathe before considering further artistic pursuits.”

She went to the bathroom and shut the door. Rarity waited to hear the bath running, but the sound never came, and when she opened the door, she saw that Novelty had fled out the open window. Presumably in the form of a pegasus, given that they were on the second floor.

Rarity sighed, shut the window, and went back to look at the dress on the stand. It wasn’t as beautiful as the one she had been given before; it didn’t leave her in awe. But it was good. It was art, and while it was inspired by Rarity’s past works, it wasn’t a copy of any of them.

She had no idea what to do with it.

Chapter 6

Ponies noticed that Rarity was, on occasion, seen with a handsome griffon who played the saxophone. They noticed that sometimes, a unicorn with bugs for a cutie mark visited her home, and they drew the blinds. They noticed that Rarity started showing up to They Sing Cover Song’s performances when she was not otherwise inclined to live music.

“So,” Twilight asked, during one visit to Ponyville. They were having a wonderful time together, catching up and gossiping. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Oh, no no,” Rarity waved Twilight off. “It’s not like that. He’s an admirer.”

“What does that mean?” Twilight asked. “An admirer.”

“It means he’s an artist,” Rarity said, after a long pause.

“So…” Twilight paused. “Do you like him?”

“Oh Twilight,” Rarity said, “I adore him. It’s just that I also hate him, and he drives me absolutely spare. It’s complicated, darling. It’s complicated.”

Author's Note

This story is for anyone who has ever written fanfiction that was better than the original, and for all the original artists who might resent that. It's a complicated relationship.

We all sing cover songs.

Chapter 2

More than a week passed before Rarity traveled to the bowling alley. In the back, there was a rickety set of stairs, and at their end, a worn wooden door. She knocked firmly, and when there was no answer, she continued to knock as persistently as Novelty had knocked on the door of Carousel Boutique. But still no creature came, and when Rarity put her ear to the door, she could hear no motion or other sounds of inhabitation within.

So she tried the handle and found the door unlocked.

The attic was large but mostly unfinished, being partitioned into a series of spaces which might optimistically be called rooms. These rooms were defined by plain dividing walls that did not quite reach the ceiling and were made accessible by doorways without doors, resulting in a space that offered only marginal privacy. Entering slowly, casting her eyes about as she did, Rarity found that many of the spaces were used for storage, containing bowling alley equipment. Only three were given over to tenants.

There was one common space, which contained little crystals, pockets of moss, ferns, and other things which reminded her of the reformed changeling hive. There was a sleeping space, apparently communal, which contained five waxy pods and little else. Finally, there was a room used to store instruments: a set of drums, a saxophone, a french horn, two guitars, a xylophone, and a triangle.

It was the last room that caught Rarity’s eye, both because it was out of place and because it contained the only thing that might be described as a personal item among the communal, utilitarian furnishings. There was a book resting next to the instruments, and when Rarity flipped it open, she found it to be a journal full of dated entries. Some were common prose, some were sketches, some contained musical compositions. But there wasn’t a name on the cover, or any other way to discern which changeling it belonged to.

The door latch clicked behind her.

Fast as any pegasus, agile as any gymnast, silent as the wind, her heart pounding inside her chest, Rarity darted to the open attic window, swung out onto the roof, and from there leaped down unseen into the bushes beside the building.

Her getaway was clean.