Two more stitches…
Her hooves shivered profusely from the cold. It was meticulous work – and tiresome, to say the least. She was almost finished, though. All she had left to do was to cast off…
One… last…
Done.
She was already running late. Annie stuffed her handiwork, needles and all, into her saddle sack and pulled the strap tight. She fastened her bonnet on, one of the two defenses she had against winter. As unlikely as it was, she dearly hoped that Mr. Rich was still in…
She rushed out of the farmhouse, pushing the front door shut. The freezing night air nipped at her skin instantly, and she wasted no time in lingering.
A strong blizzard was raging through Ponyville. The mayor had promised that this’d be the last year Ponyville would see heavy weather. Next season, some pegasi were being commissioned to regulate the weather in their twenty-six pony town. Until then, the climate was something to be braved.
Annie tried to hold her bonnet in place as she galloped, for the wind gusts were whipping it around wildly. Through the heavy snowfall, she could barely make out the shops in the town center. She counted one, two, three buildings from the left: Barnyard Bargains. The front of the shop was caked with snow, the sign now completely masked. She tried the handle, and, to her surprise, gave way to the interior.
A couple of candles illuminated the hodgepodge of items on the surrounding shelves and tables. Any other week, Annie would enjoy walking around and seeing what new items Mr. Rich had brought in from Canterlot and beyond. Tonight, though, she only had one item in mind. She addressed the pony behind the counter.
“Why, howdy, Stinkin’-”
“Mr. Rich will do just fine, Ms. Smith.”
“…Mr Rich, I didn’t expect you’d be open.”
“You know me, Ms. Smith,” he said. “Barnyard Bargains is always open.”
Annie smiled, turned around, and laid her handiwork on the counter in front of him. “Here they are. It’s all I could make with the wool I had left. Oops!” She removed the needles and set them down by her hooves. They’d poke holes in her bag, otherwise.
Mr. Rich picked up the articles carefully. “Hock socks, I see…”
“Yes,” said Annie, and followed them with four coins. “Do you think this’ll be enough?”
He rubbed his chin in thought, looking from the socks to the bits. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Smith, but hock socks generally don’t sell for much…”
Devastation sunk in. More than half of all she owned was on that counter, and it still wasn’t enough. It was possible to save for a little longer… Was it still in good taste to give a Heart’s Warming Eve present a month or four later? It could pass as a late Hearts and Hooves’ Day present. It'd be less late, but late nonetheless...
He leaned further across the counter. “Those needles, though… might I have a look?”
Annie followed his gaze, down to the needles at her feet. “Oh, these? Well, these were my mother’s, see, and… well…” She picked them up and looked them over. They were light blue, with little flowers painted on them. She could remember the day when her mother gave them to her as a birthday present. From then on, her mother taught her how to cast on, and how to purl, and would be there to help her if she had tangled the yarn (which happened quite frequently). They’d spend hours sitting in the farmhouse, knitting away beside each other…
This was all too sudden. What would her mother have said? She wasn’t around anymore, but… it was all she had left of her. She couldn’t just give away her one token of remembrance… Was it right to pick one pony over another? This wasn’t like that, though…
“Well, Ms. Smith?”
Hesitantly, she handed them over. Her heart said no, but her heart said yes, too…
* * *
A barren, icicled willow marked the Orange family property. Annie marginally slowed her pace to admire it. Every other day in the summer, her brother would strum his banjo under that tree at the end of the work day, and the Oranges would come out to join him. Sometimes, a crowd would gather to enjoy the music. They’d dance to the happy songs, and listen solemnly to the sad ones.
The temperature snapping her out of reminiscence, she reassumed her gallop to the Oranges’ barn. She opened the door slowly, not wanting to disturb the pageant.
The glow from the smoldering fire, however faint, was still enough to light up the barn. Citrus was the only one there, holding a bucket in his mouth. He set it down on the muddied, but recently raked, hay, and cracked a small grin. “Annie. You’re a tad late.”
Annie sheepishly smiled back. “I… I know… I’d help you tidy up, but… I see you don’t need no help with that.”
His eyes seemed to shimmer. “I know you would.” The orange stallion placed a log inside the black stove to keep the fire going a little longer. Annie approached the stove and sat down, attempting to restore feeling in her hooves. Citrus sat down next to her, joining her in the radiance of the hearth.
She glanced at him and dug into her saddle sack, emerging with a narrow tin case in her mouth. Finding a patch of dry ground, she laid it in front of him. “I… I got you a present.”
She watched eagerly, as he shifted and extended his hooves out. She would want to remember the look in his eyes, to see how happy he was. When he realized that he could play again, and could rejoin the family in their summer hoedowns... Citrus was the kind of soul that could cheer anypony up with a simple tune on his fiddle.
The box clicked open, and, upon seeing its contents, he closed his eyes and smirked. He lifted out the bow. It was expertly crafted, with elegant carvings running all the way up the handle to the head. He licked his lips, contemplating what to say. Bewildered, he murmured, “It’s… beautiful.”
She jumped up in excitement. “It’s a brand new fiddlestick! Do you like it?” Her expression quickly flashed from glee to worry. “It’s not broke, is it?”
“No, it’s the best fiddlestick I’ve ever had. Thank you, Annie.” He stood up and walked over to the corner of the room, dipping behind a bucket. He returned with a wooden box and offered it to Annie. “I got you something, too,” he said.
She rubbed her hooves a little in the heat of the fire before reaching out to accept it. She unfastened the hook latch, and pushed up the top. It was… empty. She looked at Citrus, confused.
He paused, and then chuckled. “Oh, heavens, Annie, the present isn’t in the box, the present is the box!”
It took her a minute to digest what he said. She looked at the box and closed it. It was a beautiful mahogany box, with a deep and dark finish. Decorated all around the box was intricate and detailed artwork. The top portrayed two little ponies, reaching out and touching hooves. It was the prettiest piece of woodwork she had ever laid eyes on. The inside was lined with a smooth silk: silk she could only dream of affording.
“All the way from Saddle Arabia, hoof-painted,” Citrus explained. A warm grin spread across his muzzle. “It’s for your knitting needles.”
She held it in her hooves. “Citrus… I… it’s so very nice, and… it’s awful pretty, but…” Slowly, she set the box down on the matted hay. She looked into his deep green eyes, uncertain of how to confess. “I… I sold my needles… for… to buy the fiddlestick.”
Citrus leaned back, shaking his head. He started to chuckle, then to laugh, and then fell over on his back, laughing hysterically.
Annie looked on in confusion. “What’s… what’s so funny?”
He wiped a tear from his eye and shook his head, watching the flickering flames dance above the ashes. “Annie… I sold my fiddle to buy that needle case.”
She froze in thought… but eventually came to understand. She laughed, too, and wrapped her arms around her special somepony.
“Happy Heart’s Warming Eve, Citrus.”
He returned her embrace. “And a happy Heart’s Warming Eve to you, too, Annie.”
She hugged him tighter. This had to be what her mother wanted – for her to be happy. As long as she had him that winter, she wouldn’t need a pair of hock socks.
