The Sweetest Music

The Sweetest Music

Chapter Eleven

Blue Train

***

"Didn't know they have first class on trains," Lyra observed, picking up a cigarette despite the silent protest in Bon-Bon's eyes.

The cushions were rather soft and cosy, but not far better than those in the compartment Lyra had occupied on her way to Ponyville. The irony. Escaping from Canterlot only to return to Canterlot in a golden cab. Figuratively speaking. Although... Her mother might have arranged a golden cab for her prodigal daughter.Who knows?

"They do on all international trains," Bon-Bon observed, sitting opposite Lyra and drinking coffee. "On some of national ones, too."

Because, apparently, you can just hop on a train and go abroad. Hop aboard and go abroad. She knew it wasn't so, if only because of how rarely visas were issued - and not only because of that. She knew Bon-Bon knew. And the police pegasus sitting diligently next to her probably knew too. Not that he wanted to escape, as it seemed to the mint mare.

Before the proximity of the policepony - or just life in general - could bring about the vanishing fear - fear of being accused, fear of being proved as a filly-fooler - and just fear - Lyra decided to force her mind on to - onto, into - a new topic. Or, rather, not so new.

"I'm going to Canterlot with you." It was a statement. It was a sign - maybe - that Bon-Bon did care. Of course she did. But... Even if - even if! - they could find a way to confess their feelings - Lyra hoped that they were mutual; she prayed that they were mutual; but, deep inside, she prayed that they would not be, to avoid issues for both herself and her new beloved, Bon-Bon, Bonsie, Bonnie - even if they could find a way to tell each other... There was no bright future for them, was there? The whole ridiculous unfairness struck at Lyra. If one day... One day... The law is abolished... She had this sudden strange urge to dream that, if such even were to occur - unlikely, highly unlikely, at least for the time being - she would become happy, and she would tell her friends, if there would be any - of course there would! - that Bon-Bon and she - now openly dating, maybe married - had never hid their feelings anyway. Whatever the reality, Lyra knew that this sudden urge, this little dream would be stuck in her mind. And, if there was ever a chance of fulfilment, she would fulfil it.

Bon-Bon had mentioned Canterlot. Lyra chewed on her cigarette a little. It wasn't just an "I'm coming with you"; the sweet mare had deliberately mentioned - or not deliberately - the name of the city. Why? Was it an attempt to remind her, Lyra, about her past? And, if so, was it proof of Bon-Bon's determination to traverse that past with her?

"Past." Just a few days - and Canterlot was already a "past" to her. Lyra didn't want to speculate further.

Bon-Bon watched the mint mare turn her head and divert her attention towards outside the window. She took a sip of her tea: the pleasant liquid was doing its job of warming her up just fine. What was hiding beneath the mask of delicate abstraction this wonderful mint mare wore? How to deal with that concealed, unconcealed unbelongness? How to get her to open up?

Did she want to, though? Even if her feeling towards Lyra was mutual - she was sure of it; she was sure that Lyra knew that she knew - the terrible impossibility of putting that clear, of telling her - of telling each other... Or, they could tell each other, but would there ever be a happily-ever-after? Was it worth breaking that shell that Lyra had put around herself - was still putting around herself, despite occasional peek-through, mainly because of her, Bon-Bon, the confectioner prided herself upon - even knowing that it could bring pain - temporary or, Celestia forbid, permanent?

Yes. Looking at Lyra, Bon-Bon knew it for sure. This mare was worth anything - everything - in the world. And Bon-Bon wanted so badly - so goodly? - to show it to her, to prove it somehow, even if she knew - she knew? - that already, and knew - she knew! - Bon-Bon's desire.

"Could you leave us alone for a moment, please?" the cream-coloured mare addressed the policepony in an almost non-pleading - but not demanding, of course - almost nonchalant tone. After all, it was natural for two friends just to talk in private. Right? Were they even friends? Or, maybe, this stage had been skipped - was being skipped - already?

"Sorry, ma'am." The pegasus shook his head, no sign of being actually sorry on his face. "I have my orders, and those are to accompany Lyra Heartstrings to Canterlot."

Bon-Bon nodded slowly. At least he's not being rude. Not like those policeponies in the streets who would "Move along" you or "Nothing to see here" you or something of the kind.

Lyra didn't show any reaction, as if she hadn't heard. "Accompany", eh? More like "escort". But why did Bon-Bon bring this up? Was she just tired of the pegasus's company or... did she want to talk to her in private? Maybe... confess something?

Anyway, it didn't matter - at least for the time being. The police pegasus was there, with them, in the compartment. The train started to climb the mountain of Canterlot, ascending towards the still city.

The wheels clicked against the railway rhythmically, and Lyra dozed off.

***

Snow in Canterlot wasn't so different from snow in Ponyville.

Or was it the other way round? One way or another, the streets were covered by afternoon snow, the kind of snow that falls preliminary to the evening snow that stays till the morning; just the first layer, sparkling in the past-midday sun.

Ponyville was different, though - at least in the feeling of the place. But so was Manehattan? - the dream that they wanted you to dream - or maybe the one that you dreamt yourself? - and Los Pegasus, and Chicoltgo? It was all different, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Ponies passing by the strange entourage of the mint queen - or was the policepony the king? He certainly must feel so - didn't pay so much as a second glance, looking down, inspecting something on the ground, expecting something. Were they?

Past the conservatoire, its dome white and not so unwelcoming; past the prison - not thinking anything, not speeding up the pace, just passing by, just passing it; past the narrowly-positioned shops and stores; past the straight and prim lampposts; past the dust bins and the rust tins, past the trenches and the wrenches, past the grimy-red blocks of flats and newly-erected skyscrapers of glass and steel - and, finally, she was - they were - before the ever-so-familiar mansion.

Was it home any more? Yes. Despite everything and anything, it was. This straight, stately, maybe even dispassionate, mansion was still the place. Her place. Maybe not her own - maybe not the place where she belonged - but still her place.

Home.