The sun has already dropped below the horizon. Street lights illuminate the road for passers-by. Many citizens are going home or looking for a place to forget about their worries, relax and take a breath. Some prefer to spend time at home with their families, some crave the action in a bar or brothel, some go to the Arena to place bets, and some go to the casino to try to make a fortune—and end up spending more caps than they would have gotten.

The house always wins.

Holiday stood near the entrance to a gambling establishment called Lucky Chip. The mottled blue light of a neon sign in the shape of a chip with flashing stars around it reflected in the brown eyes of the skinny orange stallion. He stared at it, and couldn't take his eyes off, his heart pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. His front leg involuntarily touched the inside pocket of his jacket, where lay the thing he'd spent a lot of effort, time, and caps on. His own lucky chip. A last chance to escape the grip of not only poverty, but the predatory bird that would grip his body in less than nine months. His entire life is staked on one single chip.

Shaking his head, he pushed away the unsettling haunting and crossed the doorstep. A familiar voice sounded from a radio on the counter at the security desk inspecting visitors—Holiday had lost interest in it almost immediately because of his inspection.

The DJ's manner of speech always created an appealing aura. Like you could sit and chat with him for days on end, and he'd pull something teachable or uplifting out of his bag of life experiences.

"The song 'You Are My Strawberry' was first sung by Sapphire Shores before our bicentennial rulers clashed with the zebras. The meaning of the song is inspired by zebra culture. They considered strawberries to be one of the ultimate symbols of lewdness. I'll bet my tail that most of the brothels in their territory either had strawberries mentioned in their name or flaunted as a symbol. Why is that? Strawberries are delicious, and I've never met anyone who didn't like or enjoy them. The only ones who haven't tasted them are the ones we have plenty of. Not everyone can afford it. A friend of mine tried it for the first time... and it blew her mind. She spent all her savings on strawberries—the berries, not the lewd stuff. She was like a junkie. She gorged herself so much that she ruined her stomach, her health... and her life. Lack of self-control is a sign of irresponsibility, my dears. Don't forget that. And in related news, this issue's sponsor is the Softhooves' Paradise Pleasure porn studio..."

While the DJ was chatting, Holiday was being inspected for any weapons, explosives, and cutting objects. There's no telling what players can do in a fit of desperation; such precautions are not unreasonable.

Inspection is often done physically, without the use of telekinesis of magic-sensitive unicorns. Even if the latter senses his chip... Every other item contains some degree of magical activity—especially technology. Holiday's chip emits a very weak magic, which could be attributed to another object; moreover, the nature of this magic can only be determined by those who are familiar with it, and such ponies are few even among unicorns.

Still, Holiday's heart grew frosty when the guard felt something flat and round in his pocket. Her focused gaze changed for a moment, as if a bubble had risen from the depths of the water and rippled around it. But her face quickly softened.

One chip, she thought, continuing to examine it. Probably forgot to exchange it at the other casino, or it was his lucky chip.

"Move along," she said, looking somewhere to the side—fortunately for Holiday, on whose pale face there was a look of horror. He'd been prepared for the inspection, but hadn't expected to feel this way in the process.

The spacious blue-colored hall was illuminated by a cold white light. There was an unobtrusive scent of blueberries in the air, created by sprayers or by some specially enchanted devices. From everywhere came the characteristic clinking of slot machines with musical accompaniment, the rustle of rolling and bouncing roulette balls, the clatter of cards at the gambling tables. Between the sounds of the casino came the voices and noise of the visitors—indignant, angry, and distressed. Silence never came: a soothing melody played in the background. Smells and music, apparently, were supposed to soften the emotional storm.

The carpeting, a garish blue with white patterns, covered the floor, and Holiday's steps made no noise or distracted the players he passed at the machines. The machines mottled, flashed, jingled, and emitted a tantalizing melody, conspiratorially humming in one's ear a song of possible victory to any potential victim who dared to pass by them. Hard to resist. But the skinny stallion handled it effortlessly—he was too anxious to respond to such calls.

The slot machines were specially placed on the way to the place where the caps were exchanged for chips. An attempt to charm and show the visitor the possibility of easy profit in advance, to show how pleasant it was to at least try to sit at such a thing, pulling the lever and looking at the spinning reels. It's worth a try. To whet your appetite, fill your head with bright colors and imitation of the ringing of gold coins to make you think about the chips that you need to get urgently. And more of them, to increase the chances of success.

More than half of the machines were empty, giving players the choice to sit down at another machine if they had bad luck with the previous one. There was no technical difference between them, but intelligent beings—ironic as it may sound in this context—might get the impression that some machines were more lucky than others.

In front of Holiday, an irritated sea-colored mare jumped up from her seat. She decided to change machines by walking a little farther away. The orange earth pony continued forward without breaking visual contact with her. She yanked the lever, and the three reels in front of her face spun briskly; a second later, they stopped one by one, making addictive sounds. The last one produced three ripe red apples. The machine roared a congratulatory tune, and the mare cheered.

"Yes! I knew it!" she exclaimed softly, not noticing the stallion standing behind her shoulder.

Three apples on a single reel meant a double chip return. The lowest reward, but the most frequent.

Holiday reached the cash register. Behind a beautifully decorated grille in distinctive blue colors stood the cashier. She smiled sweetly and welcomingly, looking at Holiday expectantly, and he shook off his worries.

"Ten chips worth ten caps each."

After a moment, she slid him some light blue-colored chips. The gradation in this casino is uncomplicated: the darker the more expensive. The maximum value of a single chip is one hundred caps.

With his front leg he scooped up the received in the outer pocket of his jacket and went in search of a slot machine, near which there were no unnecessary eyes.

The guards are primarily interested in unicorns. Magical protection for all the machines would cost a disproportionate amount of money, and ever since Vanhoover's restoration, any attempts to create and sell items and spells that allow manipulation of winnings have been suppressed. Besides, it's impossible to completely eliminate the magical threat to casinos—so unicorns are watched quite closely.

Earth ponies hardly attract attention unless they sit at a gambling table: too clever visitors are able to guess what cards are left in the deck. Their behavior may stand out. Technically, they are not violating anything, but casinos are private property, the owners of which do not welcome such players.

The likelihood of an earth pony learning the principles of magic is quite low. There's no need to be alarmed, but caution is not unreasonable. Holiday knows that.

He found a corner with slot machines, but before him sat a gray stallion, who first of all started stroking the machine like a lover. He whispered something with a whisper, gently running his hoof over the lever, over the buttons, over the reels of symbols that winked as if the machine were responding to his flirtations.

Holiday watched him in bewilderment, glancing around without making any sudden movements and studying the reaction of the guards.

The guards paid no attention to the stallion—he's an earth pony, and it's also pretty standard practice for most players to believe that Lady Luck can somehow be seduced, beguiled, enamored, and attracted in other ways besides carrying talismans. Someone hums a song, someone dances, someone else conducts some other ritual. A superstitious belief that random events occur under non-random circumstances.

Holiday once read pre-war Ministry of Peace books on animal behavior. Test pigeons were left in a cage, given food at regular intervals. Over time, the pigeons began to repeat the actions they had accidentally performed just before the food appeared: one flapped the wing, the second walked in a circle, the third poked the beak in the corner, waiting for a reward. By the same principle, in fact, teach pets, treating them for the performance of any action. This is how a pattern of behavior is formed.

Avid gamblers are like these pigeons, which before the winning fall of symbols on the reels made some random action. Like this pony, seducing the slot machine to the envy of many mares and stallions. Perhaps he was drunk at the time and fondled the machine for a joke, and it roared a congratulatory tune and gave out a reward. Since then he has been trying to repeat all his actions in order to achieve the same result again. If the desired result does not occur—the ritual was reproduced incorrectly.

The funny thing is that in doing so, we proudly place ourselves above the animals. Ponies and other so-called superior races have built cities and huge ships, flown to the moon, created art... and even in the mass destruction of each other we have no equal. It's just an illusion: if look closely, we're still on the same level as ordinary animals. We're just more aware of the world around us. It's as if animals can see one star in the night sky, but we can see them all.

Holiday went in search of another hiding place. Scraps of knowledge related to manipulating visitors through interior arrangement surfaced in his mind. The library where he spent a month didn't have books like 'How Casinos Affect Players Through Furniture'—such publications had long ago been withdrawn from public access by the collusion of the Vanhoover families. The mentions do, however, slip into books on psychology.

Holiday couldn't look under his hooves for long with a pensive philosophical look. The white and blue patterned carpeting is painful to look at for a reason—it's done intentionally, so that players think less while lowering their gaze to the floor and don't get distracted by the tantalizing machines and gambling tables. It's easy to get lost in the spaces. A real maze—to make it longer to wander around the hall. There are no windows or wall clocks, which makes it difficult to orient yourself in time. Nearby there is a bar, and with fairly low prices.

Manipulation comes to absurd details. Everything in the Lucky Chip is smooth and sleek: in pre-war research they found that sharp and right angles encourage bold decisions—for example, to stop the game.

With these reflections, he finally found the right machine. They don't put them in places completely hidden from view—they must be viewed by the guards. However, Holiday was hiding not from them, but from other players, who could pay attention to his frequent winnings.

His rump rested on the padded chair, the slot machine standing in front of his eyes in impatience. Three rotating bluish reels occupied most of the surface: flat sections of them (with smooth corners!) were decorated with colorful symbols. They winked in anticipation, either all at once or one by one. Beneath them protruded a panel of buttons, a slot for accepting chips, and a section for rewards. If Holiday had been comfortable and not worried about anything, he would have thought of that experiment with the pigeons. As well as another manipulation: pleasingly tactile buttons and levers with all the appearance of encouraging you to touch and press them, like the bulging rounded forms of whores.

His heart thundered in his ears—he could measure his pulse by the beats. Under his skin he itched to turn and look around. With all his frail fortitude, he restrained himself. Players never turned around before the game started; that would be suspicious.

He swallowed the lump that had gathered in his throat—with an effort like swallowing a hedgehog. His front leg reached for his inside pocket, his heart beat faster, and he froze.

It's okay. Even if others are looking at me, I haven't done anything suspicious yet. Right? Right?

He tried to swallow his saliva again—his tongue felt like it was covered in sand like the aftermath of a storm—and picked up his chip with his hoof. He felt like he was surrounded: his opponents hadn't drawn their weapons yet, but they'd be ready to do so in a second if he twitched or tried anything stupid. There was a chance to rewind it all back, turn around and walk away...

The stallion's orange skinny leg quivered in a great big shudder, like the barrel of a machine gun in the act of firing. The sounds weakened, as if he were sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Holiday was running a fever, his forehead was covered with sweat, his eyes were darkening, his heart was preparing to leap out of his chest with guilty cries of, "I give up, I give up!".

What am I doing? Oh, what the hell am I doing?!

The image of the griffon digging her sharp claws into his skinny body flashed into his mind—pain pierced him with a bright bolt of lightning. The massive beak came down on his horrified face like a pickaxe, aiming for his eye.

Often in the past months the griffon had haunted him in nightmares. Sometimes he saw himself running through the streets of Vanhoover, and she pounced on him from above with a piercing predatory yell and carried him to her nest. In other dreams he lay on a wide plate as a dish of Rich Inner World served to a rich griffon with a symbol in the shape of a pony skull and a crown on his shoulder. In third dreams with a lusty angle, fear drew him as the griffon first plays with his cock: he feels the hardness and sharpness of her massive beak, which abruptly flaps at the moment of orgasm like steel pincers and bites it off.

The slot machine in front of him, as if tired of waiting, reminded itself with an idle melody.

The vivid image faded away. Only the winking reels remained before Holiday's eyes. He stared stupidly at the multicolored symbols of fruit, gems, sun and crescent moon. Emotions receded like a wave from the shore, and he suddenly realized that he had been sitting there all this time, holding his breath. The sounds returned: the stallion's ears reacted again to the indignant voices, the clinking of slot machines, the soft background melody.

He sucked in air noisily, noticing again the scent of blueberries. His front leg remained frozen in his inside pocket; he looked at it absently, as if it didn't belong to him.

There was no point in being afraid. The fate prepared by the griffon was far worse than the punishment for cheating.

That thought not only calmed his heart, but gave him back control of his body. The front leg showed itself again. He reached out further, cushioning the chip with his hoof so that it was on the inside. The cool surface felt a little ticklish.

The chip glistened slightly, reflecting the cold white light. To hide its affiliation with another casino and make it look like it was really his lucky charm, he had applied silver paint to it, adding black paint. Too much effort, caps and nerves have been invested in developing the content of the chip. No doubt for profit—but in a sense it was still technological creativity. Under the harsh regulation of such developments, he'd managed to pull it off... probably, pull it off.

He popped one chip into a special slot. The amount of chips could not exceed a hundred caps before the reels started. Holiday pulled the lever. The reels sprang to life and spun rapidly, emitting a soft, periodic tinkling sound as if gold coins were rolling over inside them.

The bluish reels slowed down. The first stopped at the image of a crescent moon in the black sky, the second showed the sun, and the third... nothing. It stopped between two symbols: a strawberry and three apples.

One step away from the smallest win.

Holiday looked at the bottom of his hoof, his silver chip nestled inside like a cushioned chair. His chest filled with blueberry-scented air as he took a deep breath, as if before a big jump.

Your turn...

The hoof with the chip pressed against the surface of the slot machine between the pleasantly touching buttons. Nothing happened—and it shouldn't have—but he could feel the chip touching the surface. It only affected the machine after physical contact. Magic spilled over the mechanism, interfering with any random processes relevant to the outcome of the spinning reels.

The second light blue chip disappeared into the slot. He reached with his other front leg for the lever, hesitated for a second, but yanked it nonetheless. The reels spun. Exactly the same as before.

That's right. There was no alarm, and there shouldn't be one, because there were different ways to influence the machines: magic, radiation, and other tricks. It's too expensive and unprofitable, it's hard to be safe from everything.

First reel stopped—sun. Second reel, the sun. Third reel... and before Holiday's brown eyes lit up with realization, his ears twitched with a congratulatory tune. The rarest of combinations. Three suns. A fifty-fold win.

The tune was no different from the sounds of other winnings, so drowned in the clinking and clamor. Holiday was overcome with glee. He stared at the three suns as if someone had given him a sudden but pleasant lick on a sensitive spot.

Five dark blue chips spilled out of the reward section. The largest in value. He looked at them and couldn't believe his own eyes.

Five hundred caps! Holy shit!

The muscles in his body seemed to remember their purpose: to move. Holiday fought the urge to scream loudly. He'd cheated—but he'd cheated well. He rejoiced not in his victory, but in the fact that he had managed to subdue Luck.

The realization of the unfairness of the win cooled him down and allowed him to curb the seething cauldron of emotions. Still, he couldn't help but smile. His smile grew wider as the five most expensive chips disappeared into his pocket.

He looked around cautiously, slowly turning his head to look for guards or other observers. No one approached him with an angry face and a baton in his teeth, no customers looked on with surprise or envy. No one noticed.

Folding the blue chips, he hid his own, the silver one, then placed the same hoof again on the panel between the buttons, thrust a third chip into the slot, and yanked the lever.

No winnings followed. He flushed another five chips for the sake of the view and returned to the cash register, where he laid out the five expensive chips and the two cheap ones he'd purchased earlier.

The turquoise earth pony's eyes widened. He had exchanged the chips no more than ten minutes ago, which meant that after a few tries, he had gotten the biggest combination. She certainly understood that such winnings were possible, but often customers would keep playing, hoping for more, until they found they'd blown their winnings. They didn't know how to stop—and this skinny stallion did. In such cases, the instructions were to persuade the player to return to the game.

"You're having a good day," she said kindly from behind the beautiful grate. A charming smile trained over years of customer service loomed on soft appealing lips. "Surely you're destined to win more. Don't you think so?" she asked, slowly flapping her eyelashes. With each word, the lusciousness in her voice sounded lustier, as if she had playfully put a collar on him and was slowly getting closer.

Holiday's head was filled with thoughts of the success of the experiment—otherwise he would surely melt at the sight of her voice and captivating blue eyes. Winning will definitely happen again, but the casino employees don't believe it. It was a tricky attempt to pull him into the abyss of gambling addiction.

He shook his head decisively.

"Why is that?" her voice trembled slightly. She leaned closer to the protective steel mesh; the delicate scent of her fruity perfume tickled his nose. "You made a quick buck. Lady Luck is definitely favoring you today. Don't miss your chance."

He smiled softly, shaking his head again. If he talked to her for too long, she would surely remember him. No doubt he had a plan prepared for how to remain inconspicuous—but that was for another time.

"I think," he spoke, "that Lady Luck doesn't make someone lucky all day long. If she does favor it, it's better to stop."

Horse apples! How stubborn he is... He's not one of those who can't stop. If I argue with him long enough, he's definitely not going to come back here and spend his caps in the long run. It won't work with him. Well...

She raked up the chips and wrote a check. Five hundred and twenty caps—not a large sum, but enough to make it easier to issue as a document.

Holiday took the slip of paper and left the casino. Only then did he feel completely relieved. His smile was as bright as any sign on Mane Street, as jubilant as if he had drank a bottle of cool water in the sweltering heat that had taken him hours to get to. Walking home, he almost danced. He grabbed Celestia's mane, felt the solid ground beneath his hooves. He felt the tangible possibility of not only paying off his debts, but of getting out of poverty. It was a warming thought: if he had been unclothed in the bitter cold, he would still be warm.

***

Beige and red tones dominated the luxurious interior, the subdued warm light falling on the countless dealers at the card tables, on the diverse players, on the guards in dark outfits with red colors. A soft, unobtrusive jazz tune came from everywhere, as elegant as everything around it. Even the slot machines enticed and held victims with a melodious chime. It exuded the sophistication of an aristocratic world where beauty and manners were considered the chief virtues.

Amidst all this expressive backdrop, among the players in expensive clothes, one lean orange stallion with a beige mane, sitting at a slot machine, stood out. He wore an inexpensive dark brown outfit that many found tasteless and lacking in aesthetics. His right leg was resting against the panel of the caps weaning machine with all ordinariness, but today it was under his hoof that was the trump card that would prevent the cunning machine from defeating him. His brown eyes fixed without enthusiasm on the three beige reels, on which each symbol resembled a work of art: detailed, filigreed, possessing depth.

Holiday lowered the lever, and the reels spun with that same melodic sound, stopping one by one. All three bore the same symbol. The same flower gleamed silver wherever it was appropriate. It was the symbol of Vanhoover's richest and most popular casino.

Crystal Lotus.

The orange stallion with the beige mane shuddered as if the chair beneath him was suddenly energized. His ears instinctively flattened against his head, his brown eyes running around in panic. For the first time in his memory, the slot machine erupted with a distinctive triumphant sound, drawing the attention of those around him. Three chips fell out of the slot—totaling one hundred and fifty thousand caps. Weakness seized his joints, and he struggled to stuff the silver chip into the outer pocket of his gaudy dark brown jacket. Just in time: a mare in a dark outfit with red inserts was approaching him at a decidedly fast pace.

Everything inside Holiday went cold. His face displayed a relief mixture of panic and amazement. His eyes blinked frequently, as if he'd been hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat and was frantically trying to comprehend what had happened. Not knowing what to do, he just stared at the chips.

The mare shortened her distance. Her blank stare was fixed on the three beige reels whose blinking reflected in the orange earth pony's eyes. The olive-colored mare shifted her gaze to the winner—seemingly stunned by the winning. Three crystal lotuses on a slot machine was considered an extremely rare event: no one had ever gotten that combination in her presence. Now she had the opportunity to appreciate the lucky player by awarding him a prize ticket to a concert that would start in less than an hour.

He's been lucky twice, the Softhooves mare thought. He won the prize on the day of the annual concert. Any more and he would have had to wait a whole year.

She tilted her head to her inside pocket, grasped the silver ticket with the lotus symbol, placed it on her front hoof and held it out to him. He stared at her in shock.

"Everyone who gets three crystal lotuses, regardless of the amount won, is rewarded. A ticket to the annual Eileen Softhooves concert, where new songs will be premiered."

Holiday finally came to his senses and the panicked confusion was replaced by shock. He nodded and slowly grasped the ticket with his teeth and put it in his pocket.

"I think," she added, "you're the last one for this period. The concert starts in forty-two minutes. It's unlikely anyone else will get three lotuses that day."

He nodded again, not knowing what to do or how to react. The olive-colored earth pony retreated to her former spot, from where quite a bit of the hall was visible. Holiday breathed a sigh of relief. All the nearby players were looking at him. Many who had thought his outfit tasteless were now staring at him with envy, like hungry wolves at a defenseless rabbit. Only the wealthiest and most powerful could afford tickets to this concert.

He had to radiate joy through his fear. He headed toward the box office, trying not to look like a cornered rat.

A lilac-colored earth pony in a red dress perked up at the sight of a customer she had just recently handed out chips to. She assumed he'd already spent it all and was coming back for more, his face cheerless and tense. The stallion in a cheap outfit tossed three gold-plated chips with a lotus symbol in the center onto the table under the protective steel mesh.

Her pink eyes stared at the table as if the chips weren't there at all, just the sound of something invisible banging against the wooden surface. A second later, the contacts in her brain finally connected, and everything fell into place like pins in a keyhole. A couple minutes ago, she'd heard someone in the hall get the combination of three lotuses.

Lucky boy. And just before the concert started.

She looked at the slightly lost orange stallion. Envy bit at her right buttock.

So lucky to get to see Eileen herself in concert?! You've got to be kidding me.

The earth pony behind the protective steel mesh raked up the chips with a detached look and wrote a check for fifteen hundred.

"Have a nice day."

Her smile looked too strained and unnatural. It was like the corners of her lips were caught on a hook with a steel chain being pulled by two of the strongest Hellhounds, nearly bursting with tension.

It didn't escape Holiday as he gripped the check with his teeth. He felt a little uncomfortable with the attention and stares he had no way of recognizing. This was his third time in this casino. The silver chip didn't always bring out the biggest combination—and even if it did, it didn't get much attention in other casinos.

From now on, it is better not to come here. Repeated three lotuses will seem suspicious, and changing the color of the mane and tail will not help.

He returned to the hall and looked first at the exit and then in the opposite direction: the double doors led to the concert hall. In a little more than half an hour the show would begin, where Eileen would introduce her new songs to the audience.

Holiday wasn't a music fan, but the opportunity to attend a show where only a select few and—literally—the lucky ones could enter was tempting. The sign on the door said that visitors would be let in after twenty minutes. To ease the wait, he walked to the stage where a mare in a loose dark red dress was twirling in a slow dance.

Places like this with dancers were everywhere in this casino. There was no vulgarity in their movements or appearance. The dancers complemented the beauty, aristocracy and grace of the place. Certainly the Softhooves family owned the largest number of Vanhoover brothels and a porn studio with memory orbs, but that didn't mean that they tended to put lust on display in each of their establishments. Unlike the Meadows family, who masterfully play on every instinct, desire and weakness of their customers at every opportunity.

Holiday and a few other players watched the yellow mare's movements from different seats. Her eyes remained closed, her long white mane swayed along with the bottom of her dress, and mentally she was somewhere far away, perhaps on the waves of existence from which she drew energy. Her whole body told everyone that it was free—no gravity pinning her to the ground prevented her from enjoying her every movement. All her muscles were warmed up to the limit, blood rushing through them, buzzing with the pleasurable tension. There's nothing better than spinning in a dance, feeling the essence of life—for movement is nothing less than the basis of being.

After fifteen minutes, the dancer was replaced by another mare in a dress of the same dark red color, but her movements stood out from her more professional counterpart. She wasn't an amateur, of course; she wouldn't have been hired without the proper skills, and yet even Holiday's inexperienced eye could see the difference, but it didn't matter to him. He continued to admire the graceful movements of the earth pony until it was time to go to the concert.

At the entrance he showed his ticket. He was let through, having assessed his appearance and odor and deemed them not too deplorable. In the spacious hall he was greeted by a fresh scent with a fleeting floral tinge, gilded chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, the walls were decorated in waves with hanging dark red cloths with side chandeliers peeking out between them. Entering ponies and griffons spoke in muffled voices, all behaving considerate and reserved.

A wide stage with a podium and microphone stretched from wall to wall, in front of it were several dozen round wooden tables covered with dark red tablecloths. Behind each are two or three chairs. On the shelves of a small bar in the corner were alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks; some treats were served there as well. Some of the visitors had gone there to order something before the show began.

Holiday didn't recognize anyone, which wasn't surprising. The most famous ponies, like Eileen or Prince, he'd seen mostly in newspapers or on posters. After waiting in line for about ten minutes, he got himself an ice cream—strawberry, since there was no mint, in a deep glass bowl—and then took his seat. His table was somewhere in the center. The softness of the chair pleased his skinny butt, and his beige-colored tail dangled from the seat. A bowl of slowly melting ice cream rested on the burgundy tablecloth.

The guests and members of the Softhooves family were seated, whispering to each other. After a while, a blue-colored unicorn with a glass of red wine approached Holiday, but he paid no attention to his neighbor, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Generous slices of strawberries oozed syrup. The appetizing sight of them made his mouth water more than it would fit in a tablespoon, but Holiday waited for the show to begin.

What to do next?

It had been three months. He'd been going around all the casinos one by one, then changing his appearance and going in a new circle. At each casino, he made sure that his winnings did not exceed one thousand caps—with a few exceptions. With each visit to the casino he was convinced that no one cared about the earth pony behind a slot machine; besides, the amounts were insignificant and did not arouse suspicion. Now he was finishing the third circle on his visit to the Crystal Lotus.

But was it necessary to end it?

He had already collected the necessary amount for the griffon and for those from whom he had taken the loan against the security of the apartment. The amount in the bank account had passed fifteen thousand caps. As that number increased, the level of deference from the bank staff grew proportionately. The checks came from the casino, so no one doubted the source of the income: the customer was a calculating gambler at cards, Holiday told them. At cards, there's a better chance of winning.

Last week, he realized how many caps he had in his account. It was like a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders, and he was ready to soar into the heavens with the serene lightness that came over him. Death's breath no longer chilled the back of his neck. For the first time in a long time his heart was not wrapped in a film of anxiety, and there was still almost six months to go.

I could take my time. Collect more caps and close the debts. And then what? Should I keep gambling at casinos? Should I look for a job? What to do with my life?

Thoughts in his head, like the heads of a large company, were conferring on the future with an important look. The concert was only minutes away. The lights were dimmed, the audience quickly fell silent; their eyes turned to the stage. The microphone stand was in an island of light.

But almost everyone turned their faces to the side as she emerged from the next room. Her wavy red mane almost touched her shoulders, where a long dark dress with red patterns began to the point of absurdity. The hem stretched behind her across the dark carpet like ducklings following a mother duck. With her chin raised, she did not look at the hall or the audience; the solemn gaze of her violet eyes from beneath her eyelashes was lost somewhere on the stage. All attention was fixed upon her. Some of them were in awe, mostly the not-so-wealthy citizens of Vanhoover who had been fortunate enough to save enough caps to pay for a ticket. Some admired her dress and the outline of her trim figure concealed by it, and looked longingly at her attractive lips. Someone was envious of her beauty, sexiness and luxurious attire. Some waited demurely for the introduction. Holiday was experiencing a little bit of everything.

She looked like a queen.

There had only been one Queen in Vanhoover's history with a capital letter, Vermillion Rose. The head of the Softhooves family is obviously emulating her. She even resembles her; only the difference in coat color is noticeable. Both possessed a luxurious wavy red mane, attractive looks and charisma. However, the the Queen of the newly restored Vanhoover was not a singer. Eileen quickly gained popularity while still in her teens, and from premiering her new songs she promoted a popular, desirable, and expensive show.

Beautiful violet eyes turned to the filled hall, glittering with smugness: she had achieved such respect and admiration through her work, talent and looks. A faint smile lurked on her lips, imperceptible but perceptible, like a shadow on a moonlit night. Standing taller than anyone else on the stage at the microphone, she looked around the room haughtily to find a glimpse of anyone who might interest her. To assess who among the family or significant others had attended this year's performance. She also looked out for one pony and soon found her—she was the only one who dared to move around the hall at such an awe-inspiring moment. The smile on the unicorn's lips on stage grew a little wider.

"A beautiful fall evening," she spoke in a voice as soft as melted chocolate. So soft and inviting that you wanted to dive into it like a hot bath and soak for hours. "The cold weather is coming soon, but I hope my seven new songs will keep you warm this coming winter."

Holiday listened and didn't notice that another pony had arrived at the table as the third guest. A red unicorn with a black mane and occasional red curls; the hem of her modest dress did not reach the floor. But the unicorn sitting next to her, who was between Holiday and the newcomer, drew her attention with a welcoming smile, smelling her wonderful perfume. The guest smiled discreetly back with the sweetest expression he'd ever seen. He knew her—but she knew far more about him than he seemed to let others know about him. The unicorn looked at the lean orange stallion with some confusion. It was the first time she had seen him.

Apparently, she reassured herself, he was the lucky one who had gotten the three crystal lotuses.

To her surprise, he ignored her welcoming look, though she was definitely in his field of vision. She turned to Eileen, who was finishing her opening speech.

"I'll start with 'Luck Bound Us'," Eileen paused and nodded somewhere to the side.

Naturally, thought the red unicorn and grinned softly. This time my birthday present will go first. Thirty-three... That's a beautiful number.

Apart from Eileen, no one in this room knew about the black-haired mare's birthday, let alone that the song was a gift. No one is supposed to know—the birthday mare prefers to keep it a secret.

The melody began dramatically. Quiet and peaceful the song would not be—and that definitely pleased the red unicorn.

Among the casino's lights, the time slows,

We bet on luck, we bet on feelings.

Eyes twinkling, Luck's tail in hooves;

Fate has smiled on us in this game of love.

Those present listened, ears perked up; Holiday forgot about his ice cream. He had never heard a song performed live before. All thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. His nature focused on absorbing those magical sounds.

The red unicorn knew Eileen's voice well, in all situations. The most pleasure she got from its sound was when it made her moan sweetly and languidly. There was nothing like it.

The gaze of light blue eyes slid around the room. By virtue of her profession, she subconsciously noticed details, particularly things that might be a threat to Eileen. Like an experienced chess player who looks at the board and notices dozens and hundreds of possible combinations.

An even more energetic refrain rang out.

Luck bound us together,

A winning tune played.

Our hearts on the cards,

The roulette creates our fate.

The unicorn continued to listen, assessing the situation with a calm, expressionless face. He spotted a couple—a gray earth pony with a white mane and a soft red pegasus with the same white mane.

Fans of all sorts of musical events.

Next, the birthday mare spotted the members of her family, mostly rich and respected, who are not looking for an opportunity to throw Eileen off her position. Mostly friends and family.

The wheel, spin like a love story.

Both in the casino, our night of dreams.

Your words are a prize, the two of us win,

The game of fate is so sweet, we are together.

As usual we were honored by the presence of several griffons, among them a Soldier of the Falcon family. The famous sand-colored griffon sat in the company of a massive earth pony. He looked a bit comical in his attire. Another high-flying bird was a dark gray pegasus with his mane brushed back. A favorite to take the place of the head of the Steelmane family, sitting surrounded by two mares.

Elite escorts, most likely. But he hadn't skimped on the ticket for them.

And many others. She didn't care about their status; she cared about their motives and their opportunities to make a mess or ruin the evening. Of course they wouldn't do that. Why would they? But the red unicorn couldn't help but evaluate and calculate the probabilities of any outcome. She didn't second-guess or worry: her mind remained cold.

Still, she relaxed a little, making sure that for once there were no representatives or close friends of the Meadows family in the room.

Eileen turned back to the chorus.

Luck bound us together,

A winning tune played.

Our hearts on the cards,

The roulette creates our fate.

Could that be a bad sign, though? If the Meadows are unwilling to appear with the rest of us at a public event, it could indicate a more hostile attitude than is noticeable in public. After all, we are successful entertainment competitors to them. We are careful about our image, unlike them.

The Meadows... No one really knows what they do in their basement. Drug and medicine development, research into magic and spells. and then there's the elusive Silent Ghost, who gets rid of anyone who pokes his nose into their business. Either by obvious murder or by faking an accident.

Despite the thoughts running around in her head, the unicorn continued to enjoy the music. It was, after all, a gift for her. The song, meanwhile, was nearing its finale.

In roulette's pockets, luck shines,

In the casino of love, we're all in luck.

A kiss is our prize. You're with me, that means,

We've hit the jackpot in this casino of love.

The birthday mare calmed down and focused on the magical flows. There was no strange and dangerous magic around, no one was going to blow up or set fire to it. But... she felt something barely discernible. Unpleasant. Like there was an annoying mosquito squeak in the complete silence. Dangerous magic like an energy-magic grenade would be as noticeable as a flashlight in a dark room.

She glanced around the hall once more, and then casually, discreetly turned to the audience behind her. Her attention was once again drawn to the skinny earth pony who still hadn't touched his ice cream. Her ears continued to follow the final chorus.

Luck bound us together,

A winning tune played.

Our hearts on the cards,

The roulette creates our fate.

Author's Note

The next chapter will be the last one