Chapter 1: Goodbye Sanity
Octavia enjoyed the rattle of the bench as it shook beneath her. Another train was passing by on the platform behind her, rumbling the ground with its locomotion. It was about time she had some time to herself, even if it was raining. And cold. And she was wet. And cold again. But despite it, she was alone in somewhat peace and quiet, if the rumble of the train could be ignored. At least there wasn’t a crowd.
She huffed, brushing a black lock of mane from her face and settling into the bench a bit more, thankful for the overhang that was deflecting the downpour. Celestia knew why the pegasi had scheduled it for today, but it had soaked her luggage, and that alone was enough to ruin her day.
Now her train was late. The clock on the station platform was ticking away steadily, its hands locked on eleven now. Lamps shone through the dark, illuminating the soaking tracks, the sparkling tile platform, and the ever obnoxious news vendor at the end of the station. Her pink eyes drifted to him, his dry stall, his little treats for the foals, and of course, his newspapers.
Her face was plastered on yet another one. Of course it was.
She breathed in and sighed heavily, standing up and giving her best attempt to wring the water from her mane, before trotting over to him. His stall was a bit warmer, thanks to the candles he had on either side, illuminating the glass casing in front which the newspapers were protected. Bending down, she inspected one, its large picture of her face, an expression of distaste and anger on it as she glared back at a peculiar mare, whose spiked mane and musical flank would tell any and all that she was none other than Vinyl Scratch.
In huge bold letters the paper advertised: Biggest breakup of the musical century: Octavia and Vinyl play their final crescendos.
Her lips curled into a snarl, but soon fell to a limp frown. She looked up to the salescolt, whose lips mocked hers with a smile. “How much for a paper?” she asked.
“Two bits, all things considered,” he said. Octavia eyed him over, frowning at his knowing smile. From her coin purse she pulled two shiny bits, tossed them on the table, and took the paper from him as he collected his money. She made her way to the bench, sitting down with a grunt and pulling the paper high. Might as well see what the paper has to say about it, she mused.
Octavia Philiharmonica and DJ Vinyl Scratch are possibly the most reknown couple in Canterlot. Their drinking sprees and music collabs, as well as their connection to their fans, have made them a favorite. But when Octavia’s drinking took a turn for the worse--
“I only had a few glasses of red wine,” she muttered, squinting to read the text. “With dinner.”
--it became clear that things would go south. She and Vinyl began arguing over music rights--Equestria Inquirer spoke to Pone-3 Records--and the music collaborations--
“Abominations.”
--ceased. According to Pone-3’s agent, Vinyl has kept all the rights to her songs, leaving Octavia reliant on her old works. But when, in a spree of anger, she crushed her cello, the pride instrument of the most famous musical mare of Canterlot, it crushed a lot more than a few strings and wood.
“Uncouth,” she growled. “I thought papers were meant to have some sort of moral standing...”
It crushed her career. Word has it nopony will hire the mare, and she’s fleeing to Ponyville to escape the bad press. Also, according to Vinyl, Octavia “smells like stale rosin.”
“That is a downright lie!” She slammed the paper down, then wadded it up and tossed it onto the tracks. As if by fate, the next train rumbled into the station, screeching along the tracks as it ground to a halt. The paper was now oblivion, as it should be. Octavia tilted her nose high and huffed, slinging her suitcase across her back in remembrance of her now non-existent cello.
A mustached stallion stepped out from one of the cars, looking to her, and the other few passengers who were also relocating to the middle of nowhere in the forsaken hour of the night. He smiled to them all a friendly smile and said, “Eleven o’clock to Ponyville. Tickets please.”
Octavia whipped out a ticket from her luggage, and the stallion took it in his magic. After making a small tear on its corner, he slid it back in her pocket, and stepped aside to let her aboard the train. She stepped on, a small smile creeping upon her face as a blast of warm air hit her through the doors. Even better, it was quieter aboard the train than it was the station. Every seat was empty, letting in unabated orange light. She took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth for a moment, before beginning down the rows to the midsection of the car. After slinging her luggage into an overhead compartment, she tucked herself into a seat and reclined.
It was, after all, a long night.
And tomorrow would be longer, she thought as she stared idly out the window. Ponyville was like hot against cold when compared to Canterlot, and it was certain a place that a pony such as herself would never go voluntarily.
The newspaper flashed in her mind again. She shuddered; voluntary was out of the question. If anything, this was her luck at its peak--not very high, of course-- and she’d be a fool to ignore it. Besides, getting out of Canterlot for a little while would be good for her complexion and health, right? Of course it would.
It was all thanks to her long time... friend. As the train jerked to life, the conductor shouting his final warning to absolutely nopony at all, Octavia’s mind wandered to her bag, where somewhere deep inside was a letter signed with a little hoof-drawn lyre.
Light. It was flittering in through the curtains, bouncing along the walls of the car and into Octavia’s head. She sat up and groaned, passing a quick, painful glance through the window; she’d slept all night. Sitting up, she arched her back and nearly yelped, easing up instantly. The ride left her sorer than she would’ve expected.
Wait. She turned to the window again, finding herself looking down upon a town from the cliffside. Ponyville, covered in the sun’s morning rays, sat quiet and quaint, waiting for her. Simple houses with simple gardens along simple streets simply watched her simply staring. This was her destination.
The light of day was sucked away as the train slipped through a tunnel, leaving her in momentary darkness, before blinding her again. She waved her hooves furiously in an attempt to shut the curtains, falling into the aisle as she did so. It took at least a good minute for her to blink out the whiteness and stand to her hooves again.
Soon enough, the train was grinding on its wheels. Octavia made quick work of her luggage, pulling it down and slinging it across her back, then looked to the doors. Through the window she saw the train ease into the station without strain. Many ponies were here waiting, possibly to get on, though perhaps one or two would meet the few ponies who’d taken the trip with Octavia.
She, however, didn’t see the mare she needed to meet. Amongst the sea of ponies there was no mint unicorn bouncing in place, as she’d expected. The doors slid apart with a hiss, letting the warm morning air flush into the cabin. Octavia breathed it in, treasuring the last bit of silence she’d have for a while. Then, she stepped out, into the sun, and through the ponies.
Quickly she went through the crowd, working her way between them as they all pushed against her to shuffle into the car. Eventually there was a staircase, and she soon found herself on solid, unshifting ground once more. Still no mint unicorn to steal the show. She sneered and huffed, and her belly rumbled in agreement.
This was no Canterlot, that was certain. No paved roads, they were all dirt. No sidewalks, because there were no carriages. The houses were all wood and thatch, and there was a faint smell of warm bread in the wind. That meant, of course, no audience, no parlours, no lounges, no restaurants, no nobles... nothing of importance. She swallowed and eyed the boring town over with an idle gaze.
Perhaps they banged sticks together for music, too.
“Well,” she muttered to herself as her eyes wandered around the town. “At least it’s quiet.”
And it was. Ponyville was... quiet. Simple and quiet, Octavia thought, with a root in rurality that made it almost innocent. The ponies here carried on with their days with smiles, chatting quietly to themselves, enjoying the quiet. Octavia let herself smile. Quiet would be good for her, especially since--
“Tavi!”
Her heart leapt and she scattered away, kicking up dirt with her hooves. Just behind her were a pair of sparkling amber eyes and a gleeful smile. Two firm hooves pressed against her cheeks and spun her around, bringing her face to face with Lyra, who then gave her a peck on the cheek and hugged her so tightly.
“Um, hello Lyra,” Octavia managed through the grasp.
“Tavi! By Celestia, I haven’t seen you in, what, a few years! It’s great that you took my invitation, we’ve so much to catch up on, and--” She paused to bury her nose deep into Octavia’s mane.
Octavia chuckled weakly. “Um, Lyra, what are you--”
“You smell strange.”
Octavia blinked. “W-what?”
“Like...” Lyra hummed. “Stale rosin.”
Octavia twitched. “Get off, if you please.”
“Okay!” Lyra released, backed up, and smiled wildy. “So, you must be hungry? I got some cake at home, and we can get some ice cream later if you want. Ooh, and you have to try the Apple Family cider. It’s top notch stuff.” She giggled.
Top notch. Visions of swirling red wine aged a century or so flashed in Octavia’s mind.
Cider: dirt in a cup.
“Right... can we please go... home?” The luggage on her back was beginning to weigh down on her sore spots, forcing her to shift on her hooves unsteadily.
Lyra gasped. “Of course! Let me take that from ya, looks heavy.” She gently lifted it from Octavia with her magic. “C’mon, my house is awesome. It’s tucked away in the niche over there. Well, you can’t see it from here, because of the station, but you know. Follow me.”
Without protest, but with a deep sigh, Octavia followed Lyra as they crossed the tracks. The train’s churning and huffing was soon left in the distance as they made their way down an empty street, then turned a corner. A peculiar building here caught Octavia’s eye; it looked like a cake. A big cake. Standing in the center of a large circular clearing was a cake.
“These ponies...”
“That’s Sugarcube Corner,” Lyra remarked. “Best cakes in Equestria. It’s where I got yours.”
Eloquent as she was, Octavia offered a smile to Lyra, who was scanning her face for approval. “That’s... sweet, but you didn’t have to go through the trouble.”
“Hah! Nonsense, when a good friend comes into town, it’s always my thing to do something for them. Besides, after what you’ve gone through, I thought you could use something sweet. Y’know, now that you’re single. And alone. And single.” Lyra turned away, presumably to smile to herself.
Octavia squinted, but strayed the conversation. “So then, your house. It’s... where?”
“Right off this road, down here.” They turned down a street. “See that one? That one right there? Yeah, that one’s mine. I know, she’s a beauty.”
It wasn’t much, Octavia noted. Just a straw thatch roof, two stories, a few windows and a balcony, but she’d never say anything to her hostess. Besides, it did look cozy, when she looked at it in a certain light. “It’s nice,” she said.
“Yeah, but wait ‘til you see the inside. Or don’t, actually, just come in.” Lyra pushed the door open, and ushered Octavia in with a quick slap to her haunch.
Struggling to keep her cheeks from flushing, she swallowed and stepped in. “Thank you. I admit, it’s rather homey here,” she said, looking over the room. In total, there was perhaps four pieces of furniture. A couch, two side tables, and a coffee table. A staircase cut up the back, and there was a doorway to what she presumed was the kitchen.
Which all meant this house was about as small as her Canterlot home’s dining room.
“So... have a seat, make yourself at home,” Lyra said with a wink, shutting the door behind her. Octavia was more than happy to oblige, drifting to and falling down on the soft, inviting couch. A thump from beside her was her luggage, she guessed, and she heard hoofsteps click into the kitchen as Lyra disappeared. Now, Octavia was alone. Finally.
With tenderness she rubbed her head, easing out an oncoming headache. The couch was softer than it seemed, parting for her aching back to sink deep into. Quiet was all around her. The house truly did have a nice, simplistic touch. A sigh slipped her lips as they eased into a smile. Eyes closed and breaths slow and steady, she enjoyed the warmth of the home she’d be staying in for her visit.
And Lyra was surely mature enough to not take things the wrong way, right? They were friends now, though perhaps Octavia could have stayed in contact more with her. It was rather uncouth of her to just leave. All in all, though, Lyra seemed happy to see her, and that was good.
For the first time in months, she felt truly relaxed.
“Octavia~!”
She jerked, snapping her head to the kitchen archway. The small hum of magic invaded her ears as a large, deliciously decorated cake floated out in a veil of green. Lyra followed in suite, a smile plastered on her face.
“Alright, so here’s the cake I said I got. See? Pink frosting, just like your bowtie, which is somewhere, right? I know you never leave it,” she rambled as she walked. “I bet it’s in your suitcase. So pink it was, and then I got this neat little topper for you that--”
Her eyes were focused intently on Octavia, who sank back a little. Of course, that could only mean one thing, and Octavia was well aware. “Lyra, perhaps you should--”
“Which is totally awesome,” she continued, stepping out of the kitchen. “I mean, when I found out that Sugarcube Corner actually had it, I almost flipped, I swear. And then that they could make this cake so soon, I mean--”
“Lyra, dear, eyes on your--”
“And I almost cried I was so excited. It’s been forever, and when you just left, I was so sad, so now that you’re here we can--”
Splat.
Her hooves fumbled over themselves and the cake hit the floor. Icing splashed into Lyra’s mane, and her eyes went wide. She seemed to be frozen, a statue of icing and cake.
It was quiet. A distant thrum echoed in Octavia’s ear to the beat of her heart. She watched, intently, waiting for Lyra to move. Nothing happened, not even the twitch of an eye. She simply sat there, frozen, mouth agape and eyes wide, staring at the pastry-caked floor.
Then, one, lone tear crept down Lyra’s cheek, in agony for the lost cake. It trickled down, hung on her chin, then dripped to the floor to morph with the late buttercream delicacy.
Octavia closed her eyes and conked her hoof to her face. “Oh dear Celestia.”
Well, at least the cake was clean. Moonlight was just beginning to prevail over the dimming sun, shining a strange veil of purple through the white shades. Again, it was quiet, and Octavia found time to relax again. The cake was gone, and Lyra had settled down. After a good dinner of strange take-out hay soup from the local bistro—though it was quite delicious—Lyra had left Octavia for means of a shower.
She could hear the splashing water from upstairs. The drone was nice, bringing a smile to her lips. Content with the newfound relaxation, she stood with ease, stretching without soreness. The house was cozy, she thought again, lit by dim candles and warmed by a hearth behind the couch.
“Mmm, perhaps a shower would do me well too,” she mumbled, her voice morphing into a yawn. Lyra had said something about some wine tonight, so a shower would give them both some time to themselves. “And I do not smell like rosin.”
A rasp came from the door, kicking a jump through Octavia’s heart. She swallowed dryly, glaring at the door, scowling, berating it for ruining her relaxation. The knock came again, a bit louder now. Tentatively she moved towards the door. Should she answer it? Possibly, yes—it would be rude to let those outside sit there with no answer while a candle lit the house. And, she mused, if they wanted Lyra, she could just explain the situation.
Reaching out, she slipped her hoof through the handle and pulled the door ajar to greet the cold air. “Yes?”
She had to squint to see, but soon she found herself face to face with a mare of stark white, with a red-pink mane and light green eyes that reflected the candlelight. “Um, hi. Is Lyra…”
“Oh yes, she’s in the shower right now,” Octavia said, offering a smile. “Might I take a message for her?”
This mare shifted on her hooves, and for the first time, Octavia noticed a parcel on her back. “Yes, you see, she ordered something the other day. Just here to deliver.” She chuckled weakly. “So, um, should I just come back later?”
“What? Nonesense.” Octavia outstretched a hoof. “I’ll deliver it and send your regards, miss…?”
“Rose. Roseluck.”
Octavia blinked. “Rose Roseluck? That’s a rather interesting name.”
Chuckling again, Roseluck chiseled a smile. “N-no, just Roseluck. And I’ll just come back later, if that’s alright.”
“But why bother?” Octavia asked, cocking her head. “I’ll just give her the package, and I’ll not open it, you have my solemn vow.”
A silence was shared as they locked eyes.
Then, Roseluck reached behind her and carefully, slowly, cautiously handed off the parcel. “Tell her it’s an… extra lovely batch, won’t you?”
“Absolutely, Miss Roseluck,” she said with a wink. “Have a lovely night.”
Roseluck seemed to stifle a cough. “W-will do.”
She then turned to leave, and Octavia shut the door. Now in her hoof was a little brown parcel, gently wrapped and soft. Eyeing it over, she set it on the coffee table. It smelled like… roses. Which made sense, of course; what else would somepony order from a mare named Roseluck? Coffee?
She chuckled at her own witticism; a mare of her caliber could be a comedian, if she weren’t so dignified.
“Hey Tavi,” Lyra said as she descended down the stairs with a towel wrapped tightly around her mane. “Who was that?”
Octavia looked up at her. She’d not heard the water die, and the sudden burst sent another jump to her heart. “Oh my Lyra,” she said, sitting down and rubbing her chest. “Gave me a scare. This was something delivered by somepony named Roseluck. Though why she would deliver at such an ungodly hour is beyond me.”
Lyra stepped forward, cocked her head, and inspected the package.
“She wanted me to tell you that it is an extra lovely batch, though I’m not sure what it even is,” she continued, standing again.
It took only seconds of prodding before Lyra snatched it up with her magic. “I-it’s nothing. You know, um… stuff.”
“Well I’m sure it is stuff,” Octavia said with an arched brow. “But what kind of stuff could a mare conceive would be important enough to deliver at a time normally reserved for sleep? Honestly, what is in this, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Lyra shrugged and gave a wide smile. “Stuffy stuff. Yep. I’ll just go put it in my stuff drawer. Y’know. In the stuff room. For stuff.”
“You have a ‘stuff’ room?”
“Yep! It’s where I keep my stuff!” Smiling still—perhaps too broadly—Lyra spun and cantered into the kitchen.
Octavia outstretched a hoof. “Um, Lyra, wait! Might I use your shower?”
“Sure!” she called back. “Just stay outta my stuff room please!”
Two stuff rooms? Strange, considering that Lyra only had enough stuff for one, or hardly that, when her houses’ simplicity was brought into question. Though maybe she—
Stuff rooms? Octavia shook her head. What in Equestria was a stuff room? It was a room for… stuff, obviously, but Lyra didn’t even have a ‘stuff room’. She had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and two bathrooms.
That all fit into Octavia’s wardrobe.
It was… Lyra. Lyra being Lyra, that’s what it was. She sighed and turned to the stairs, dragging herself towards them, up them, and then to the shower.
Finally dry, and more to the point, at ease, Octavia stepped out of the bathroom with a smile on her face. Down Lyra’s hall she went, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where the cool tile felt fine on her hooves. She greeted Lyra with a smile, who was just across an island in the center of the room. Lyra returned the smile as she yanked out another bottle of amber liquid from a rack, then shook her head and put it back.
“Wine?”
“Yep,” Lyra said, “A special kind. I think you’ll like it. It’s pretty sweet.”
“Hmm, well dry is normally my wont, but I’ll give it a taste. Tell me, where will I be sleeping?”
Lyra paused. “With me, duh. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
“Um, well true, but Lyra—“
“Viola!” she shrieked. A small bottle slipped down from the highest shelf, and she quickly cracked it open and began pouring it.
They filled quickly, and were split between the two mares. Lyra was watching her, grinning, with a strange twinkle in her eye. Octavia eyed her over, but took the wine nonetheless. Lyra only smiled again.
Tentatively Octavia took a sip, and when she did, a burst of colorful flavor erupted on her tongue. She hummed in delight, sighing out slowly as she sipped the drink. Her eyes drifted shut and her hoof tilted the glass just a little bit higher. As she finished her sip, she said, “Mmm, Lyra, this is delicious. I love it, where did it come from?”
No response.
“Lyra?”
She peeked an eye open. Lyra was still there, but with rolled up eyes and a quivering lip. A deep hum resonated in her throat, soft, melodic, and very, very creepy. Octavia stared with wide eyes and kicked the glass away. “What did you do to it?”
Lyra snapped back into reality. “Do to what?”
“My drink, you pervert! What did you do?”
She looked around. “Me? I’m not a perv.”
“Yes you are!” Octavia thrust her hoof over the island. “I took a sip of my drink and you’re over there having some sort of weird… ick!”
Lyra gasped. “Hey! I am not having an ick! I haven’t had an ick since, like, third grade or something.”
There was a pause, in which Octavia glared into Lyra’s soul.
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
Lyra looked stricken. “What? No! You have to, it’ll be like a sleep over, and we can do fun things, except not pervy things because I just said I’m not a perv, except for the one time—“
“Then why were you over there jiggling in your hooves?”
A pause stilled Lyra. “Uh, because…”
Octavia squinted. “Because why?”
“I’m… tired. Very tired.” Lyra cantered around the island, to Octavia, and draped her foreleg over the cellist’s neck. Feigning a yawn, she said, “Yep, and you look tired too. Like, really tired. You should get to bed. My bed. You know, because that’s where we’re sleeping, and stuff.”
“Just sleeping,” Octavia quipped. “Not, ‘and stuff.’”
“Right, that comes later.”
“What? Lyra, no—“
“Onward!” She tugged Octavia out of the kitchen and to the stairs.
“But what about the wine?”
“Pfft, I’ll make more. Besides, you spilled it and called me a perv. You owe me now.” She pushed Octavia up the stairs and down the hall. When Octavia had finally been pushed into the threshold of Lyra’s bedroom, Lyra shut the door and grinned.
“Lyra,” Octavia fumed. Her face was red enough to glow through the dark. “Hooves. Off. The haunches.”
She snorted and grinned, waving a hoof. “That’s what they all say. Okay! So, that’s my bed, and those are my nightstands, and my drawers are there, to the side, see? And I have a chest here at the end of my bed, but you can’t open it. Over there is the window, and—“
“Bed, please?” Octavia asked, stopping Lyra’s rant. The mare looked at her, then to the double bed that was the room’s centerpiece.
“Huh? Sure, yep, just climb on in. It’s really warm and soft, you’ll definitely sleep well on it.”
Octavia nodded idly and sauntered over to the bed. She crept in, pulled the surprisingly soft sheets over her, and rested her head on the pillow. Just as her mane hit the pillow, and just as she felt Lyra sit down much too close to her, another knock came from below. Octavia’s eyes popped open and she glared to the door.
Lyra, on the other hoof, stood and trotted over to it. “You know, I ought to go, um, clean the wine. Don’t want it staining my counters, or something. I’m sure you agree, right? You’re fancy and stuff.”
Eyeing her down, Octavia said, “But what about the pony at the door?”
“W-what door? I don’t have a door.” She pushed her lips into a smile. The knock came again. “Well, that wine is sure staining quickly! Um, just give me a sec, I’ll be right back.” Then, she rushed out of the room.
Now, alone, Octavia felt her stomach churn. Lyra really did put something in that wine… she grimaced and rolled onto her hooves. “Well Lyra, secret meetings after toying with my drink? We’ll see about that.”
Her gaze drifted about the room, until it landed on the lone window, facing out to the town. With a snort, Octavia trotted to it and peered down below. There was just enough light from the moon for her to make out a shape standing in the doorway, waiting for the light of inside to reveal her.
Who was it, Octavia mused. Somepony with another secret package? Probably to deliver more of whatever was slipped into the wine while she was in the shower. And, if that were true, then Octavia should count her minutes. Then, the door opened, spilling light into the streets and illuminating the figure.
It was that Roseluck pony again, white and red in the candlelight. Lyra poked her head out and looked up and down the street, then up to the sky. It was quick, but Octavia managed to duck back before being spotted. After a few seconds passed, she pressed her nose to the window again.
She couldn’t hear them, but she could certainly see Lyra making wild hoof movements, and Roseluck standing abashed with a crimson blush on her cheeks.
What was this? A lover’s quarrel? It certainly seemed that way. Octavia rubbed her chin and watched, that little spark of inherited Canterlot gossip shooting butterflies through her stomach. It certainly seemed like it was a quarrel; it would make sense, too.
The package was obviously Roseluck returning Lyra’s things.
Lyra was obviously lost in thought when the wine was served.
Most importantly, Lyra was excited to have Octavia over because she was lonely. Octavia nodded sympathetically; poor Lyra, suffering as Octavia was. Well, if it could be called suffering.
What was suffering, she wondered. Staying with Lyra, or the dissolution of her relationship with Vinyl? Though, with the new information, Octavia couldn’t quite frown at the minty unicorn down below as her muffled words panged against the glass. It definitely sounded like an argument. Definitely.
Soon enough, the words died down, and the door shut, cloaking Roseluck in the dark again. Octavia stared for a second, idly stuck in her own thoughts, when the sound of creaking stairs echoed beneath the door. She jerked, rushing to the bed and leaping in. Butterflies were still soaring in her belly, and a smile crept onto her lips. Now there was common ground between the two mares. Perhaps things would go smoother once this was brought to light.
But Lyra was still the oddest mare. Ever. Without a doubt.
Soon the same mare herself stepped into the room and silently shut the door. She and Octavia locked eyes but did not exchange words; in the dark Octavia swore she could see a frown on her face. A frown on Lyra.
Celestia’s plot was now a cube of ice.
Lyra sauntered in and slipped into bed, rolling around a bit, then lying still for a good while. Octavia, however, still wandered in the realms of thought.
She’d bring this up tomorrow. From then, perhaps Lyra could keep her hooves off of Octavia’s… everything.
Maybe.
The sun shone fairly bright this morning, Octavia noted as she ran a brush through her tail. Her ears flicked, stretching slightly as she sat on Lyra’s bed. The mare was nowhere to be found; Octavia’d awoken to an empty bed, at eight in the morning. “Sleeping in already,” she muttered.
She set the brush down and stood with a yawn, listening to the silence of the house. It wouldn’t surprise her if Lyra wasn’t even home at all. Shrugging, she looked to the corner of the bedroom, where her suitcase was nestled. She made quick work of its straps, pulling it open and retrieving a little pink bowtie and white collar from the case, and slipping them on her neck.
Then she started down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen to appease her howling stomach. Lo and behold, there was no Lyra here. Only a small sheet of paper on the island, sitting lonely in the sunlight. There was only it, and the smell of something decaying after millions of years of rotting. Octavia had a suspicion that the paper would explain enough.
She slipped it onto her hoof and brought it close to her face, scanning its words.
To Do List:
1. Bake a new cake.
2. Visit Roseluck
3. Buy new cake
4. Take Octavia out on the town
5. Don’t forget to-do list at home
Octavia rolled her eyes and set it down again. A quick glance to the trashcan revealed the—and somehow it was burnt—cake. And, of course, it smelled rotten as Tartarus. If either of them would be the cook, it would be Octavia, no questions about it.
But there was this Roseluck pony again. Once more butterflies took hold in her belly. This was definitely a deep issue. Poor Lyra, it wasn’t her fault she was eccentric! And a poor cook, too. Dear Celestia that cake smelled just like it looked! She couldn’t even look at the burnt icing and inflated dough; it reminded her of Vinyl’s ego.
Scrunchy faced and breath held, Octavia evacuated the kitchen into the living room, where again, something new caught her eye. It was a bundle of newspapers, stacked neatly in the corner and tied with a string of twine. Octavia, head cocked and brow arched, trotted over to them. Lyra never read the news. It was surprising she could read at all.
The top paper was the Equestrian Enquirer, with a picture of the Canterlot market street in tatters, swarmed with little spots of black that buzzed through the sky. Octavia bent down to examine the photo; it was familiar. Goop was stuck across the walls of businesses. Ponies were running through the streets. The royal guards were charging forward.
“Tavi! You’re awake!” Lyra cheered from behind her. Octavia snapped up and whipped around.
“Yes, I am. Woke up about an hour ago.” She looked down at the papers. “Why the papers?”
Lyra craned her neck to see behind Octavia. “Well, I just enjoy the news, reading it, and, you know. Besides, I was there for the invasion, so I read up on the after effects. And stuff. Y’know. But hey, speaking of papers!” She looked behind her and pulled a rolled up paper out of her saddlebags. “You’re in them. Like, all of them.”
She spat the paper onto the table, and Octavia instantly realized it to be the same one she’d bought from the stallion at the train station. “Yes, I know,” she groaned.
“You know, you still haven’t told me why you and she broke up. You have to tell me.”
Octavia bit her lip as she felt her cheeks light up with a burn. “Well, it’s a long story—“
“Tell me over breakfast, you look hungry! C’mon, there’s food out there, somewhere, I think. We’ll find something. Somewhere.” She gripped Octavia’s hoof and yanked her out from the house, into the morning, and on to the day.
